The Last Goodbye

The Last Goodbye

      To a kid, "sick" is something that keeps you inside when all of your friends are outside playing tag and having water balloon fights. "Sick" is something cruel and unusual that taunts us with sunshine and distant wisps of laughter while we sit with our noses pressed to the window screen. "Sick" is when our moms tuck us into our beds and bring us steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup and tall glasses of orange juice, and "sick" is something that shuts us in our house for a few days, and then releases us, fresh and rejuvenated, into the world.
      Nobody ever told me that sometimes "sick" actually means "say goodbye now." I was nine years old when my parents told me that my aunt was "sick". They never explained to me that it meant time was running out. They never explained why she suddenly lost so much weight or why she was wearing a wig. The laughter that once lived in her eyes had disappeared and she was constantly tired, but all they ever told me was that she was "sick". I didn't even know what cancer was. For all I knew, it was a severe case of the sniffles or an upset tummy.
      One of the last times we visited my aunt was when I began to understand that this "sick" was different. Instead of filling the room with laughter by telling jokes that I was too young to understand, my aunt sat on the couch in an old nightgown, mumbling quiet responses to the questions my parents asked in loud, would-be cheerful voices. At one point, my mom plopped me on my aunt's lap and told me to tell her about my latest peewee soccer game. I did, and throughout my thrilling play-by-play, my aunt stared at me with a bewildered expression. When I was through, she looked at me a moment longer and asked, "Who are you?"
      I didn't understand the question. She knew who I was. Holly. Her niece. The one she used to sit on the floor and sculpt haphazard dogs out of Play-Doh with. I was the one who mailed her pictures carefully colored in art class, the one whose finger-painted artwork covered the lower half of the fridge in her kitchen. She was the one who had given me the finger paints, much to the delight of my dad-her baby brother. "Relax, Tommy." She was the only one that ever got away with calling him that. "Kids are supposed to make messes." Then she sat at the table with me and watched while I painted masterpiece after beautiful masterpiece. I didn't understand why she couldn't remember all that-especially when I always signed my pictures, "Love, Holly," in my giant, crooked handwriting.
      My mom cried quietly in the car on the way home that day. I was confused, and seeing her cry scared me. "Your aunt is sick." I knew that. I needed to know more. I wanted to help. Despite my growing sense that this "sick" was something much more sinister, I suggested that maybe if we brought her some orange juice she might feel better. My mom cried harder after that.

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      Sunday morning always meant a big breakfast in my house. Everyone got up early and helped with the meal. Mom and Dad cooked the food, while my sister and I set the table, buttered the toast, and poured the juice. Then we all sat and ate together while my dad read parts of paper out loud to us. It was during one of these picturesque Sunday breakfasts that we got the call. "It's over," my dad said after hanging up. "She's in a better place now."
      Until that day, nobody ever told me she was going to die. I didn't really get to say goodbye-not the way I would have if I had known what was coming. I would have told her that the finger paints were the best birthday gift I'd ever gotten. I would have said that her Play-Doh dogs were better than mine. I would have asked her to tell me more stories about making my dad wear dresses before he got big enough to fight back. Most importantly, I would have made sure she knew that I loved her very much, and that I hoped to someday be just like her.