Lillian E. Lippman, May she dance and sing in Heaven...

I heard the news on Monday, and it still has not sunk in. I expect Lillian to knock on my door at any time. "Are you back from vacation?" She would ask. "Did that Baby Boy have a good time?" Her ragged head peaking into my apartment.

"Anne told me you died," I'd say.
She'd roll her eyes and shake her head, "What do you listen to her for?"

It is with deep sadness that I announce that Lillian E. Lippman, my dear friend and Henry's beloved caretaker, died on Sunday, November 15. She was 85. Formal Cause of death: a heart attack. Informal: heartache... Life had finally just worn her down. Without children or sane close family, no one is writing an obituary for her. No one is arranging a funeral. Lillian will leave earth as if she was never on it and I can't let that happen. Her imprint on my heart, and in our lives is just too big. So here is your tribute, Auntie Lillian:

Lillian grew up in Brooklyn, a vivacious, flirty and wicked-smart girl. A youngest child until she was 15, Lillian used her sass and guts to sing her way onto the big stage. Performing with Big Bands, she met her first husband and they had a glorious time dancing and singing at Manhattan parties until she lost him unexpectedly. She married again, wanting to start a family, and moved with her new husband to Martha's Vineyard before realizing that he did not want kids. "I never would have married the bastard," she recently told me.

She moved to Cleveland more than 40 years ago to care for her ill mother. When her mom passed, Lillian remained in Cleveland to care for her younger sister, Anne, a schizophrenic whose husband left her and whose daughter never calls. Ever. Day in and day out, Lillian would listen to Anne's wild delusions, bearing the brunt of her psychotic accusations, ensuring that they had milk, and soup and a roof over their heads.

Lillian hated Cleveland. Of course, eventually, she hated everything. And she distrusted everyone. After the turn of events in her life, who can blame her? She would cuss at neighbors, garage attendants, our postman, and scream at anyone who got in her way. Few people knew the classy, spunky and creative woman inside. But I did, and I loved her. At first, I thought she was just the crazy old lady upstairs. She would hobble to the door on her cane, cursing at whoever just walked by. I tried to stay out of her way. One day, she knocked on my door to tell me that Henry cried every day while I was at work, and from then on, she became his caretaker. Within a few months with Henry, Lillian was walking without a cane, and within the first year, neighbors were thanking me, as she became more pleasant to them.

As the years passed, we became friends. Most days, our conversations were the same, "Carin, I don't know where you got that Baby Boy, but he is the cutest, the smartest. I don't know what you're going to do with him!" She would report on his poops and pee-pees, and sometimes, she would talk about her life... her days in New York, her nights on stage, her great loves. She wanted to show me the progress she was making in cleaning her house, and show off a treasure she would find at the nearby Goodwill store. And nearly every day, she would tell me how lovely I was, how I was the daughter she never had.

A year ago, Lillian lost her oldest sister, Madeleine. Lillian became more easily agitated, angry and sharply bitter. She was sure that workers were stealing from her, racists were trying to kill her, and people were wronging her. Three weeks ago, she fell, and I knew that we were nearing the end. Her smooth latte-colored skin turned a pale leathery yellow, her gait slowed, and she stopped brushing her hair. Every day, I asked her if I could please take her to the doctor, to which she would respond, "Maybe tomorrow."

Henry and I left on vacation last week, and as the plane landed back in Cleveland last Sunday, Lillian passed away. Given the spring in her step the last day I saw her, it is nearly impossible to believe now that she's gone. She had come to my door early, layered in her puffy purple coat and thick wool scarf, her wiry silver hair running wild from beneath her beige beret. "Come on MisterMister, time to go!"I looked into her eyes, those deep black pools to her soul, and smiled. I was sure we would have another tomorrow.

To our "Auntie Lillian", we miss you dearly. You are forever in our hearts, you are part of our souls. You are our family. We love you. May you sing and dance again, in peace, in Heaven.

All our love,
Carin and Henry