March 25, 2025: Gideon Achatz, "How a Family Crumbled"

How a Family Crumbled

by: Gideon Achatz

As a child in a small town like Ishpeming, there weren’t many things to do without being bored after a minute.. Going to the park got old, hanging around at my own house made me feel sluggish, but my grandma’s house was always one block away, where there was a house full of my family and the people I loved most. So, most of my time spent as a child would be spent at that house. Whenever it was the weekend I would want to sleep over, and whenever I had downtime, I would walk over. In the household there were about six people in total, with a couple others coming in and out occasionally. First, my Aunt Ruth, who’s not exactly the happiest when she’s not in control. Next, my Aunt Bev, who would always spoil me when she was working. My grandma and grandpa, who were like the silent sentries of their household, and my Aunt Rosey, who’s Down syndrome didn’t stop her from being a beacon of happiness. Finally, Aunt Sally, a nurse who was responsible for most of the actions around the house. All together, they lived in a somewhat harmony, living symbiotically, never wanting to leave.

My Aunt Sally was always spoiling both my older sister and me, and she would always buy us the newest toys and games, taking us out for ice cream when she was off work, and always being a caretaker for us when our parents were working. Most of my childhood I remember being with her, playing whatever came up in my brain at that moment. Sometimes we would be playing with the hoard of Skylanders she bought me, which we connected to the game on the TV. Other times, we would be doing something I called “boss fights” where I would basically just run at her and jump. She didn’t really care. She was just happy that I was having a good time.

The time she was living was a very short moment in my life, only being a couple years of my childhood, which meant that my brain wasn’t developed enough to have full memories. See, when I think of her, I can only think of fragments of memories. I can’t remember her voice, but I can remember what she looked like. I can’t remember her taking me to Dairy Queen when she could, but I can remember her playing Shrek with me and my cousins on the Xbox 360. I can’t remember feeling her embrace, arms encapsulating like a cocoon, the heat of her heart to my chest like a bonfire in a cabin, but I can remember her loud, howling laughter that could bounce off the walls of any room. All I want is to have had more time with her, where I could have solid memories of her. She was could make my day better when I started it with a rain cloud over my head. She was one of the only people in our family who was actually able to handle my anger issues when I was acting out. I don’t remember what she did, but I do recall she had a booming voice, so you can put two and two together.

After a while, she started to show some concerning signs. She had a killer headache, throbbing at all times, felt like she couldn’t understand the things around her, and didn’t remember the things she was doing or the tasks to be done. Her nurses instincts couldn’t do much here, only that she should get to the hospital as quickly as she could. She didn’t go to the emergency room, embarrassed that she was sick, which should’ve been her last problem. After a couple of tests at the walk-in clinic in Marquette, they decided that she needed to be transferred to the emergency room’s holding areas. She would be staying for the majority of her last moments on earth in hospitals and a nursing home.

Only one day every week, I would go to the hospital to see her, not wanting to be a frequent visitor because of how sad she looked. The doctors continued to try to diagnose her, going through multiple different diseases, looking everywhere they could to find what could be doing this to her. Every day she got worse, seizures appeared and became frequent, her memory diminished, and her words slurred. The pills they gave her, or the medicine they funneled through the IV, would do nothing to help. Each time they saw the results, they returned to their offices, confused as to what could be creating such catastrophic effects on her speaking and cognitive ability, not even thinking to check her brain. Each day, she would sit on the bed, watching the shows she so loved to watch as a kid, surrounded by family, the repetitive beeps of the machines connected to her, the groans of the patients in other rooms, and the drone of the TV. Any time we went to see her, she would have a smile spanning to each ear, always wanting to give us the strongest hugs or the most kisses, knowing that they might be her last.

After two years of the back-and-forth game of testing and treating the imaginary illness, they transferred her to a hospital in Ann Arbor, where they did a CAT scan and found the lesions that were growing on her brain, as well as the tumor that had made itself at home. It was at that point the doctors decided there was nothing more they could do, and that they had given the tumor too much time to grow. As they were transferring her back to her home in Ishpeming, they decided to tell our family the news. She had lymphoma of the brain, and it had developed too far to be anywhere close to treatable.

The information hit us hard. We knew there was something very wrong, but we didn’t think she had cancer. Everyone in my family was absolutely devastated, not being able to say "hi" to her without tears racing down our faces. 

It was summer, and when my cousins and aunt, who lived in Washington, heard this news they came as soon as they could. Everyday that I was able, I would wait by my aunt’s bed, hoping I could hear the faintest whisper of my name being said or a mumbled “I love you.” But I never did. I only heard her labored breathing. Anytime I was over there, I would hear her lungs grasping for air, reaching for the oxygen she needed so desperately to keep her alive. Each breath I could hear her lungs cry out, wailing in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to keep herself alive much longer. The up and down of her stomach, rattling of her lungs like a diamondback ready to strike, her closed eyes waiting for the light to finally take her for her last ride. 

And then, it happened.

Her last breath finally out, the groans of pain silenced, her soul lost. It happened when everyone was at my grandma’s house, including my cousins. Everyone was crowded around her bed, tears becoming a moisturizer for her now motionless body, bittering her once glistening skin. They were all saying their final goodbyes, which she would never be able to hear.

Everyone forgot about me. They forgot about the child who was sleeping in the chair, too tired to stay awake for the events happening around him. They just let me sleep in the La-Z-Boy, not waking me up to say my final things to her. I never got to feel her hand on my hand one last time, never got to give her a final embrace, her final emotion frozen in time, her mouth agape, like she was trying to say one last thing before she left. I wonder what she would have said. Would it have been something like “I love you” or would it be “Don’t forget about me”?  The world gave a woman whose whole job was to care for people a disease that couldn’t be cared for.

After she passed, they planned the funeral for about a week later. The family wanted to do it at the church she had sung at since she was a teenager. At the funeral, the amount of tears would be enough to fill an aquarium. The entire funeral I was unable to keep my sadness contained, crying into my dad’s arms, while he himself let his tears fall onto my hair. My dad is a poet, and what usually happens at our family's funerals is him reading a poem.  He couldn’t keep his facade up for long and was breaking down throughout the entire reading, unable to hide the despair he had hidden so deep. After his poem, there were a couple of songs, and we ended off with a couple of readings from the pastor of the church. As the funeral ended, they transferred her to Holy Cross Cemetery in Marquette, where the rest of the ashes not dispersed to individual urns would be put into a cremation stone.

This was in 2015, ten years ago this August. Every year mutes the pain a little more, but that doesn’t mean the grief will disappear. This last month, I broke down crying because of how much I missed her, wanting to feel the warmth of her body, the joy she brought me. The house she lived in is barren of anything that once belonged to her, because the aunts who live there now decided they wanted to sell the house.  The first time I saw her empty room, my knees gave out. 

She kept everyone in that house in check. Whenever my Aunt Rosey would be getting into a state of sadness or anger, Sally would be able to squash that easier than anybody else.  As soon as Aunt Sally died, everything changed. It’s surprising how one person can hold others together so much, always willing to help selflessly. 

Every day I want our family back.  

Gideon Achatz is 16-years-old and lives in Ishpeming.  He attends Marquette Alternative High School and Northern Michigan University.  He loves rap music and gaming online with his sister and cousins.  He has the cutest dog in the world.  He is a Yooper.