For those of you who don’t know, my middle name is Rose. I’m named after two people: my two aunts who are both named Rose.
My first Aunt Rose
My first Aunt Rose, or Rosie as we call her, is 86 years old and she is in the sunset of her life. We found out last week that she has stage 4 lung cancer that has metastasized to an alarming degree. Chemo is no longer an option and the treatments she will undergo are meant to make her comfortable in the remaining months of her life. We are all heartbroken by the news because we love Rosie very much and because it feels like losing my grandmother Sadie (her sister) all over again. She looks just like her – they both remind me of Bette Davis with those gorgeous doe-like eyes and soft rounded features. I look at old photos of them and my jaw drops. They were and are stunning, as beautiful inside as out.
My Aunt Rosie is only 14 years older than my mom so they are more like sisters than niece and aunt. They are so close that she was the maid of honor at my mom’s wedding. She’s also my brother’s Godmother. And she holds the title as my family’s original yogini. Last year we lost my Uncle John, Rosie’s husband. While I was at her house before the service, she showed us an exercise book that she’s used for many years. It was published years before I was born and depicts daily yoga exercises for better health. I never knew she practiced. I guess I was meant to be a yoga teacher – it’s in my genes and my name.
My second Aunt Rose
I never knew my second Aunt Rose. She was the first child of my paternal grandparents, and she died when she was just three days old. Their three children who followed Rose were all boys. My dad once told me that every year on Rose’s birthday my grandfather would cry all day. This tough, gruff Sicilian man who survived the Great Depression and so many other difficulties, in Italy and in his adopted country, never cried about anything except the death of his daughter. Before my older brother, Joey, was born, my grandmother bought my parents a tiny pink dress in the hopes that Joey would be a girl. (But make no mistake – they both adored Joey.) My grandmother died the year before I was born, but my grandfather was still among us. When I was born, my parents gave me the name Rose, and when they told my grandfather he was so happy. He couldn’t wait to meet me, but we never got the chance.
The night I was born, there was a heavy snow storm. My grandfather was shoveling out his car so he could drive over to the hospital to meet me. He pushed himself too hard and had a heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital, but never regained consciousness. He died the next day without getting the chance to hold me, the little girl he had been waiting to have for almost 50 years.
What’s in a name? In my case, a lot. A lot of love, and dreams, and honor for two people – one who has lived a long, happy life and one who never got the chance she deserved. I’m proud to carry them both with me.
Christa Avampato 