Aunt Helen's Story

On my blog post this past Sunday, I mentioned that it was my mom’s birthday and then it dawned on me that it had been Aunt Helen’s birthday on the 22^nd. She would have been 100 years old!

I’ve blogged about her before, my mom’s sister and best friend. I was just as close to my sister Pat, and when we were young, I imagined us each getting married, having kids the same age and raising them together, as Mom and her sister had. And then Pat and I growing old together. That wasn’t God’s plan at all, but I guess we have to take it as it comes.

Just as my favorite aunt did.

 Her husband, my uncle Bob, was diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease, when I was just a kid. I don’t remember him ever not having it.

Also called Huntington's chorea, it is a debilitating disease with some similarities to Parkinson’s, the common symptom being uncontrollable movement. I could delve into the whole neuroscience of both of them, but let me just say that they are both horrible diseases that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

One bad thing about Parkinson’s is that, even if there are certain risk factors, you really don’t know if you’re going to get it. Huntington’s is totally inherited, if one of your parents had it there is an approximately 50% chance you will get it. 

Which seems like a no-brainer. If one of your parents has Huntington’s, don’t have kids of your own, right? Unless you are faced with that decision, you don’t have a clue how difficult it is to make. Life is never that easy, and you know it.

Anyway, back to my aunt’s family. Huntington’s seemed strong in her husband’s side of the family. I could look at his family tree and count the members who had it, but just let me say there were a lot. And every member’s story was as sad as the next. 

My aunt and uncle had four kids, the first three right at the same time as my parents were having my brother and oldest sister. The family pictures I have of those times and the stories that have been shared down the years! 

But as those years went by, Uncle Bob’s symptoms got worse. He had to quit work, he became confined to bed, he lost weight. The constant – I mean – CONSTANT movement made it difficult to impossible for him to do much more than thrash on the couch. My dad made them a sturdy day bed that they put in their living room as no store-bought bed could stand up to the abuse.

He eventually ended up in a nursing home, passing away in 1977, at the age of 63. Wow! I hadn’t realized before how young he was; he always seemed so much older.

First one son, then another, then their daughter each started showing symptoms, were diagnosed and eventually died, at ages 59, 47, and 71. The only blessing in any of that was that my aunt only lived to bury two of her sons; her daughter managed to outlive her.

They always say that the hardest thing for a parent to endure is the death of a child. How about two? 

My aunt was tough, though. So tough that in December of 2005, at age 85, she had an appointment with an agent to discuss changing something with her life insurance. And then she passed away, while sleeping in her recliner, later that day.

Reminds me a little of how my mom died, but that’s her story. This one is Aunt Helen’s.