A Shining Star

A baby is born in the U.S. every three seconds, while every seven seconds or so, someone takes their last breath.  Yesterday afternoon, one of those last breaths was taken by my Aunt Suey.  


The breast cancer she'd fought and beaten to a pulp in her late 30s came back for more in her late 40s, and it really seems to have forgotten what it was up against.  Even in the last few months, her spirit kept us all laughing in cancer's face and sticking the disease with a big fat "you think you're all that?!" And in those inevitable, unavoidable moments when we wanted to cry (and sometimes did), Suey would be there to cheer us up or to provide that shoulder to cry on.  She was one of those spirits who would enter the room with a big, gorgeous smile, half pretty girl-next-door and half mischievous imp, and proceed to become BFF with everyone from the VIP to the valet.  Her charm, like the many earrings and bracelets and necklaces that she made and gave away to friends and family for the sheer joy of it, was enough to sparkle even the dullest of us all.


One of the last things Suey said - no doubt in her effortless way of making us feel less sad and less powerless in the face of the sheer unfairness of it all - will always remain special for me, particularly since I am still pregnant and unable to travel to Wisconsin for the service and "party" (one of her last requests, of course, was that everyone celebrate with wine, laughter and food).  Johanna and Armando's baby will be my shining star, she said.  When I leave the world, she will be born into it.


In truth, Suey is the star.  It's our job to make sure that the newest family member learns some of the lessons that she left behind.