Do you have to go? A blog on losing a loved one

Ari, myself (middle) and Jinette at the end pregnant with Kammie - May 2011

“Do you have to go? “ I remember asking Jinette the day she told me she was moving to Texas.   

“Yeah I do cuz.” She responded.    

We always called each other “cuz” a shortened form of cousin. I asked why she had to move. She explained that the cost of living was better, that she would launch her teaching career in Texas and that she wanted her daughter to grow up in open air and not in New York.  

Listening to her go into the details of why she was moving, I knew that her mind was made up. Jinette never made a decision that wasn’t well thought out, planned and executed.         

“Well at least let me know when you’re leaving so I can say goodbye.”          

“We don’t do goodbyes cuz. I’ll let you know that you’ll be seeing me and Kammie later.”        

Jinette and I are cousins. Daughters of cousins so I guess that makes us second cousins. She was always more like a sister. Growing up we often times slept in the same bed, shared each other’s clothes and kept one another’s secrets. We had similar thoughts, views and opinions on so many things and were symbiotic in our relationship. One day I realized just how alike she and I were.        

In my early twenties I found myself in a long term relationship with the man that would later father my first child, so as a testament to my love for him I tattooed his name on my hip. I instantly regretted it. I didn’t show anyone afraid that they would call me stupid or judge me. I painstakingly kept it hidden. It was the summer when tank tops, two pieces and booty shorts reigned supreme, so this was no easy task.  

Finally, I decided that I didn’t care who knew about my body art. I came home from work one day and found my younger sister Alvina and Jinette sitting in the living room watching music videos.   

“Look” I told Jinette and Alvina sneakily. I pulled down my pants over my hips and showed them the name I had inked there.    

They started laughing.  

Thinking that they were laughing at my stupidity I instantly became offended.           

“What’s so funny?” I asked. Upset that I didn’t impress them with the permanent display of my rebellion and love. 

They both stood up and pulled down their pants. Both had new tattoos of their own. In the same spot on their hips. We laughed hysterically at the coincidence. Cousins and sisters so alike that we all had, on our own went out and gotten tattoos in the same spot.           

Once we conquered body ink we took the dive into motherhood together. We all had children within months of each other. It was like a domino effect. First Alvina became pregnant, I soon followed and less than a few months after I had given birth Jinette became pregnant with her daughter Kammie. One of my favorite moments with Jinette actually happened when she was around six months pregnant. We took a trip to the beach. The laughs we had that day have yet to be duplicated. Navigating sand, sun and 95 degree weather heavily pregnant with wedge sandals on is no easy task, but she did it with ease, grace and a little help from me and her friend Ari.    

When she moved to Texas it was sad for everyone. But, even though she had moved thousands of miles away the fun times still continued. Jinette was the most independent woman that I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. She taught herself to drive took the proper licensing exam and soon after would make her annual trek from Texas to New York, usually around Mothers day. We always made sure we saw each other. Taking our kids to the zoo, to the park or even to Brunch. Those were the good times.                  

Jinette was an open book. “Ask me a question, I’ll tell you no lies” was the motto that she lived by. She was telling it how it is before it became popular to do so. Even so she was always a private person. We saw this when she became sick. At first, she didn’t tell anybody what was going on. She coped with her sickness for months before her mom discovered it and made her move back to New York from Texas. Once relocated back to New York she soldiered on through her life as if everything was normal. And to her, it was. Being strong so others didn’t have to feel weak in the face of her condition was her normal. She loved us so much she wanted to spare us her situation. Spare us the tears we all shed when we first saw her in the hospital. She wanted to spare herself too. Spare herself of seeing the sadness in our eyes. Spare herself the endless questions that neither she or the doctors could answer. She wanted to spare herself having to think of her own mortality. Life became so fragile to me those few months that she was sick. Every phone call scared me, if she didn’t answer her phone when I called I feared the worse. I found myself crying at every turn. I was scared to lose my cousin.        

Then she got better. We called it a miracle. Our other cousins, my sister and I started making plans. All the cousins were going to surprise her with an appreciation party. We were in full party planning mode. We secured a location, saved the date and started brainstorming ideas. Excited to excite her and see the look on her face when she saw the love her cousins felt for her. She came over to my home the Saturday before she passed. Her, my aunt and her six year old daughter. We played cards, ate cake, food and caught up. Everything was back to normal! When she left I hugged her as tight as I could without inflicting any pain to her fragile frame.        

“See you later cuz” she said as they got in the car. 

Every call or text I got from her phone that week after I saw her last, I greedily answered, excusing myself from meetings or conversations to make time to savor her voice. I told her how proud I was of her. How much I admired her strength and resilience in the face of her sickness. Damn, she was strong. We ended every call or text with “speak to you soon” or “see you later” 

Then one day, later didn’t come. 

We never got to surprise her. Instead she surprised us. She died in the middle of the night. On a night none of us expected. She left us in the cloak of darkness. A complete contrast to how she lived her life in the light. It makes me sad thinking about the what if’s. Looking back at pictures of us at the beach I wish I had a time machine to go back. I worry for her daughter, her mother and father and brothers who loss more than I have. This situation has brought our family closer together. I wish it didn’t have to happen for that to be the case.  

It’s been less than a week since she’s been gone but it feels like eternity. I miss her everyday. The pain is extreme. The sadness is all enveloping. I find myself starting text messages to her, about to press send, then stopping myself and crying. Even with all the tears I’ve cried, I’ve found comfort. I know that life is fragile and delicate but I know that when she was alive, she embraced life. She accepted her fate with strength and an attitude of great bravery. She prepared herself and her daughter in her own way as much as one could. She told us to be strong. She knew we’d need the strength.    

My brave sweet cousin hated goodbyes, so I’ll take a page out of her book and say “I’ll see you later. I’ll even add “I can’t wait.” 

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