Into the Woods

I'll Probably Get Lost. Amy Won't.

My sister-in-law Amy is 13 years older than my husband, Sam, her brother; she’d moved out and gotten married before I arrived on the scene. She would come back to Connecticut for summer visits, which is when I first got to know her. She and her husband John lived in Detroit, where he taught philosophy. They had three kids and Amy made pottery as a side gig. She was cool, a voracious reader who watched controversial films, grew her own vegetables, appreciated modern art, and listened to jazz. She was petite, with jet brown hair past her waist and an explosive laugh. She was, is, a force.

Sometime after Sam and I got married, Amy and her family moved back to Connecticut, and we grew closer. Now, she lives less than a mile away in a facility that offers assisted living for seniors. It’s her second stop since leaving her house of over 30 years four months ago.

Amy’s life has had more than its share of loss. First, there was her sister Reva, to cancer, then, her brother Marty, also to cancer. Most devastating of all, her son Paul was killed in a car accident. Then, her husband John left with $200 dollars and the family car to run off with Amy’s two-decades-younger cousin, who he’d met at the family reunion that Amy organized and hosted the month before.

As many times as she was sunk, Amy, like her middle name, rose. Watching Amy surface again after each tragedy offered life-lessons in resilience. But these days, Amy’s brain is no match for losses, even micro ones. She loses the slips of papers where she’s written phone numbers, names, and reminders. She loses her glasses, her water bottle, apartment keys, and cell phone. Don’t even get me started on her television remote, or the passwords on her computer. She lost a sandal somewhere in her tiny studio last week and couldn’t find it for days. She makes appointments and shows up at the wrong time, off by not minutes or even hours, but days. Weeks.

That being said, the external minutiae that slip-slide away are nothing compared to the pathways steadily, inexorably ceded in her brain. Such is the nature of this beast.

This year, I’m spending time with Amy while she’s still Amy (not that she’s ever been still). She’ll continue to move toward whatever comes next, but not alone. I hate everything about this, but I love Amy. She will lose me, too, and I’ll be there for it.