This Isn't Goodbye

We'd been going to California since I'd been a baby, and I honestly couldn't say I hated anything more then I hated going there. My dad's mother, Marie, sister, Dianne, and her long term boyfriend, Paul all lived out there. So every Thanksgiving and Easter I'd be forced to make the long travel from New York to sunny California. My Aunt was just something else. She'd say nasty things about me and treat me like I was a mentally retarded child. She once told me that I was such a disgrace that she didn't want me eating at her dinner table. I found my plate of food out on her patio next to her dogs dishes. I was seven then, now I'm turning eleven in a few months.
I didn't realize this trip was going to change the rest of my life. If someone told me this was going to happen before I got here, I would have laughed in their face. I never in a million years thought I'd ever want to stay in California longer. We arrived here one week and three days ago. Our visit was only supposed to be five days, but that doubled when three days into it; my life changed forever. We, and when I say we I mean my father, my mother, and I, all stay at my grandma's house. She lives in one of those retirement homes where all the houses are connected and you need a special pass to get in. I liked it in there because I could ride my scooter around all the connected sidewalks without having to worry about cars. Three days into our trip, I woke up and instantly knew something wasn't right. I wondered out of the den, where I slept on the couch and found my dad sitting on the couch with a newspaper in hand. The house felt empty, and my heart somehow knew why. "Where's mom?" My dad wasn't one for feelings, he was very harsh and didn't worry about how the things he said could hurt someone. Many conversations I have with him end in tears. "She fell in the shower this morning and broke her rib." He said it like it was nothing, but I knew there was something more. "When can she come home?" My dad wasn't a bad guy, I loved him. He always played with me and took me places; but he hated explaining things. "When they did an x-ray of her chest, they found something else. A dark spot in her lung." He looked up at me, "It's probably nothing, but they have to check it out anyway."
I was young, but not one of those kids that parents have to lie to. I expect to be told the truth, and I understand what's going on. Dark spots don't just appear in lungs. I stood there, waiting for him to say more; though I knew he wouldn't. "You didn't answer my question, when can she come home?" When my dad was worried, he was easily agitated, and I could tell I was making him even more mad. "They're doing the test tomorrow, and the results will be in the next day." That would be Monday, "She can come home then?" He sighed and put the paper down, "Depending on the results, yeah." My mom was a heavy women, and a life time smoker. They told us side effects of smoking in D.A.R.E. I didn't need him to spell it out for me. At the time, I was an optimistic, hopeful, naive child; and I truly in my heart believed things were going to be okay.
I got ready and my dad took me up to the hospital. I'd never been in one before this. I don't know what I was expecting, but the stark white walls and overly clean smell made me uncomfortable. My mom loved color and floral smells; this wasn't a place she should be. My dad spoke to the lady at the desk, then proceeded down the hallway. I trotted along beside him, smiling at an elderly lady wearing an oxygen mask in a wheelchair. I wondered if she was sick, or just here from old age. When my dad led me into my mothers room, the old lady left my mind. I wasn't sure what to say to her, and for the first time ever I didn't want to be standing there. My gut kept telling me things weren't going to end well, but I wasn't sure what the feeling meant at the time. I sat and watched television with her for awhile until my dad told me it was time to go. I couldn't wait to leave, and I eagerly said goodbye.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking of my mom, alone in that ugly hospital room. Was she lonely or scared? My mom couldn't be scared, she was the super glue to my life. She held everything together. I spent the rest of the night drawing pictures for my mom to hang in her room.
That morning, I was heartbroken when my father told me I couldn't bring her the pictures I made her. "She's getting her test done, and the doctor said she'll be to tired." Unidentifiable emotions ran through me that day, things I'd never felt before. I felt a deep sadness and for the first time, I didn't know what was going to happen. My dad wasn't the sympathetic type, so he wouldn't answer my questions or ease my worries. My lovely Aunt decided to "help take my mind off of things" and take me to get my nails done. I like dirt. I like playing sports and rolling around in the grass with my friends back home. Getting my nails done was torture for me. As if that wasn't bad enough, when I told her I wanted them done in dark blue or black; she threw a fit. "No niece of mine is going to be a fashion disaster." I left with Hot Pink nails
When she finally dropped me off back at my grandmas, I slammed the door behind me. My grandma Marie was sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, even though it was almost four in the afternoon. "Where's dad?" I asked her as I took the seat across from her at the table. "He went to work with your Uncle Paul." Uncle Paul was into construction. He'd buy properties, fix them up, then sell them for double. Whenever we came out here, my dad liked to tag alone and help. My grandma was eighty-four, and could still walk and drive on her own; though my dad always told me not to get in the car with her. "How's your mom doing?" I looked down at the table, "I can't see her today, but yesterday she seemed okay." She put her spoon down, "She could be really sick you know, Laura." This conversation had been looming over my head since yesterday. I knew she could be really sick, but she wasn't. Sick people looked sick. My mom was fine. "I know, but she's going to be okay." I didn't want to hear anymore, so I got up and took my scooter out onto the sidewalk and road around until I found a bench by the golf court.

That night, my dad hardly spoke. Tomorrow was the day we would get the test results. It was impossible to believe that just two days ago, my life had been completely and totally normal. Now the rest of my life was riding on tomorrow. I didn't want tomorrow to come. Again, I didn't sleep that night. I drew more pictures for my mom. I even made her a get well card, just in case. I made up my mind then that the test results didn't matter. No matter what they said, my mom would be okay. With that thought, I was able to find sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, my dad was already gone. Everything felt different though and I tried to ignore the ache that was deep in my stomach. I tried eating, but I couldn't. When my dad opened the door, the smell of bad news followed him. I knew, he didn't have to tell me. "She has lung cancer." For D.A.R.E., I did a research paper on lung cancer, and I knew it was a very aggressive cancer. But I also knew my mom was a fighter and a hero. If anyone could beat this, she could.

Our trip got extended a few more days, but we couldn't stay to much longer because my dad claimed I'd "fall behind in school." I spent a lot of time at the hospital with my mom, pretending like nothing was wrong. Everyone was pretending that nothing was wrong. I was always eager to get there and see her, and then I couldn't wait to leave every night. When the day finally came to leave, on the car ride to the hospital, my dad informed me that my mom wasn't coming back to New York with us yet. "Aunt Dianne is going to make sure she's okay and that she sees the best doctor in California. We don't have the money to pay for her to see someone in New York." The thought of leaving my mom with my devil of an aunt made me sick, but I knew he was right. She had a lot of money and time, The pent up sadness suddenly bubbled to the surface, and all at once I was hysterical. My dad hates when I cry, whenever I'd cry at home; he'd tell me to go in my room so he didn't have to hear me. So to say I was shocked when he started crying too, would be an understatement. "Is she ever going to come home?" I asked through my tears. He pulled over and I climbed across the divider and into his arms. "We can only hope."

When we'd both calmed down and made it to the hospital; the walk in felt like it was miles away. "Don't cry when we go in there, it'll just upset her more." Our flight was tomorrow morning, very early, so this was goodbye until she finally was able to come back to New York. I remembered the way to her room now, so when my dad stopped to go to the bathroom, I kept walking down the hall. I didn't knock when I came in, nor did I speak. I just sat down on the bed next to her. She smiled at me and I kissed her cheek gently. Thankfully, my dad saved me from having to talk when he walked in. We spent longer then usual with her that day, and I wish I knew then that it was the last time I'd see my mother healthy and well. I wish I knew I wouldn't have her as long as I should. I guess I always knew in my heart, but I just couldn't accept it.
When it was time to leave, though. I had no choice but to speak. I stood up and swallowed the tears that were seconds away from spilling over. Unfortunately, my mother wanted to walk us as far as she could to the exit. I didn't know if I could make it that far without crying, but how could I tell her no? My father had to help her up, and she seemed to have a little trouble walking. It made my heart sink a little more. I was not an affectionate child, but as the three of us walked down the hall in silence, I pushed between them and held onto both their hands. I was the link that held the three of us together, I had to be strong. The swinging doors seemed to be closer then usual, and I knew it was time to say goodbye. I turned and took a deep breathe, "I'll see you soon, mom." My voice shook, but I managed to smile up at her. She didn't reply and I was unable to stand there any longer. I let go of her hand, "Goodbye, I love you." She was the one who started crying first, and for some reason I couldn't. "Don't say goodbye. This isn't goodbye." I hugged her tightly, and my father kissed her. I hadn't seen him do that in a long time, and it made me even more sad. I took my fathers hand and we walked through the double doors, leaving my mothers face in the small window on the door.
Something made me look back, and she waved from the door; tears pouring down her cheeks. I cried again, a lot. I even tried running back to the doors. My dad dragged me out to the car, and instead of being mad, he cried again too. That image of my mothers face in that window is one that will be with me forever.

My mother did come make it back to New York again, three weeks after we did. She had no hair, lost a lot of weight, and could hardly eat. She made it another six months until she lost her battle, but she fought like a hero until the very end. Those six months were the hardest, and I grew up from being a child within them. She had seizures and many more hospital visits; and at some points she didn't even remember my name. The cancer spread, in spite of all the chemotherapy and radiation; she eventually developed brain cancer. She died four days after that. I remember the last time I saw her. She was in a coma, and all I could do is kiss her hand. "I don't know if you can hear me mom, but it's okay to let go. You gave it your best, and you'll always be my hero." I like to believe she could hear me when I said that, but I'll never know now. I remember wishing she was able to tell me one more time that this isn't goodbye, but I'd never hear my mother's voice again.

That was five years ago, I am sixteen now. When I stand over my mothers grave, one of the few things I can remember perfectly clear is her face in the small window on the hospital door the last time I saw her looking like my mom. She may have lost the battle in the long run, but she is nothing less then a hero. Still to this day, my friends parents tell me how amazing she was. My mom would've done anything for anyone, no questions asked. She wasn't perfect, but I would do anything to have her back. Five years later, I still wonder if she heard my last words to her. I wish I hadn't always been so eager to leave the hospital every night. I can only hope she passed on knowing that I loved her and would miss her until it was time for us to meet again someday.
My father hasn't cried since that day, I never went back to a hospital, and I never went back to California.