I wrote this last week, at the end of a several week long lead-up to the inevitable.

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She and my mom were part of a trio of friends at nursing school. I remember seeing a photo of the three of them when they were maybe 20 years old - all with their white nurses caps and long hippy hairdos.

I used to call her Ka-ka before I could say her name.

When we were little, she was famous for her wiggly hugs. (Still is, really.) She’d pick up Alex or me, our limbs dangling, and she’d jiggle us around, swinging us side to side, squealing as we laughed hysterically.

She’s gone now, though.

It’s almost a cliché, which I hate. Because clichés cheapen what is a very real and extremely painful reality. My Aunt Becky died of cancer.

Her cancer (I hate to give it ownership like that. Hers. It’s not as if she chose to have it, let alone wanted it to be hers.).. The cancer that stole her away was the kind that is relentless. And it was deceptive – hitting hard, then lying low for a time, giving a shred or two of hope, and finally striking again, harder and faster.

Becky fought long and hard, with good times and bad, but the cancer won. Like a parasite, it had set up shop in many of Becky’s vital body systems. The doctors were out of ideas. “Not more than a few months,” they said. And then, “Less than two weeks.”

In her final weeks and days, my mom spent time with her friend – laughing, praying, reminiscing over old memories, making funeral arrangements. Both being keen gardeners, they enjoyed an early spring – in the form of bunches and bunches of flowers sent by loved ones. My mom served as Becky’s hospice nurse, making her comfortable as her body slowly began to shut down.

I’m told that my mom and Greg, Becky’s husband, were on either side of her as she went… whispering words of love and encouragement as Becky left us to be with the Lord.

I can hardly imagine a more simultaneously excruciating yet also beautiful moment.