The A word: The word that we don't want to talk about

My entire life I have experienced three deaths of individuals that were close to me: My grandma Sharon (the only grandma I ever knew), my grandpa (actually my step-grandpa but again the only grandpa I knew) and as September 4, my aunt Carol. Carol was my mom's sister and as far as I was concerned, my second mother. She just had her 47th birthday. We haven't had an official death certificate yet, so there is no listed cause of death. But I know what it was, she essentially drank herself to death.

Carol was only 14 when I was born. My grandma was going through a pretty rough period of her life at the time of my birth, so Carol lived with my mom. Carol would tell me tales of how bad my colic was. In teenage revenge to my all night crying fests (which would keep the entire house up all night) she would stand over my crib and in a deep "monster" voice say "What's my name?" She would also tell me how she would babysit me on nights my parents worked or went out on date nights and then in a sleepy stupor try to feed me a bottle by putting the nipple on a milk jug.

I just now realize that the lower right hand corner looks creepy. It's just a sleeping baby, my cousin and Carol's first born.

As she later became a mother herself, our aunt/niece relationship changed. We became closer. She would have me (or my sister) sleep over at her house. Her husband would work late shifts so she would allow me to stay up to hang out with her (she never liked being alone).I cherished these nights of one-on-one bonding. One of my earliest memories of sleeping over at her house was watching scary movies, Hellraiser in particular. Probably not the most kid appropriate move on her part, but what more would you expect from a young adult in their early twenties?

Carol was always the life of the parties. Her laugh was infectious. Her playful teasing would make you blush but make you feel like part of the family, like you were kin. Family was always important to her. When she moved to Texas one summer when I was around 7 years old she would write home, sending individual letters to all of us. Eventually she had to move back because she missed us too much. She was also beautiful on the outside. Barely over 5 feet, she had light brown skin, big bouncy hair (hey, it was the late 80's - early 90's when that was in!) and always fashionable. As a child I always wanted to be as cool as her.

As a very small child, I don't remember her drinking to be an issue. She was always a funny and carefree drunk. But somewhere along the line her drinking became worrisome. I no longer wanted to sleepover. "Fun Carol" became "Exasperating Carol." Even then the exasperating part would come in ebbs and flows. She'd be fine if: she only drank beer, if she had to watch her grandkids, on the weekdays, etc. Because it was not constant, it was never a red flag. I guess excuses are always made. However, there finally became a point where the entire family was concerned, and by that point it was too late.

She was hospitalized for drinking related reasons for the first time earlier this year during late spring/early summer. Carol thought it was just the flu, but the doctors had found that her liver was in bad shape. She was told that she could not drink anymore. That if she drank, she would die. For the early part of the summer, she was doing very well and staying sober.

The last time I saw her was the 4th of July, before I was aware of my neurofibromatosis diagnosis and subsequent surgery. Ever the protective aunt, Carol later told my mom that she noticed I was walking funny and was worried about me. Due to my surgery and eventual driving limitations I never saw her alive again. I am almost happy this is the case. She was the same Aunt Carol that I remembered. Sober, happy, loving, sweet. I watched her have a hula hoop competition with her grandkids. She and I sat in the sun to get some color while everyone else made fun of us because they were in the shade trying to cool off. We topped off the night by sitting around the campfire and making smores. Such sweet last memories.

However, somewhere within those two months between the 4th of July and her death, she fell off the wagon...hard. Thursday night I was called by my mom and told that Carol was taken to the hospital in an ambulance with the same flulike symptoms, yellow skin and darkened nails and gums. My mom warned me that she didn't think Carol was going to make it throughout the night. Unable to drive home, I had to wait for someone to get me which I knew wasn't going to happen until "it" happened. The next morning I received the phone call. Carol's heart stopped beating.

Once off the phone, being told that my sister was on her way to get me, I finally let the truth sink in. I sobbed uncontrollably, literally cursing out loud. I went from Shock-Denial-Anger in an instant. Who let this happen? Who supplied the liquor? Who didn't step in? Were those stupid young friends of hers that she drank with aware of her problems? Or did they think it was just cool that she drank with them? Why did she let it happen to herself? Didn't she care about her kids? Her grandkids? Why didn't she stop? Did she want to be yet another Native stereotype? Was that "one last drink" worth it? It just felt so selfish.

Almost immediately the guilt set in. I knew the anger was being projected because I was angry at myself. I had known for years that she had a problem but I didn't speak up to her, her husband or my parents. I made excuses: I'm just a kid, they won't listen anyway, maybe she will change on her own. Then I thought about how my recent medical circumstances accelerated her situation. With my parents/family worrying about my health issues, they were less involved with keeping Carol sober.

But the truth is, there was nothing that I or anyone in my family could do. Carol never really truly acknowledged there was an issue, that she was an alcoholic. That word has, is and always will be such a hard word for my family to speak about. But we should talk about it. Even if individual family members may not suffer from it personally, it still obviously affects us individually and addiction is running throughout our bloodline. The more we talk about it, the more we know about it (or at least try to understand it) the less likely we will try to deny it or be ashamed it.

My aunt may have technically died from organ failure, but it was due to complications from alcoholism. I'm not dirtying her legacy by acknowledging so. She is still going to be remembered as a wonderful Mom, Grandma, Aunt, Wife, Sister, Cousin and Friend. She will always be remembered as being the shining light in a dull room, the warm smile in a cold world, the bright spirit that yes, had flaws. I will miss my Auntie Carol.