Rose

70 years ago, Rose Marie was born in a very poor Italian-American family in the ethnic ghetto of New York City. There is an interesting story about her that I heard many times in my growing up years. Rosie was a cheerful, talkative child who was your typical toddler. She had beautiful black hair and dark eyes, and a lovely olive complexion, just like her father. One day she fell off the stoop and broke her arm, only the family didn't realize that was what had happened. She favored her arm, but she used it. But after a week or so, she was obviously in pain. What to do with an injured child when there is no money for a doctor and no such thing as health insurance?
The parents did the only thing they knew to do. Medical interns from Bellevue Hospital had been allowed to set up clinics in underserved areas. And they were affordable and sometimes even free. So off they went with little Rosie to get her arm fixed. The intern examined her as she whimpered, held on her mother's lap. "I can fix this," he told them. "You folks just go on down the hall and I'll take care of this. She'll need a cast." He took the squalling child and sent the parents off. Before they walked around the corner, the father turned to look back at his child. What he saw enraged and horrified him: the intern had taken Rosie's arm and snapped it in his hands. "It needed to be rebroken before it could be set" was his explanation.
Rosie was never the same after that. She withdrew and hardly spoke. When she did, it was repetitious and irrelevant most of the time. Although her parents were heartbroken about her mental condition, anyone with mental illness in those years was considered an embarassment. She was often told to go in the other room when company came to visit. Hence, she was kept isolated and alone for much of her life.
Rosie is my aunt. I have often wondered how her life would have turned out had she received psychiatric services and had not been traumatized as she was. The image I have of her when she was an adult, is of a tall woman with dark circles under her eyes, wearing a loose house dress, and pacing the floor. "Oh well," was her refrain.

Neither my grandparents nor my parents taught us to respect or nurture Aunt Rosie. Nor were we ever encouraged to speak with her and give her the pleasure of a relationship with someone outside of her home. For many years I never thought about her. She was a non-person to me, I am ashamed to say. Then a couple years ago I awoke out of the family culture and realized that she is a real person who needs love, affection, tenderness, and relationships with her family. So I started writing her letters and sending her small gifts: stamps, pictures, cards, etc. As with many mentally ill people, she warmed to me immediately and began to write to me faithfully. Aunt Rosie lives in an Christian extended care facility in North Carolina. She seems to be happy there, getting the mail and distributing it every day to the other residents. Her sister and brother visit her several times weekly and she is very close to them.

Recently Aunt Rosie has had to be hospitalized several times for angina. She has heart disease, which runs in the family. I don't know how much longer I will have her. Rosie can't talk on the phone, so I can't hear her voice. And I haven't seen her in at least 35 years. But she has been a true gift. Why? Because there is something about her that is so innocent and trusting, like a child. Her love is guileless and pure. The tone of her every letter is positive and sweet, even though she writes in one-inch letters that have been sketched over several times. She has never met Sam but she asks about him in each letter. Rosie so much wants to be part of a family and be loved. And she is.

Dear Barbara,

I feel well today. How do you and Sam feel today?

I hope you and Sam feel well today.

I pray for you and him every day.

I love you and him.

Have a good day every day you and Sam and a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas day and a Happy New Years Day when the days come.

You and him are nice persons.

Thank you for nice picture letter card.

From Rose.

Perhaps one reason that I especially enjoy my relationship with Aunt Rosie right now is that it feels to me to be a sign that I have reached a certain age. When we are growing up, through those troublesome teen years and the early adult struggles, we try to distance ourselves from anything or anybody whose presence we fear will define us. The nerdy people who are really quite nice but whom we dread being compared to, the boys who are clever or obnoxious who we secretly admire, the parent with the oddball behaviors. Indeed, I have had several men lose interest in me after they met my parents when I was younger. I have been compared to my siblings in ways that have made me cringe. A former boyfriend's arrogant opinions about my being a nurse made me deeply ashamed of my profession. But there comes a point in life where we realize that our family members contribute to the way we are: both positively and negatively. It's how we manage what we ended up with that matters, how we conduct ourselves in relation to others, and how we love. Then, the imperfections become only proof that we are cut from the cloth of humanity.

I keep a picture of Aunt Rosie on my desk. She is sitting on her bed, wearing a flowing house dress in a dark navy floral print. Her hair is dark and has fewer gray hairs than I have. She is smiling sweetly, even a bit impishly looking at the camera. Rosie is a dear, dear part of my family and I am happy to be her neice. I pray for her health and happiness. One day, we shall live in that great forever where we both shall be whole. I am grateful for that hope, and thankful for what I have learned by being her friend.