September 27

Suzi’s death was the most intimate part of our relationship. More than a decade younger than Mama, Suzi was both my aunt and my second big sister. A generation looped back around to connect sister to sister to niece in a daisy chain. We both loved movies, music, make up, and jewelry. She confided in me about her unrequited lifelong love and sat earnestly through my stories of high school wanderlust. When I slept over at her house, she told tell me stories about my grandfather’s comedy act with the Lion’s Club and the creepy guy who stalked her at the swimming pool. Always, I drove us to a restaurant for dinner then the cinema for a new release. Suzi never learned to drive. 

When I graduated from college, she sent me a catalog and a gift voucher. “You can pick anything you like from this catalog,” she explained proudly in the card. “Anything! Isn’t that great?” She didn’t make much money at the library, and I knew she wanted the gift to be special – something I would love. All summer, I waited tables and stayed up late with friends in the mountains near school. For months, I kept the catalog on my bedside table, but did not choose a gift, pick up the phone, or send a thank you card. 

“Samantha, I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t call me,” she said through the phone in August. “It’s not like you to just disappear like that.” It was my birthday. 

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t chosen a gift, and I felt bad. I guess I figured it was easier not to call. I thought you might think I didn’t like the gift, but I did. I do!” I said with a little too much enthusiasm. 

The truth was somewhere in between; her gift and her words made me feel a little too much. The openness between us was like a river bed – a wide, open space that could divide the mountains or carry through life. When we connected, our emotions flowed with the rapids. In my weaker moments, it felt like drowning. Her gift was the nicest thing she had ever given to me; the tenderness in that moment ached like a fresh bruise I couldn’t bear to touch.

—

The morning of her operation to remove the two tumors in her colon (“George and Gracie,” she called them), I set up camp with Mama in the waiting room. I was terrified, but somehow the closeness of this moment was workable – maybe because I was a few years older, or maybe because sympathy is easier to understand than love. When the doctors came out way too soon, we went blank. They opened her up to find tiny cancer spots all over her stomach. Nothing more to do. 

“Is she awake?” we asked. 

“No. She will be soon, though. We think it will be best if you all are there when she wakes up. You can tell her the news. It will be better coming from family.” 

I looked at Mama, confused. He’s the doctor, I thought. I guess this is standard procedure, but Jesus, what are we supposed to say? 

Suzi was in cramped recovery bay just starting to stir. Carefully choosing her words, Mama told her that her cancer had sprouted little seed tumors in her stomach, and they couldn’t be removed. George and Gracie were still there, too. Suzi began to cry. Seed tumor was such a gentle name for something so malicious. There was no new beginning, no new life sprouting in her belly.  

“I just want some ice cream,” Suzi said, slowly. “Chocolate, soft-serve ice cream. In a cone.” '

An hour later, at the diner near the hospital, we sat dazed. My cousin Frank tried to crack some jokes to lighten the mood as we waited for food. Suzi loved his dark humor most of the time. Today, it fell flat. Even the ice cream machine was broken. Nothing we can do. 

—
It’s a strange experience to be adjacent to a dying person. Standing with them, you see every moment ticking by – thoughts unexpressed, trips not taken, artwork not painted all float past like clouds you can touch but not grasp. In the Spring, Suzi, who did not drive or own a car, installed a beautiful new asphalt driveway leading back to her garden. 

“Why in the world would she put in a driveway, Mama?” I asked. “I just don’t understand.”

“Well, maybe she figures she can’t die if she’s in the middle of something. It makes sense, in a way, doesn’t it? Keep life going so it can’t stop.” Mama always had a way of making sense of things. It might have been the years of studying religion or a lifetime studying Suzi. As kids, Mama spent most of her teen years with Suzi by her side. “Suzi was more my baby than my baby sister,” she would joke.  

By Fall, Suzi was weak and in pain. She had spent her life insurance on an experimental treatment that only offered a month of reprieve followed by a slow decline. The day after Thanksgiving, I left my in-laws early to be with her in the hospital. 

“Samantha, can you please rub some lotion on my legs?” she said as she lay in the hospital bed. She was always so vulnerable; I admired her ability to crack herself wide open and pour out stories and paintings so personal and rich. But this physical weakness, this was different. I took out the lotion and rubbed it along her shins and feet. I did not want to leave her, and I did not want her to leave.  

Suzi died two weeks later in the hospital with Mama and Frank by her side. “It’s over,” Mama said when she called me at work that afternoon. I always thought I would know the moment she died – see a flash of light, feel a pang in my gut or something – but there was only Mama’s steady voice. She was just, simply, gone. A burning slid up through my chest and filled my throat. The pain ached, and I leaned in.