JP’s Mother

One of Jim’s aunts—his mother’s youngest sister—died suddenly Wednesday of a heart attack. She was in her 70s and, while she had some minor health problems, no history of heart trouble. She was through and through a down-to-earth, warm-hearted, caring, and generous woman. She was a people person, who always had holidays and parties with “gooey lasagne” (as Jim describes it) on her house and card tables set up.

After Charlie was diagnosed with autism, I felt a special, quiet, kinship with her: Her oldest son, JP, is severely disabled. It’s not clear what happened to JP, though it seems he has been disabled since he was very young. Of all of Jim’s cousins, JP was closest to Jim in age and Jim has memories of his aunt dressing up JP for the holidays in a little jacket and bow tie and short pants and getting him to sit up. JP is not able to sit up on his own, or to walk or talk.

JP’s been in an institutional placement for many years. Jim and another cousin went once with their uncle to visit JP who, Jim told me, was lying in something like a crib with netting over it. “What did he do?” I asked. “He just lay there,” said Jim.

Jim’s aunt visited JP regularly. Her first husband, JP’s father, died many years ago. She got remarried twice—her second husband also died suddenly of a heart attack—-she was always steady and ready to help out. For a couple of years I wrote down her name and phone number as an emergency contact for Charlie. She never forgot birthdays and always sent Charlie “a little something.” I used to run into her at the grocery store and the mall (she liked to mall walk). It was not even a month ago that she drove Jim and his mother to lunch at a diner.

I’ve asked Jim’s aunt a couple of times if we might visit JP. This very upcoming weekend, she had mentioned a picnic for families and relatives; we had planned to be of town, as Charlie has a few days off between the last day of school and the start of ESY. “But next time, for sure,” Jim and I said.

Now she’s gone and I feel something’s terribly missing.

Rest in peace, Aunt Joan.