Friday morning we waited in my aunt’s car—me, my cousin Remi, and my dad—in one of the rare parking lots you find in the cemented world of New York City. My aunt Emilie and cousin Sofia went into Trader Joe’s to pick up the wonderful unleavened products for Passover.

My fingers continuously tapped the tinted window as my cousin flicked through New York radio pop stations in hopes that a pop star would one day develop an astounding song. “Just warning you, Amy looks like s***,” Remi’s indifferent tone was disturbing.

“Oh really?” Was my dad’s attempt to continue this conversation. I just put my headphones in and raised the volume of my alternative rock music.
…
As we walked into the rather modern style building that did not quite fit in with the 1940s vibe of Bay Ridge’s old brick houses, I couldn't help but think no child should have to enter through this door.

The smell of cleanliness greeted us as we walked in. But not the cleanliness of visiting your neat-freak grandmother’s house, rather the sterile smell of the doctor’s office.

Upon entering my aunt’s room the second thing I noticed was a huge window facing the glistening water that tricked the eye into thinking it was a glorious summer day, instead of a cold day in early April, just weeks before my 17th birthday. The first thing I noticed was my aunt Amy. She did not “look like s***” as Remi had said, but I still found myself biting my lip and crushing my tongue to prevent streams from rolling down my cheeks. Though her cheekbones protruded much more than when I saw her seven months ago, and her grey hair convinced many she was my mom’s mom instead of her twin, her warm smile nearly hid the desperate hope of a stage four cancer patient, and she looked just like Amy. Perhaps my urge to cry came from the fact that I'd seen her so healthy and it was so shocking, so unsettling, to see how ruthless cancer could be.

Standing just before the foot of the hospice bed I smiled, and when Amy returned the gesture I went and sat by her while my father attempted to catch up on the past several months without tiring her. In the corner of the room was a corkboard filled with pictures of Amy with family and friends. At least those memories would survive. I examined the pictures closely and when the water swelled my eyes I awkwardly side walked like a crab to avoid eye contact with Amy. She suffered enough without having to see my sorrow. I looked out the window, though I could no longer see the sparkling water outside as my own tears blurred the view.

My mom, who rightfully abandoned my father and I with a one way ticket to New York several weeks prior, brought me out of the room and around the corner to a playroom, an unfortunate area to be built in a hospice. The hyperventilating began, then the torrential downpour of tears, and lastly, the unreal feeling that so often accompanies death tore into my chest and stomach leaving me fragmented.

The most devastating feeling had nothing to do with any physical aching. It was the realization of whom my tears were for. For months I wondered how my 11 and 23 year old cousins would cope with the death of their mother, how my grandmother would face losing her daughter, how my mom could live after departing from her twin. Now, however, my empathetic tears were replaced with more selfish ones.

Saturday I was the designated distraction, requested to play Wii with Sofia, the younger of Amy’s children. Any moment I had in Amy’s room I made sure to have a cup of warm black tea in my hands, as if sipping it would prevent my voice from wailing. One moment I had alone with Amy in which she begged me to care for Sofia. Later she told Sofia about plans they had started but “mommy might not be able to finish.” Amy's weak words reminded Sofia if she's having a bad day that she must say “it's just a bad day and it’ll get better.” My tea was unfortunately empty at this moment and I could not help taking extra long to make my next cup, avoiding the end of Amy’s discussion with her daughter.

Later that day, Sofia asked Amy to brush her hair. Quite soon Amy could no longer lift the brush and pull through Sofia’s thick, brown curls. At 11 years old my cousin would lose the opportunity to have her mom brush her hair—a luxury I never even noticed. Amy whispered that she prays for a miracle everyday. At this point I had to go make what must’ve been my hundredth cup of black tea that day. It’s too hard to watch someone who wants nothing more than to live as she dies. These tears were for Amy this time.

Sunday morning, when I was leaving, was the worst. My mom asked Amy if it was okay that my dad and I were leaving. She cried “no,” and her face transformed into the face I made in elementary school when I couldn’t buy ice cream from Mr. Softee’s ice cream truck, or couldn’t extend a play-date to a sleepover. However, as if a fit was just too much effort, she fell asleep. Down the elevator I went. I forgot my coat. Back up the elevator. Amy was so peacefully asleep. I wished that she’d wake up for just one more conversation. I left.

On the plane home I recounted the weekend. Many people often joked about how Amy would never stop talking. Which is half true. I recalled that one night a nurse came in to give a high dose of painkiller. Amy panicked, fearing that she wouldn’t awake. A fear I somehow related to, maybe from all the times I’ve had anesthesia, or perhaps the nightmares in which bombs in New York City separate me from my family, leaving me all alone. Many people often joked about how Amy would never stop talking. Which is half true. Because when Amy was not talking, her contagious laughter spread through the air. Unfortunately, cancer mimicked her laugh.

With almost a year passing since Amy’s death, my 18th birthday being the marker, most days end with a genuine smile. Most days Amy’s absence does not pain me like it does my mother, as my eyes often hide in an AP Euro or Comparative Politics textbook. Some nights though, reality hits me like a car crash—too quick to have prepared for the impact. And all at once I want to be back at the hospice, sipping more tea than I knew I could, yet too little to comfort one surrounded by death. I want to wake her up for just one more conversation.