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Illustration by Christine Wei
Auntie I. The “I” stood for Inger, but to us, it was shorthand for so much more – intuition, imagination, invincibility. Well, not entirely invincible, as it turned out. She was the aunt with the sharpest mind, the knowing smile and hands that could once coax music from a piano and life from a canvas. She was a teacher for 35 years – kindergarteners who would later remember her as the one who showed them how to hold crayons, dreams and dignity.
But as time passed, life seemed to whittle away at her, piece by piece. Rheumatoid arthritis began creeping into her limbs, warping her hands, her fingers contorting until they became unrecognizable. Yet Auntie I never flinched. If her body betrayed her, her mind would not. She knew it was only a matter of time, but she approached the slow descent with defiance.
“I’m a mess,” she’d say with a grim smile. “Have you ever seen such a thing?” And I hadn’t, neither had most people. She endured strangers staring everywhere she went.
Yet her sharp, dry humour cut through the bleakness, like a survival instinct. This wasn’t a woman looking for pity. She was too proud for that. If there was pain, she’d meet it head-on, turning it into something to mock, something to control. There was a toughness about her that I admired and still do. For so long, it was hard not to feel useless, watching from the sidelines as she struggled with even the smallest tasks. I’d try to help, but Auntie I wasn’t having it. Things changed in recent years – she was forced to accept more help.
“Stop acting like a nursemaid,” she’d snap. Then she’d catch a glimpse of the takeout bags I’d picked up, and her tone would soften. We shared a love for Asian food – Thai, Chinese, Japanese, you name it. Even when her fingers could barely hold a fork, she refused to let me feed her. That was the thing about Auntie I: she didn’t want to be taken care of. Even in her weakest moments, she clung to the small victories, the sense of control over her own life.
The disease, though brutal, was never the full story. If you asked her about her condition, she’d brush it aside like an unwanted conversation topic. “Yes, yes, arthritis,” she’d say. “But have you read any Jung lately?” She was fascinated with Carl Jung and dream analysis, often working it into our conversations.
“Your dreams are revealing you,” she’d say, half-seriously, as I told her about some recurring nightmare. “You HAVE to work on consciously resolving that, you twit!”
She was proud of the impact she’d had as a teacher and every now and then, a former student would come up to her and tell her how she’d changed their life. One kid, now in his 20s, told her she’d taught him how to appreciate art and music. That comment stuck with her. She’d bring it up often, like a mantra. “I guess I did something right,” she’d say.
The arthritis may have worn her body down, but it never dimmed her desire to continue learning and growing. Her voice, her ideas and her presence were too large for her to ever really give up. She had too much left to give, too many lessons still unspoken.
Auntie I didn’t just teach kids how to read or express themselves more fully. She was teaching all of us how to live, how to navigate a world where joy and suffering exist side by side.
“You’ll never be rid of me,” she’d say with a wry smile. And she was right. I don’t miss her because she was some untouchable symbol of strength. I miss her because she was complex, sharp and unafraid to show her flaws. She didn’t teach me how to be strong in the face of suffering; she taught me how to live honestly with it, to let life bruise you without losing yourself in the process.
Toward the end, she’d let me sit in silence with her, the irritation at losing her abilities giving way to something more calmly introspective. We both knew what was coming, but we never talked about it directly. She wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she kept making plans, talking about future trips, new books she wanted to read. She was always looking forward, as if the disease didn’t have her cornered.
The arthritis may have won the physical battle, but Auntie I was never truly conquered. She was too smart, too resilient and frankly, too stubborn to let it take her completely. She wouldn’t let me wallow in her suffering.
Now, whenever I sit down with a plate of Chinese food, I can hear her voice. “Don’t you dare romanticize me,” she’d say, probably shaking a crooked finger in my direction. “I’m not a saint, remember?”
No, Auntie I, you weren’t a saint. You were something better. You were real.
Drew Brania lives in London, Ont.
