for susan

from regardless by annie

me and my aunt susan

I wanted to share here what I was lucky enough to be able to speak at my Aunt Susan’s funeral on July 24th, 2026. As her email still subscribes to this blog, and has since my first post, I figure this is some kind of way I can share this with her even now. I wish I could tell her how hard it is to lose somebody who understands you so wholly, and so completely. Maybe, in some strange way, this can.

Thank you for being here. <3

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I’d like to start this with an apology. First, the printer I am printing this from could not connect to Google Docs, so I’m reading this in 7 point font, and apologize for any error. Second, I was first given a 1-2 minute time constraint. And then my time constraint was lifted, so if this is super long, I’m sorry.

Good morning. It is an honor to speak a few words for my aunt Susan today. In addition to honoring her the best I can, I would also love to reflect a bit on loss, family and joy as we try to process all of this compounding grief. Most importantly, I wanted to thank you all for being here, and especially for coming back to be with us during this time. As our family grows in beautiful, miraculous ways; we are also inundated with terrible, abundant loss.

It is an incredibly heavy thing to be back at this plot just three weeks after the passing and burial of my loving grandfather, Susan’s father, Dr. Richard Aach. Not that joking is exactly appropriate right now, but I know part of me wondered if I should just wear what I wore last time, as it had just made it out of the wash. I hope I am not alone in this sentiment.

When I was growing up, Susan was a firecracker. She would blaze into family functions and instantly stir the pot of our impossibly traditional and polite family. She came to dinner towing a story of a hiking trip, kayaking journey or another type of incredibly dangerous outdoor adventure she had just been on. On family vacations, she would hop on a kayak and just leave our line of sight until she was ready to come back. After moving to California, she would fly home for holidays and events and somehow figure out how to fit the largest amount of rare produce I’ve ever seen in her carry-on, insisting we crack them open in very busy kitchens at family parties. I cannot imagine being her TSA agent.

Ten years ago, Susan was in town to spend time with her parents and watch our family’s very particular dog, Cooper, for a week. Every day we would get new pictures of the young man, posing awkwardly in front of ponds and at various trailheads. In hindsight, I don’t think that dog had ever exercised that much in his entire life.

Susan understood Cooper, his peculiarities and routines, the way he saw the world. She also loved going outside, so that week they indulged in their hobbies. Having spent so much time paying attention to each other, she even looked at me after we got back and said, “Cooper really isn’t a dog, he’s more like a horse,” which was an incredible thing to hear about something that did not have hooves.

In addition to finding a kindred spirit in Cooper, I am also honored that Susan found another strange creature in me, the weird daughter of another family. To be the weird daughter, as Susan knew well, is a strange quest to go on. You have to be both fiercely independent and stress everybody out with your choices. As a weird daughter, it’s important to go out of town by yourself, work random jobs, and constantly change direction. Susan understood me. She would read my articles and let me know what she thought, which was feedback I craved desperately. One of the best compliments I’ve ever received was from her, when she told me my writing had a bite to it. I think about that all the time.

Even after years and years of cancer and immense treatment cycles, Susan’s fervor for life and the world around her never slowed. She would go on these crazy hikes. She would try new things and go to new places. She would bring us organic beeswax and handmade scarves, pieces of jewelry. Tokens of some tiny journey she had been on, as going to the local market and truly paying attention to what was there, was as good of an adventure as any.

After all of this grief, I am unsure who we will become both as a family, and in our own personal lives. I am unsure who my mom and her siblings will be without their long, long calls with their sister, hoping she will be well enough to make it in town for Thanksgiving. I wonder who I will be without texts from my Aunt in California about the animals she sees on her walks, the links to articles about current events, or San Francisco E-Bay posts including two tons of Syrah grapes, or “three free goats, habla español.” Without someone to read all of my silly blog posts and letting me know what they think nearly instantly.

Never will we meet someone who will find so much joy in the simplest things: being outdoors, strange fresh fruits, little markets, and creatures of all kinds. Who was always on to the next adventure, big or small, and could talk about anything at all, for as long as she had to. A voracious reader, devoted global citizen, and incredibly loving daughter, cousin and aunt.

I think in our memory of Susan is a reminder to be exactly who you are, forever, and to not ever hold back. To worry your family with your choices. To do whatever the fuck. To start over over, and over, and over again. To be fearless in your fight for life. To keep living voraciously through it all.

Susan and Cooper at Queeny Park. February 28, 2023