This is Dedicated to You - Lauren Nicolella

This is Dedicated to You

To be completely honest, 2017 was the most difficult year of my life. That’s really saying something because I genuinely thought that my days in middle school had taken that spot. Valentine’s Day is usually supposed to be a day filled with love and positivity, but all I got was bad news and unavailable heart-shaped donuts. I was prepared to hand my mom the roses I had received at school, but when I walked in my house, there was unexpected and terrible news.  To sum up the rest of that day, I now have a larger hatred towards cigarettes.  

At that point I really had no idea what I was about to experience. I knew what was going to come, but the false hope along the way was incredibly unnecessary and cruel to my family. I constantly had the thought floating around in my mind, she survived breast cancer before, actually, twice, so she’ll be able to fight through this too. I always knew she was strong. I thought that she was going to be okay, so I believed that her strength would shine through once more. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I think that still continues to be the main reason of why I get upset when I think about the whole journey: she no longer had the fight in her. That’s what hurts the most.

My mom would always try to attend as many appointments with her as possible, so she could report back to my family about what had happened. At one point she was given a confident, “Just about 50% of the tumor is all gone!” from the doctor. I’m still angry about this. You’re a doctor, someone who is supposed to be specialized in helping people, but all you did was give us all wrong information and a wrong sense of hope in exchange for our money. I hope you felt guilty while telling her that when it absolutely was not true.

The sound that would come out of her mouth every other minute or so replicated every exaggerated smoker cough because the years of chain smoking cigarettes had finally caught up to her. Her eyes drooped, and perked up when something decided to forcefully exit her lungs. The arm that covered her mouth was wrapped with icy veins that showcased skin and bones that did not suit the sudden lack of fat. “I wanted to lose weight, but definitely not this way.” When her body became more frail and sickly due to the multiple chemotherapy sessions, all of her hair had been gone by then. She looked like an entirely different person. I guess I never really realized the huge difference until the middle of her journey. I can’t even imagine what it was like to wake up after having multiple chemo treatments. I’m sure it was absolutely horrible. I’m so sorry you had to go through that, and it didn’t even up paying off in the end.

“I read an article about a woman who was forced to take her garment off for her license photo. I can’t go like this. If I recover, there will be no way for people to recognize me.” My aunt explained to me how she was due for a new photo, and by that time she barely had any fuzz on top of her head. She bought head wraps in every color. She wanted to be able to match with her outfits and not feel too insecure about herself. Her frail hand reached along the table, grabbing her ID while her other hand clutched a tissue for whenever she coughed. My eyes shifted over to the pea green nightshirt hung low on her shoulder, revealing bones that had never been that visible before. I didn’t want to stare too long, so I shifted my attention back towards the flower place settings on her dining table.  

“Here’s my old one.” I lifted my head back up, unexpected tears forming in my eyes after I stared at my aunt’s transformation. It truly was heartbreaking to see the shocking change. On the left was a slight smile with rounder cheeks, a signature grey short haircut, with dangling earrings to top it all off. The person on the right was entirely different, and she took a slow slip of her ginger-ale while setting it back down onto the table. She wore the same glasses for years, but they suddenly looked to be abnormally large for her face. I rapidly blinked my tears away, taking a deep breath in. That night I asked my mom if she noticed it too, and she did.

The amount of times I picked at the raw skin on my thumbs at her funeral was unable to be counted. It was awkward, and I was stressed. It was two days before my birthday and it was utterly depressing. I didn’t want to hear birthday wishes at my great aunt’s funeral, I wanted to hear her sing to me through the phone and be able to expect an early card in the mail. That was her thing: she always sent everyone cards for their birthdays and Christmas. When my mom had handed me a yellow envelope the night of my birthday, I crawled into my bed and bawled my eyes out. I kept it right next to my bed, tucked right under my CD player. It’s always the thought that counts. My aunt was sick and still kept my birthday in mind no matter how terrible she felt, and that absolutely ruins me. I can only hope that I will strive to be that kind and thoughtful. The next morning I could barely open my eyes. The top lids were so puffed out I could barely recognize myself when I looked in the mirror. My hands reached up to slightly pull at my undereyes while inching closer to the mirror, the purple veins being more present than ever before.

Speaking of being kind and thoughtful, that was the complete opposite case for my cousins, and even my uncle. “Oh, so I guess you’re the special one.” I stood in the middle of the church with folded arms, a slight scowl formed on my face. I decided to not respond, because of course they always have something to say. And so what if I am? I was there to visit and help her out, where were you? To this day, it still makes me irritated that they even had the nerve to act so insensitive towards me. She specifically asked me to go with her to work, and asked me to help with things around her house. I tried to block that out because it isn’t what matters at this point. I know I did something good, and I’m not going to let the words of others take that feeling away.

Attending school immediately became something that was a struggle for me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, only those who I really trusted. Even then I felt like I was a bit of a bother, regardless of all the times my friends told me it was completely fine to release my emotions. It didn’t help that I have a really guilty conscience about everything. My mind constantly felt empty and soon there became a lack of motivation and a constant state of unhappiness. I grasped onto little things that would make me feel better, music being a huge outlet. Although it helped me temporarily, I still felt like I was dragging myself around with a rain cloud over my head. I never used to fall asleep around 8 o’clock, but there I was doing it multiple nights a week. I was tired of not only being in school, but being forced to socialize, of constantly being sad and emotionally exhausted. I kept being questioned by my mom, but I never really wanted to answer and say why I was upset. I always answered with a monotone, “I’m just tired.” That wasn’t exactly a lie, but I really didn’t feel like getting into a whole discussion with her about the situation.

To this day, I still feel the same way but not as extreme. I knew the consequences of being around to support my aunt, but it never fully occurred to me until the moment finally came. It was bittersweet; she no longer had to suffer, but it opened a new thought process I had never experienced before. This was the first time I’ve had a chance to fully process the whole journey of what has happened, and little pieces of her are everywhere I go. Jewelry, furniture, photographs, recordings. I face every single day with negative thoughts and constant stresses, but they’re slowly becoming less and less as I attempt to become more optimistic and positive about situations. Remembering the good times and having physical remembrances has reminded me to not only treat people with kindness, but to also not take what I have for granted. Everyday I am attempting to build up my strength towards the level she had. I hope she’s proud of me.