Terri was diagnosed in 1996 at the age of 32. I was ten at the time, and basically ignorant to the facts of life. As soon as people are born, they are destined to die. There is nothing to stop that, and all that people can do is hope their times do not come until late in life when they have accomplished everything they possibly could. For it seems those people have all the time to do what they want. But my aunt was not as lucky; she was in the prime of her life. She had three children and was happily married to the love of her life. She had a beautiful home and loving family members that she was very close to. She cherished every day she breathed, and then one day, it was all threatened to be taken away from her.

A routine doctor’s visit turned into one of dire need and fright. She had breast cancer. A lump that she found on her own turned out to be the worst thing possible for a woman. I do not know the details of that day, but I know it was the beginning of an eight-year downward spiral. Nothing could have prepared anyone for the news she brought home that day. She kept a smile on her face, even though I knew she was scared. Who wouldn’t be? Her life had just been threatened, and she didn’t think she would have had to worry about such things at the age of 32. All she worried about was what to make her children for their school lunches. Worry plagued her every moment of every day she had to fight.

But she fought, and damn it, she fought hard. She battled the breast cancer into remission for four years, and we all thought—and hoped—that it was over and done with. We could all move on with our lives knowing her own life was out of danger. But those four years passed quickly and the cancer had returned in another routine doctor’s visit. But the news was far from what she wanted to hear. The cancer had metastasized to the bones on her lower back, and the doctors detected a spot on one of her lungs as well. That explained the reason why it pained her to walk up her own stairs. She fought for breath after a mere fifteen stairs as if she had just finished running a marathon. But she didn’t let it get her down. She fought it again, succumbing to the chemotherapy treatments that immobilized her with sickness until she had no more energy to move on her own. But she continued, knowing it was the only thing at that time that could possibly save her life. She refused to give up, and all I could do was watch and hope.

Time continued and history repeated itself. The cancer came and went, giving Aunt Terri relapses of fright and relief interchangeably. But, God, nothing could have prepared her, or myself, for the final bout she had with this damn cancer. It moved to her liver, and there was nothing they could do. The chemotherapy was doing nothing to shrink the tumor found there, and she was just getting weaker and sicker. It was inevitable; she was going to die.

But no, I wouldn’t believe it. My family decided to take her to the beach one last time, one more vacation as a family. I didn’t go. Why? I didn’t believe she was dying, nor did I want to. I prayed silently to myself every night that everything was going to be fine, just like always. She was going to fight it and win. She was a human angel, gifted with strength and courage that only she could possibly have.

September 3, 2004 came quickly and hit me like a brick. I can’t even remember the phone call from my mother because I was in too much shock. All that rang in my head was the general outcome of the call. Terri was in the hospital, barely clinging to life. The doctors weren’t sure how much longer she would last, but they knew within the next few days, she would be dead for sure. There was nothing we could do but to keep her comfortable until the time came. No more smiling. No more laughter. No more chocolate chip cookies. No longer breathing. No longer alive. I couldn’t bear the thought of it! This was my bright Aunt Terri, always bringing happiness to every room she walked in. She was the light in the shadows, the laughter during the tears, the strength during the weakness.

Aunts, uncles, and cousins waited outside her hospital room for the same thing I did, when Terri would let go to life and drift off into the mystery of death. My mother ushered my younger brother and I into the hospital room and there she was, lying in the silence, except, of course, for the sickening raspy breathing that seemed to echo against the walls. I couldn’t breathe myself because of it.

I choked down a sob and swallowed the lump in my throat. Shivers went down my spine at the sight of her. Her skin was no longer the clean, peachy color that it was. It was yellow; jaundice had finally set in from her cancer-infected liver. She was dressed in a hospital robe with one skinny, yellow-patched hand clutched to her chest. Her lungs constricted with every breath, fighting the fluid that filled her. The doctors let it go; they figured there was no point to removing all of it if she was going to die anyway, and that made me want to blow the hospital sky-high. She was still a living, breathing person, and the woman I loved with every fiber of my being. She wasn’t just my aunt, she was my friend.

No words could describe how I felt seeing her that way. Emotions clashed within me, and I tried as hard as I could to be strong for her. I couldn’t let my guard down with her lying there fighting a losing battle. All I know was that I felt extremely powerless. Mortality had set in, and I knew at that very moment that everything I had denied up to that point had hit me like a pile of bricks. Yes, she was in pain, and yes, she was going to die, and it was going to be soon, too soon.

My uncle hugged me and thanked me for being there, as if he had to. But what else was he going to say, “Thanks for coming to see your aunt die?” Like hell, I thought to myself. It was by far the hardest thing I had ever had to do, and here I was, facing my greatest fear of all: death. It was staring straight up at me, laughing at how it had my frail aunt in its dirty, disgusting clutches. I couldn’t bear it, but I had to, for her.

My uncle called her name softly to get her attention; she didn’t know I was there. As soon as her name left his lips, her eyes shot open. As if things weren’t bad enough, the whites of her eyes were also yellow. In her deep chocolate depths, I saw nothing but fear and her last inkling of strength mixed into one. She wasn’t giving up, even though her death was upon her.

Her eyes connected with mine, and I let out a single sob before stopping myself. I gave my best fake smile to acknowledge her, and I asked her how she was doing. She opened her mouth, dry and void of any hydration, and cracked out a single answer.

“I could use a kiss.”

Oh God. How the hell was I still standing there remotely sane? All I could do was abide by her wish and bend down to kiss her, but I was actually afraid. I thought I could hurt her, so as soft as I could, I kissed her on the forehead, then on the cheek. But I know what I really wanted to do was take her into my arms and give her my strength so she could live, but I knew that was impossible. My soul screamed out at my inability to help her when she really needed it.

I didn’t move from my spot next to her side except to let my brother give her a kiss as well. As much as it hurt me to see her looking so frail, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The more I took in her form, the more I wanted to cry. I felt as if I was slowly dying inside, knowing that the harsh reality of life had hit me. God, how I needed to cry and curse at how unfair the situation was, I wanted to blink and wake up from this nightmare, but every time I blinked, I only kept back more tears.

I couldn’t say how long I stood there staring down at her. My uncle and mother engaged in conversation, but my eyes and attention stayed on Terri. The next thing I knew, my mother was leading me out of the room as if I were a zombie. The doctors had decided to relocate my aunt to a hospice where she could die more comfortably. We wanted her to go back home, but they refused. They said she would never make the trip that far. They also explained to us that by moving her to the hospice, they would be removing her from all the drugs save for morphine, which would basically put her life in God’s hands. All they could do was keep her out of pain and let her be with the people she loves, in her last moments.

The hospice was nice, but it wasn’t her home. The room was too small for us. We all wanted to be in there together, but it was too crowded, so we had to visit her in small groups. At one point, my father, who had divorced my mother five years prior, had shown up to see her. The look in her eyes when she saw my father after so long made me happy and distraught at the same time. Her eyes lit up, not at all expecting to see him. But she was ecstatic that he came to see her. My father had no idea how to react at seeing her the way she was. I had to turn away and hold my hand over my mouth, lest my sobs ring out in the silent room.

I walked out and waited for my father, who came minutes later. He was cursing under his breath and shaking his head; he was just as infuriated as I was. All he could do at that moment was hold me and let me cry until I could no longer breathe and stand on my own.

He left some time later, night slowly beginning to fall. The day was ending, and she was still alive. She professed to my mother and grandmother that she wasn’t going anywhere, that she would live on and fight as she always did. But they assured her it would be okay to let go, even if it would hurt us. All we wanted was for her pain to stop.

And we all stood that night before leaving, holding hands and circling her bed in prayer. We prayed for God to heal her body and give her a restful sleep, hoping that she would live another day.

But I didn’t pray the same. I was finally aware that she was going to die, that things were over. So while everyone else prayed for her to live another day, I prayed for God to take her in her sleep, painless and unaware, and fly her away to the clouds where she could watch over her children and keep them safe from afar.

When I awoke on September 4, 2004, God had granted my previous prayers for her. Terri had died in her sleep a little after four that morning. My mother had woken me hours later after returning from the hospice, giving me the news of my aunt’s death. I sobbed uncontrollably in her arms, saddened that I would no longer hear her voice or feel her warmth. Selfishly, I wanted her back, I wanted to take my prayer back. I wanted so much to have one more day with her, one more chance to tell her how much I loved her. I knew that when that one day was over I would want another and another. I had to let her go.

And now, three years later, even though her death was the hardest thing I have ever had to endure, I will never forget her smile. And I know that one day, I will be with her again, and I will get as many days as I want to spend with her: my aunt, my friend, my angel.