My great-aunt Florrie…

The summer of 1990 changed my life. I was commuting from New Jersey to Manhattan to attend summer school college classes, and I had a part-time job at a press-clipping bureau doing tk. From the outside, my life looked like that of a typical 20-year-old girl.

At home, however, I was more than a student and an office worker: I was a caregiver for my Great-Aunt Florrie. It wasn’t a role I relished, but knew it was something I had to do.

Caregiving: A two-way street
In a way, I was repaying a debt of kindness. When I was a baby, my parents and I went to live with Aunt Florrie, a move that benefited everyone. My mother felt adrift in our central New Jersey home; as a stay-at-home mom in a land of working mothers, she was lonely. Aunt Florrie, in turn, hated living by herself.

Although the arrangement was supposed to be temporary, my relationship with Aunt Florrie spanned 20 years before she died in 1993 at the age of 93. Aunt Florrie, who never married, had quit school in the fourth grade to work, and spent many years capping toothpaste tubes and testing light bulbs at the local Westinghouse factory. By the time my parents and I moved in with her, Aunt Florrie had retired. But now she had a new job: taking care of me.

Since Aunt Florrie didn’t have children of her own, she treated me like I was her little girl. When we walked to the center of town together she would often buy me a book. Those Little Golden Book titles sing to me even today: The Poky Little Puppy, Cinderella, and my all-time favorite Hansel and Gretel. And we would always stop at Kresge’s five and dime, where my standing order was a hamburger, fries, and a Coke. Every night Aunt Florrie would open my bedroom door and wave goodnight.

After the fall
It wasn’t until 1988 that my mother and I became hands-on caregivers. At age 91, Aunt Florrie needed help with the basic tasks of living; changing adult diapers became a fact of life. She was still mentally strong, but suffered from congestive heart failure and often had her morning toast and tea in bed. Aunt Florrie’s doctor, who still made house calls, checked in often.

On July 11, 1990, things took a dramatic turn for the worse. Aunt Florrie fell in her bedroom. The accident incapacitated her; she was furious when we told her she had to be hospitalized and showed her anger by refusing to eat.

Even though my great-aunt had never smoked, doctors at the hospital found a tumor on one of her lungs. Exactly two weeks later, she died. The day before she passed away, though, Aunt Florrie gave us a final gift. I asked her if she knew my mother, my father, and me. In response, she dutifully said our names one last time.

I coped with Aunt Florrie’s death by planning her funeral. At the service, a beautiful singer performed and a wonderful speaker read. As a final tribute, I tucked a Little Golden Book into her casket.

A lasting legacy
Now, nearly 20 years later, I can see how much I learned from Aunt Florrie. She taught me about financial independence—she was the first woman I knew who earned her own income. She also taught me how to feel comfortable around older people; I now have friends of all ages. Aunt Florrie also taught me the importance of thrift, something I’m still working on.

These days I make my living as a journalist in New Jersey, but the lessons of caregiving stay with me. I see the value of developing family and community support systems, and I know that even trying times can offer sweetness. Today, my wonderful memories of my aunt remain, and her legacy lives on in my appreciation of her.