Not enough, too late

Hey you.

The last time I saw you was two days ago. March 16th. Two days after my birthday. By the way, you didn’t send me a card this year. First time in like, ever. Unlike me, who never remembers to send you or anyone a fucking birthday card. You had an excuse. I never do. In the future, I’m going to send out god damned birthday cards, anniversary cards, Easter cards, Secretary’s day cards. I am going to try to be more thoughtful, like you. But I’m telling you now, I will never come close. But I will try.

You died this morning. If I’d known you were going to slip out like that, I would have been there last night with you. I’m sorry for that. I was planning to come this morning and then Dad called. I was too late. You went so, so fast once they told you how sick you really were. You weren’t ready, I know. I am so incredibly sorry for that. I wasn’t ready either, not that that fucking matters one bit.

I want you to know I’m writing this to you because part of me believes you can still see it. I am trying to nurture that part of me, but I admit it isn’t easy. The older I get, the harder it is. If you can give me any kind of sign, that’d be great. I will try to be open for it. But I’m sure if you still exist in some form where you can actually read this, you’ve got better things to do. Like not be sick for the first time in six and a half years. Like watch out for that little girl of yours here.

I know leaving her was the worst part for you. I know it was. I want to puke every time I imagine that hell for you. So badly I wanted to tell you, she’s going to be all right. She will never forget you, I promise. She is going to make it through this. Kids have a way. They are fucking magic. They can endure and they go on, even when we can’t. I will do whatever I can to ensure that she does. This I promise. But I couldn’t tell you, because we didn’t ever talk about you dying. Not even two days ago when we knew it was coming. This is probably my biggest regret right now, believe it or not, that you were dying and we didn’t talk about it. I thought it was because that’s what you wanted. I will never know.

The last time I saw you, you were propped up on pillows in bed. I told you I had a cold and I didn’t want to breathe on you. How fucking stupid that seems now. I should have bear hugged you. I didn’t know I wouldn’t get another chance. I didn’t want to make you sicker. I didn’t want to hurt you. The last thing I did for you was swab a little vaseline in your nose where that fucking oxygen tubing was irritating you. My last big sisterly act. Pretty fucking lame, if you ask me. But I’m going to hold onto that moment forever. The last thing I ever did for you, however lame it was. It wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.

I asked you, “Do you want to talk about anything?”

You looked at me with the blankest of expressions. For a minute I didn’t know if you understood the question. Then you quietly said,

“No.”

“Do you want anything?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you want company?” Pause.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to see anyone in particular?”

Blank stare.

This was the sum total of our last conversation. Downstairs, out of your earshot, the hospice nurse told us, “She’s slipping fast. By this time next week she’ll probably be in a coma. Now’s the time for people to come say their goodbyes.”

But how could I say goodbye? I couldn’t do it. I thought I’d have another chance. I thought by next week it would be too late, not by this morning. I was fucking wrong, wasn’t I?

I remember when we used to talk about the cancer. Back when you were scared but there were still options. Things that could be done. Back when you had a fighting chance. Oh my God, did you fight. So hard you fought. With everything you had. They gave you so much chemotherapy they wiped out your kidneys for good. “Sorry, we can’t give you any more, ever again, or it will kill you.” Fucking hell. Then you got leukemia. Jesus. But you beat it! I remember how we talked then, how you fought the big, tough, scary questions. I remember holding your hand, crying with you. But then a corner was turned. The terminal corner. And you didn’t want to talk about it anymore. And I tried to respect that. I tried to understand that you just didn’t want to think about something you could do nothing about. So I didn’t say anything about it, about the inevitable, about this shit right here, ever again.

I don’t know if that was the right thing to do or not, but I want you to know, I would have cried with you, I would have been afraid but I would have stayed by your side and faced it down with you if I thought that’s what you wanted. But that’s not what happened. And I am sorry if you wanted that but couldn’t ask. I’m sorry if I should have known to just bring it up and didn’t. I will never know.

Look, I have a lot more to tell you. This isn’t even the most important thing, but it’s the thing that’s consuming me ever since this morning. This deal of not saying, not doing enough for you to help you have a better death. You had a terrible death, I know. You will not ever know how incredibly sorry I am for that. How much I wish I could have done something, anything besides slip a little petroleum jelly up your nose, to make the end of your life less agonizing than it was. I am sure now that your suffering in the end is going to haunt me much longer than your death.

Kid, someday I will tell you how much I am going to miss you, how much you mean to me, how much I appreciate all that you were, all that you’ve done to make my world a better place, but at that point I will have to be ready to say goodbye, and I’m sorry but I’m still not there. I know. I’m late, as usual.

I’m sorry.