The Sadness, It Worsens

My aunt died two weeks ago. My mom and two of my aunt's friends found her in her house, convulsing, after a suicide attempt by overdosing on prescription drugs. She was rushed to the nearest hospital and stabilized, but had no brain activity by the time she arrived. She was on life support for two days before it became clear that she wouldn't recover any brain function whatsoever. I flew to Maryland to be with my family, and was there when they disconnected her respirator. We are all grieving, especially for my mother, whose loss of her sister is compounded by a feeling of responsibility for her death, as my mother thinks she should have seen it coming. She couldn't have. No one could have. We had a funeral in Maryland, and the outpouring of support from her friends, colleagues, and the mental health community was overwhelming. Her job was to serve people with chronic mental illness in the state of Maryland (she has struggled with bipolar disorder for thirty years, and for the last dozen years or more, has been working on behalf of other mental health consumers). They are feeling a devastating loss. The following weekend, we flew to North Dakota, and there was a funeral mass for our family, and she was buried there, with my grandfather, her brother, who died before I met him, and my cousin, a 16 year old girl who died last fall in a terrible car accident. Trying to make sense of all of this makes it difficult to sleep, or to think much else is important. We are pushing ahead with modest Christmas plans, but our hearts aren't in it as they usually are. The best solace right now is trusting that the pain and desperation we found reflected in her recent journals have been quieted and replaced with the peace and love she spent her life seeking.