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It is impossible to deny that I was not as close to her as I should have been. I thought she was too loud. I thought she laughed too haughtily. I thought she was overweight. I thought she smiled far too often. But the more days pass and the more nights pass, I find that as the cells in her body reproduced too rapidly, I missed her loud voice when it decrescendoed to a pianissimo. I missed her haughty laugh when she could only let out a chuckle. I missed her squishiness when I walked into the hospital room and she’d lost so much weight. Her smile never went away though, and for that I am glad.
There were times I got so angry that I wanted to throw something. There were times when I watched myself bleed. There were times I held my stomach as I cried because I felt as though I were going to throw up, but none of those things brought her back.
My parents held hands the day of her funeral. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d held hands in front of my sister and I, but in the procession, their hands were clasped and resting on the empty cup holders. And my hands… My hand held my head up while the other toyed with the locket she’d given me.
I never took that locket off. Not when she was diagnosed, not when my mom warned me that she would be frail sitting on that hospital bed, and not after she died. Even now, it sits against my sternum, and even now I catch myself absentmindedly playing with it.
Sometimes, when I want to be closer to her, I hold the locket in one hand and reach upwards with the other, but there are too many layers between us. Ceilings, insulation, atmospheres, and layers I can’t even see.
I remember walking to English with a friend of mine and excitedly telling her that the summer was going to be big – I could feel it. Well, it was big alright, but it didn’t have the excitement I thought it would. Instead it held a shut-in and a hatred for the number 23 as well as for the month of June that would never dissipate. With every fiber of my being, I hate the cancer that ripped her away from me, the cancer that less than one percent of Americans get… and a saint like her had to be enveloped in that small number.
And there was nothing they could do but wait for her last breath.
There were times I got so angry that I wanted to throw something. There were times when I watched myself bleed. There were times I held my stomach as I cried because I felt as though I were going to throw up, but none of those things brought her back.
My parents held hands the day of her funeral. I couldn’t remember the last time they’d held hands in front of my sister and I, but in the procession, their hands were clasped and resting on the empty cup holders. And my hands… My hand held my head up while the other toyed with the locket she’d given me.
I never took that locket off. Not when she was diagnosed, not when my mom warned me that she would be frail sitting on that hospital bed, and not after she died. Even now, it sits against my sternum, and even now I catch myself absentmindedly playing with it.
Sometimes, when I want to be closer to her, I hold the locket in one hand and reach upwards with the other, but there are too many layers between us. Ceilings, insulation, atmospheres, and layers I can’t even see.
I remember walking to English with a friend of mine and excitedly telling her that the summer was going to be big – I could feel it. Well, it was big alright, but it didn’t have the excitement I thought it would. Instead it held a shut-in and a hatred for the number 23 as well as for the month of June that would never dissipate. With every fiber of my being, I hate the cancer that ripped her away from me, the cancer that less than one percent of Americans get… and a saint like her had to be enveloped in that small number.
And there was nothing they could do but wait for her last breath.
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Do not read Looking For Alaska at 11:37pm, because it will make you feel guilty about things you had absolutely no control over, and it will make you miss people and hope to never miss people in that way.
And whatever you do, don't do the above while reading The Fault In Our Stars, because when the murderer is cancer, the emotions are intensified at least 70%
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I know I never got to meet her, but I love your Aunt Betty because you loved her and she loved you. I'm sure she is looking down on you from Heaven and is proud of the beautiful, extraordinary person you have become!
Love you!
Love you!