My Aunt Diane and a Stone at the Foot of El Cruz de Ferro

By Chase Parnell  —  March 13, 2020

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Let’s talk about death and regret, shall we? Specifically, I want to talk about my dear Aunt Diane who passed away on May 12, 2014 at the age of 55. She was taken from us after a long battle with cancer. I regret not being more intentional in my relationship with her and I regret not attending her funeral. All these years later, I still think of these failings of mine and it’s hard not to want a do-over. 

Diane was a lawyer and at the time of her death, I was in law school. She was the only attorney in my extended family and she definitely played a role in me going to law school. I remember her saying that to become a lawyer, “You just have to jump through all the hoops.” And that’s really what it felt like. Standardized testing, law school applications, law school itself, bar exam preparation, bar exam test day, land your job. Diane was spot on and I reminded myself that each of these steps were just hoops, contrived yet required, and they weren’t anything to get too worked up about. 

Diane was single and overweight most of her adult life. As a kid growing up, those two characteristics somehow defined her existence, and I didn’t have the maturity to understand that people are more than the labels people place on them. She brought a unique and special light into the world that felt clouded by antiquated social norms and presumed lifestyle choices.

Diane told me I was her favorite when she came to visit me in Missoula, Montana in 2013. Even then, she moved slow and I remember her face being a little different, but I don’t know if I’m confusing my memory of her final months in 2014, when things were real bad, with what she looked like on this day in Montana. I recall she wore a beanie because her hair was just growing back after her most recent chemotherapy treatment. And if I’m being totally honest, something inside me gets uncomfortable when around sick or dying or severely disabled people. I don’t know what sort of dark thing lives in me that makes me want to take a step back instead of step forward. 

Sitting in a bright cafe eating pancakes with Diane and her travel partner on that day, Donna (my other aunt), Diane said, “You know what you once told me, Chase? You told me that you wanted to grow up to be just like me.” She looked down and nodded her head affirmatively, “You said you wanted to live alone and go to movies whenever you wanted.” I could see my younger self saying that. She was flying solo with no rules or responsibilities. Diane had it good. 

She had a dry sense of humor, always ready with a one-line zinger. She adopted two young girls from China and loved them and provided for them in ways they would never have experienced otherwise. She was one of the few women I remember standing up to my Dad on political or social issues. And she would’ve done anything for me, had I asked. Growing up, she’d pin me down with questions about life and the ladies in my orbit. What I loved about her was how persistent she was with me in conversation. She wouldn’t settle for surface level commentary, which I’m learning is really how you have to be to have any sort of meaningful interaction with a teenager or young man. I have nephews now and I’m at a loss at times as to how to connect on a deeper level. 

I don’t remember what I felt like when I heard Diane died. It was sort of a long time coming so it wasn’t exactly a surprise. I don’t recall crying or needing to be alone. And nobody prepares you for how to cope with death. All we really know is how it’s portrayed in books and movies. And that’s someone else’s experience. Perhaps my coping mechanism is to not really let the reality of it in, because honestly, it feels as though I haven’t really mourned the death of anyone I’ve known in my life. I’ve lost grandparents, extended family, and acquaintances who were at one time friends, and yet, I’m left feeling detached in some odd way, stoic maybe, but that word presupposes that you have the feelings underneath, you’re just good at not showing them.

I missed Diane’s funeral because it took place a few days before my law school final exams. Somehow I felt at the time that I couldn’t possibly miss those study days if I wanted to pass my classes. I had a chance to honor the life of a beautiful person, one that loved me and told me so, and I wasn’t there. 

What scares me about this whole reflection process is that I don’t know if I will actually change. Because how does one actually soften their heart? I’ve been on this planet for 35 years now and to me it seems you develop patterns in your life that help you avoid suffering, and you get really good at that. This pattern of detachment must be serving me in some micro-evolutionary type of way.

Personality type also plays a role in the walls we build. Being an introvert is bigger than social constructions and parsing out what fills you up; its self-preservation. How does the introvert, with a tendency to separate, come near? For me, it feels I pour all my love into Nikki, my two kids, and my immediate family. I’m trying to cast a wider net.

The summer before Diane died, Nikki and I got married and went on a two month honeymoon in Europe. Thirty-one of those days were spent walking the Camino Frances of The Way of Saint James, which starts in a small village in France and winds westward through the entire length of northern Spain. It’s traditionally a catholic pilgrimage where people disconnect from the world and walk The Way in order to reflect, find peace, and focus on their faith or something they want to change about themselves or heal from. As they say, everyone on the Camino has a purpose. Nikki and I were walking The Way to seal our marriage with a vibrant and lasting experience, others we met did it to help cope with a loss, quit a vice or to get over a painful relationship. 

About 20 days into the route, you rise out of the harsh dry Spanish plateau called the Meseta and you begin to climb your way into a region named Galacia, where the terrain and environment feel more akin to Ireland than what typically comes to mind when you think of Spain. It is at this transition point that you reach the highest point on the Camino, which is marked by an elevated cross called El Cruz de Ferro, the Iron Cross.

Surrounding the cross is a giant pile of weathered rocks and stones. If you’re familiar with The Way, you know that tradition requires you to bring a stone from your homeland and lay it at the base of the cross to signify a burden you are releasing. Nikki and I brought our pebbles from Bend but we also had in our possession a stone for Diane.

Looking back in my journal from our time on The Camino, I wrote the following on August 3, 2013:

“We got out of Rabanal early. 6:15am. In time for a beautiful twilight start. Today’s stage started with a climb, the environment more and more green the higher we climbed. We saw the sun rising over Astorga, a days walk to the east. I was feeling sluggish today. Nikki was off into the mist ahead of me. We arrived at a mountain village with rough roads where we drank a french press full of coffee. Fully caffeinated, we headed off again and temperatures continued to drop as we climbed in elevation. I put on my Patagonia fleece, houdini on top. Today we would reach El Cruz de Ferro where we had some official business to take care of. This is a wish-making place, a dreams come true spot. As we ascended the final slope, we saw the giant cross that stuck out of the pile first. When it came into full view I noticed there was a trail in the stones that led up to the cross. We went off to the side of the pile where we could be alone. My Aunt Donna had given us two small painted stones, one for Nikki and I and the other with the initials, DMT, which are the initials for Aunt Diane who suffers from advanced brain cancer. I supposed we were delivering this rock in hopes of a miracle. We placed our hands on the rock and prayed that God might intervene and save Diane from her suffering. She is a mother and her children need her. The last time I saw Diane was at our wedding. She was in very bad shape. Her voice was weak, she couldn’t walk without assistance; she was nearly gone already, yet there we were, asking for a miracle. Even now, as I write this, I am praying for a pardon of sorts. I want to see her again. Nikki and I each prayed, standing side by side, arms interlaced. I took Diane’s rock and tossed it into the pile, Lord help her.” 

I cherish the fact that Diane’s rock is still there, buried now under thousands of other rocks that have accumulated in the seven years since. Despite our prayers, Diane didn’t get better, physically speaking. She lived less than a year from that moment. But in another sense, she did get better, in that she crossed over the great divide from life to death, from pain to peace.

I’m sad I didn’t know her middle name started with an M until I read it on that rock. I didn’t know it stood for Marie until I read her obituary. I don’t remember telling her I loved her the last time I saw her. I didn’t always honor her in my thoughts growing up. I didn’t go to her funeral.

But I honor her now. Six years late I tear up thinking about her.

At the end of our family gatherings over the years, whenever we’d say goodbye to Diane, she’d always give me a big hug and say, “Well, it’s been a slice of heaven!” She counted the good moments like those as just a sliver of a greater experience beyond this life. She may or may not have believed it, but I always appreciated the metaphor. I certainly hope she’s now experiencing the whole heaven, in whatever form that may be. 

We’re still thinking of you, Diane. 

You’re still here with us. 

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