Dear younger Alana, I’m going to tell you something you need to know. This is a lesson I learned from a very hard moment in my life. Right now you don’t realize how serious the situation is and carry on with your life like it’s no big issue. You think it will pass, as everything does. But it doesn’t. It gets worse.
It turns into your mom making almost daily trips to the hospital. You are trying your best to comfort her, while trying to understand the situation. Then just like that, it turns into that one night. You are out of school on the way home. Then you get a call from your mom. You’re told that due to critical conditions this might be the last chance to see your family member. A normal school night absolutely changes course to a new unknown world. You walk into the building not knowing what to think. You step in the elevator, step out, turn left, walk through the hall. You see and greet your family members. It’s time. You then step into the room. You see a chair at the back of the room and take a seat. Finally settled, you lift your head up and see her, and just like that you are slapped with reality. You feel a heavy weight plummet. Your heart, your breathing, your body, all feel so heavy. When you see her, you can do nothing but stare. You stare at someone who is fighting for their life. Someone who is struggling to breathe. Someone that you can’t talk to or comfort. So all you do is stare. You don’t know what else to do.
Time begins to pass. More people start to enter the room. You’re told to go with your cousins to go get some food, but none of you feel hungry, so leave the cafeteria with nothing. You haven’t seen them in a while, so you catch up like any normal family greeting. But then again approach the hall, the room. Where everyone’s mood changes almost immediately. You no longer talk but only have glances at each other. You eventually get hungry and eat as the hours pass. You see more people come to see someone they cared for. People with red, pale, faces. More tears and hugging. It all feels unreal. Her favorite music played behind her and everyone gathered staring. She had everyone’s attention. Her breathing becomes worse. Slower, heavier, louder. Nurses come in to check on her, give her medicine to keep fighting. You feel, you know something is approaching. Silent, you continuously sit and stare. The nurses come in again. The music is shut off. The lights in hospital halls begin to shut off. Visiting hours ended hours ago. Some start to tell stories of her and remember the times of joy they spent with her. Everyone laughs remembering her humor and her personality. Yet silence follows instantly after. Her breathing worsens again. Long gasps for life. It hits you what is about to happen. You start tearing up. Finally you accept and embrace what everyone else does. You allow yourself to show your feelings. The energy of the room is strong. The nurse comes in again. Leaning on your mom, you’re sitting by the doorway, your dad behind you. Everyone’s eyes peeled to the looming light of the room. Then, everyone sinks. You feel something that you have never felt before. An indescribable, deep, empty, hollow feeling. Your body is so heavy yet so light at the same time. Tears pour from your eyes. Now you’re covered by the dim lights of the hospital hall and your mom’s embrace as you sob. That person you knew and you loved was now gone. Took their last breath. Fought as hard as they could. That person you would not be able to see in person or talk to. They were gone.
After that draining sorrowful night, you start to think a lot. You were glad to have the opportunity to spend their last moments with them. You would remember when they were here and all the times they showed up for you. As glad as you were, you never actually appreciated that they showed up. Naturally, you assumed they would always be there to cheer you on. You’ll realize that you barely talked to the person that is now gone. Didn’t get them as well as you should have. All and more, you wish, you hoped, you had.
Weeks later, you are at her celebration of life. She didn’t want anyone to be mournful or sad, at a funeral looking at what’s lost. My Tia Angie wanted people to appreciate and celebrate the life they have. Be with family, look at old photos, reminisce, laugh. Puerto Rican food, house music, people she loves, powerful quotes, big bold colors, her favorite. Looking at the photos and standing in that room, you see the impact they had on so many people. You perceive how important she was and how bright she shined.
My advice to my younger self is to appreciate the people in your life that support and care for you. Cherish the happy moments you share and don’t be afraid to tell that person what you feel. Something that I should have known better then: don’t take your family for granted. Even if you’re not close with them. Build that connection, get to know them, make an impact. Give them your all if you love them and they love you.
Alana Guebara-Rios – Francis W. Parker School – DMSF Class of 2029
Photo Credit: Alana Guebara-Rios