A Real Love Story

I've thought about this story for a long time.  Its a love story that greatly impacted mine. 

I'm named after my Aunt Diane.  Lara Diane.  I love my name.  I feel so connected to the person who I relate it too.  She was amazing.  As a little girl I remember she always carried those mini lifesaver rolls in her purse, and whenever I saw her she would have them ready to hand out.  I remember the ace bandage wrap on her arm that covered her port that lead directly to her vein.  On occasion she would let me peek under it to see what was covered.  She was a hair dresser who did my hair in her kitchen.  It was era of permed hair and I got one regularly.  I loved having her fix my hair and fluff it.  She said it reminded her of cotton candy.  She was loving, gentle, and honest.  We had lots of talks about everything and since she lived just a few blocks away, I got to see her quite a bit.  My  Aunt Diane was like a second parent sometimes.  She was so easy to talk to and get good feedback and advice from.  She was cool, and drove a very cool blue Trans Am.  She even picked me up in it from school one day when I wasn't feeling well and couldn't get a hold of my mom.   I've always wanted to be the kind of aunt to my nieces and nephews that she was to me. 

My Aunt Diane experienced kidney disease/failure in her 20s.  She did not have children but treated her nieces and nephews like her own.  She was a dialysis patient for most of her life.  I think the longest living dialysis patient in Utah for a time (28 years).  Dialysis is tough.  You plug a tube in that pulls the blood out of your body.  It runs through tubing into a machine that basically washes it.  It pulls the toxins from the blood stream and then it goes back into a tube that goes back into your body.  It takes hours.  It basically serves the function of a kidney.  To survive she had to have dialysis several times a week.  This meant she spent hours and hours at the hospital every week having her blood cleaned so that she could live.  I don't know why she didn't have a kidney transplant but I think it was due to her overall health.  Her husband, my uncle Alan was a big, muscular man.  At one time in his life he had an opportunity to be a professional athlete.  But there was something more important to him.  His wife.  Overtime he realized that dialysis was going to be a huge part of their lives and so he decided to become trained in dialysis.  They made arrangements to have a dialysis machine in their home.  He did it all himself, for years.  Our visits often occurred over the whirring of the machine with my Aunt Diane in her big comfy recliner with tubes full of blood winding over her lap.  It didn't phase me much.  It was just how it was. 

My uncle Alan was is gentle giant.  He is handsome and rugged on the outside, but on the inside, tender and compassionate.  He dedicated most of his time caring for my aunt.  Alan was quiet, but he would play a great game of catch in the backyard with a football. He would also take us night skiing while my aunt watched from the cab of the truck below.  One day I was skiing with the Jr. High ski program and suddenly I heard. " Hey Blondie!" from behind.  That was what he called me.  I turned and saw my uncle coming toward me.  He knew I was going to be on the mountain that day and decided to see if he could get a few runs in with me.  We skied the rest of the afternoon  together. One Christmas Eve I sat on my floor peaking out the window and saw my uncle carrying gifts up our front walk.  They had been hiding them at their home for my mom and dad, who obviously had children like me who had no problem peeking.

I watched my Uncle hook my Aunt up to dialysis on many occasions.  He was gentle.  He waited on her hand and foot.  He would bring us fresh peaches to snack on when we were talking. When my aunt was weak, he would pick up her up in his arms like she was a feather and tenderly place her where she wanted to go.  He took care of the home and did most of the cleaning, laundry, and dishes.  I watched year after year as he completed those duties.  Never once, did I hear him complain, or act put out in any way.  He loved her and it was part of loving her.  When I was 12 years old, I was asked to write a letter to myself about what I wanted in my future.  I wrote about my Uncle Alan.  I said that I wanted to marry someone just like him. He was and is one of my heroes.

My Aunt passed away in her late 40's.  She had 34 nieces and nephews at the time that probably felt exactly the same way I did about her.   Her health had been declining and that night as my Uncle Alan held her in his arms, she told him she was ready to go.  He let her go, but held her till morning.

A real love story.