Sweet Caroline

This is a memoir of my passed Aunt Carol, and the story of her last Christmas through the eyes of a twelve year old boy, myself.

Sweet Caroline

By: Justin Guidroz

           

As every year approaches its inevitable end, my excitement grows, for Christmas will be coming around the corner. The overall atmosphere of Christmas is a feeling unlike any other: the cold, brisk weather, the smell of pine and furs being carried by a gentle breeze all around town from the bustling Christmas tree lots, the sound of Burl Ives crooning from every speaker, from cars to hectic shopping malls, and my favorite part of all, the overall happiness that grips everyone’s souls as children’s eyes grow as large as sparkling tree ornaments when they finally receive that special present they’ve longed for from their friend in the huge red coat with a seemingly unlimited checking account. In short, Christmas is my favorite time of the year.

            Each Christmas has its individual little stories: the soot left on the floor by my father by the chimney, the Christmas where I got my first kiss, and one time, where, by the simple forgetting to discard of an empty scooter box made me lose my belief in Santa.

However, one Christmas always sticks out, and on this particular Christmas, my life was changed forever.

           

 

 

 

 

December 24, 2004, inside a small three bedroom house crowded thirty or so family members. This was my house on Benjamin Street, which, due to Katrina, is no longer standing. The smell of sweet honey-baked ham and luscious macaroni and cheese floated around the warm house from the kitchen where my step-father, David, and my grandmother, Loretta, slaved away to feed an ever-hungry family. For me, half the people there were blood-related; the other half was related by the marriage of my mother, Lisa, and Mr. David. All of them, however, were hungry.

            I spent the beginning of this evening holed up inside my room, which, looking back, was incredibly small. My bed was a twin, and by the age of thirteen, my feet were hanging off of the end. Half the room was consumed by a large, ugly, but quite resourceful, corner computer desk, which had a computer, papers, CDs, radios, and other knick-knacks compiled on top of it. The desk was completed by a black swirly office chair where I spun many hours away between loading screens for Halo. Next to the desk was a movie case, comprised of nine shelves, full of numerous VHS tapes, CDs, video games, and a few DVDs. Above the desk was, as I saw it, the standout piece of art in my room. A large cutout display for Star Wars: Episode Two hung above my desk, featuring all of the characters, lightsabers in hand, in a stadium fending off numerous enemies. An individual saber-wielding Yoda hung above my movie case.

            Sitting quietly, my eyes were glued to the television screen, searching rigorously for the next terrorist that would be receiving my special shiny Christmas present at a hundred feet per second when I heard a knock on my door. Grudgingly, I paused my game and prepared for another annoying drone from my mother about how I should socialize. But, to my surprise, the knock was not from my mother, but rather from a short woman wearing a curly black wig and sitting in a wheelchair looking up at me with a heartwarming grin that washed away all the feelings of resentment and isolation I felt and filled me up with a warm loving feeling that makes me smile even now as I remember it. She asked me softly, “Where is my hug sweetie?” I bent down immediately and embraced her, kissing her cheek. She was my Aunt Carol, a short, extremely religious Italian woman for whom everyone in the parish had an unshakeable love. She was that person who only came around once in a life time. She was an angel on Earth.

            Aunt Carol was a huge fan of Neil Diamond. She had a large collection of his works, from vinyls to cassettes, and loved to believe that one of his songs, “Sweet Caroline” was written just for her. This was just another trait of an incredible woman which made her even more memorable.

            I followed her into the crowded front room and met my mother’s inquiring gaze, as if to say, “Where have YOU been?” with a sly smile and she just looked down and shook her head. The television softly belted out Brenda Lee, which could be barely heard over the constant chattering and clanging of utensils by our guests. My step-sister, Stacey, sat quietly at the table as her grandma, Yolanda, interrogated her over the reasons why she had left her boyfriend on Christmas Eve, and she mentally blocked the questioning with her cold indifference. I did the routine: walked around, shook hands, gave hugs and kisses, mentally rolling my eyes as they gushed about how much I had grown, just going through the cycle.

            The evening from there blasted by, opening presents with a frenzy as the front room became decorated with many different colors of tacky wrapping paper and a multitude of bows in different shapes and colors. After all of the presents were opened, and thanks were exchanged, people began to gather their new-found possessions along with the ones they had brought before and prepared to leave. As always, I carried all of my new presents to my room, which that year included an Xbox and copies on Halo 1 and 2. As people began filing out, they’d poke their heads into my room and tell me goodbye and Merry Christmas, which was answered with a small good-bye and fake smile as I connected more wires to my television. Soon, all of the in-laws were gone, and all whom remanded were Mom, Mr. David, Stacey, my grandma and grandpa, my uncle David and his ten year old daughter Julia, and my Aunt Carol. We all said our goodbyes, giving hugs and kisses, with an especially big hug for my Aunt Carol, as if I would never see her again.

            They left the house, and I watched Aunt Carol wheel herself down the driveway toward her car. I waved one last time and turned around to help clean the mess left by the tornado known as my family. The house was eerily quiet, Nat King Cole’s smooth voice filling every crevice with a melancholy tone. Suddenly, a loud, blood-curdling scream pierced the night air outside. I dropped the dirty utensils I was carrying and bolted out of the door. My Aunt Carol’s wheelchair sat empty at the curb, and she was face down in the street, her face down in a steadily growing pool of blood. My grandma and mother leaned against a car crying hysterically, my grandpa comforting them while holding a confused Julia close to him. The two Davids helped her up out of the street. The air turned chilly as she was turned and faced me. Her face was smashed, and blood poured gradually out of her nose down her nice floral dress, her wig sitting lopsided in the middle of the street. Tears welled up as I ran toward her, but my grandpa restrained me, and I submitted and cried into his jacket..

* * *

            The ambulance arrived quickly as we sat inside in silent shock in the trashed front room. Aunt Carol had apparently gotten out of her wheelchair and attempted to walk to the other side of the car. She lost footing on the curb and fell face first into the street, and was knocked unconscious. My grandparents, Mom, and the two Davids sped after her, following the ambulance to the hospital, leaving me and Julia home. I went into the closet and retrieved a blanket and pillow, and laid Julia’s sleeping body on the couch and tucked her in. Back in my room, the Xbox stood unattended as I crawled into my bed and wondered, weeping, why God would do this to an angel on Christmas.

* * *

            On December 25, 2004, something very magical happened in St. Bernard, where I lived. It snowed. The trees’ branches drooped down as heavy snow coated them. The rooftops were pure white, and every child and adult was running around, making snowmen and engaging in snowball fights, as were I and my family. It was beautiful, as if out of a dream somewhere in a deep chasm of my subconscious. In the back of my mind, I hoped that in the hospital where my Aunt Carol laid resting, she could see the snow drifting down from the heavens, God’s Christmas present to her for her last Christmas on Earth.

* * *

            December 28, 2004, my grandma, Julia, and I piled into the back of her blue truck and sped off to visit my aunt. Once there, my overall excitement and anxiety to see her made me rush out of the car so fast that I slammed the car door on Julia’s tiny delicate fingers. After a hot scolding from my grandma, we went up the elevator to see Aunt Carol.

            I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. A stroke had left her right side of her body paralyzed and limp, her mouth was agape, exhorting short, ragged breaths, her eyes barely open. I suppressed tears as I approached her with a smile and took her small, cold hand into mine. Her head slowly turned toward me, and I saw a sparkle in her eyes as her left-half of her mouth curled into a half-smile. A tear ran down my face as I kissed her cheek and whispered, “I love you” into her ear. She looked at me and tried to respond, but couldn’t form any words. I embraced her again, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandma silently weep.

* * *

            Later that night, around midnight, I sat still in my computer chair, my eyes closed as I listened to music from my computer. My mother had abruptly left the house two hours prior, rushing toward the hospital. Aunt Carol’s bodily systems were shutting down, and they knew it was her time.

            I stared out into space, wondering why my aunt was going through so much pain. Why would God subject someone with such a good soul and heart, who helped and loved so many people, through so much suffering? As I grew older, I continued to contemplate this question, turning it over and over in my brain, and I believe I have found a suitable answer. It takes a great, loving person to suffer for others to realize that they must live their lives to the fullest, no matter how much they love God, just as Jesus and Aunt Carol did (and still do). We all come and go, and are defined by the actions we do here in our lives. We should all leave a legacy of love and compassion behind us in this world, to teach the next generations the humility and love of which those two had left.

            A soft knock came upon my door, and my mother opened it slowly. Her face was pale and she had red, poofy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She stood in the doorway for a moment in silence, then said, “Aunt Carol passed away, baby,” and closed the door. I sat there in my chair, not knowing if I should cry or not. I knew at the hospital, just as grandma did, that her time had come. Should I cry? Or should I rejoice? Now she is in Heaven with God, her Savior, whom she had loved and praised her whole life, and was now no longer in physical pain. No tears ran down my cheeks, and I closed my eyes and smiled, imagining my Aunt Carol flying toward the heavens, while the words of Neil Diamond sung sweetly to her.

Sweet Caroline

Good times never seemed so good.

Sweet Caroline

I believed there never could.

 

Author's Note

All I ask for this one is please don't be so harsh, this writing is very personal to me.

Reviews

[MissDragon]

this made me cry...

[CLUTZ]

crying... i won't say much because i can't but this was nice. lovely story, i'm glad u wrote it.