Cartilage
(What I Learned from Andrea)

Hours. We’ve been driving for hours through the foreboding night. It’s inevitable, however, as I recall the terrified faces of my parents from yesterday, when we received the news from the doctors. She had a sudden heart attack, they said. She’s unconscious, they said. Though I didn’t fully comprehend the situation at the time, we packed our bags and left immediately.

Bringing myself back to the present, I lean my head against the car door.  I look outside the car window with wide, innocent eyes, the looming forests of pine both frightening and soothing. The moon beaming its ivory shadow along the cement road ahead of us, alerting cars to flicker on their glaring headlights.

Moving aside my plush checkered red blanket, I’m careful not to throw it on top of my napping grandmother. My mother is sitting in the driver’s seat, a worried expression crinkling her pretty face as she clutches the steering wheel. My dad, who bears a similar appearance, casts his gaze towards the front window, a goal pounding in his head. The radio plays an old Maroon 5 song. “One more night,” I think I hear them chant. And I nod my head along to the lyrics. I suddenly remember the question roaming around my head from earlier and return my attention back to my mother.

“Mommy?” I say timidly.

“Yes?” She answers without moving.

“Is she gonna be okay?”

She turns to me doleful, drowsy eyes. “I don’t know, Lei Lei. We’re hoping for the best.”

My dad chooses then to join the conversation and speak up, turning in my direction.“She’s not doing well, but we’ll get there soon.” This answer somewhat satisfies me. I lean back against the worn-out car seat, wrapping myself into the warmth of the thick blanket once more.

Turning my face to the window again, I fall into one of my frequent stupors, listening to the soft hum of the car’s engine and the thunderous commotion of the vehicle coming in contact with numerous knobs in the road. As I stay trapped in a daze, my parents continue the journey to Shreveport, all stakes high.

* * *

Finally, we arrive at the hospital around 10:15 p.m. I sleepily stumble out of the car and into the luminous halls of the building, making sure to keep up with the adults. My mom takes hold of my small, dainty hand and leads both me and my grandmother to what appears to be a private waiting room of sorts. My dad, after muttering a few silent words to my mother, wanders off to where she is being held.

I sit down into one of the frigid chairs and take in my surroundings.  There are a few more generic ashen chairs throughout the room, as well as a massive flat-screen TV that displays some inappropriate stand-up comedy. Yawning, I sense boredom creeping upon me. I decide to stare up at the television anyway, my mom and grandma too dejected to care as they catch up with their thoughts. As the clock on the wall behind me ticks on, we each anticipate my dad’s return — two souls more anxious than one.

* * *

It’s about 11:00 p.m. when we hear the loud screeching of the metal door as my dad enters the little room. The three of us lean forward, eyes shocked open with a new burst of adrenaline rushing through our bodies. My father steps into view and locks his gaze onto the floor, his blue-green eyes lost and his face sullen. His mouth opens, preparing to announce the words he’s dreaded this entire night.

“Andrea.” He sighs. “Andrea passed away.”

My mother moans in agony and gets up to swaddle him in an embrace while my grandmother solemnly shakes her head. I stand up, staggering as I let the news sink in.

Andrea is gone.

My father’s first daughter is gone.

My big sister is gone.

Yet, why am I not crying? Why are no tears flowing down the smooth hills of my cheeks? I let my gaze fall upon the group before me. My mother’s eyes grow red with dampness; my grandma stands quietly with sorrow; my dad’s calloused hands reach up to remove his glasses, swiping at the liquid teetering over his bottom lids. I look away with confusion, but I don’t let myself dwell on it for too long. In the next few minutes, we finish gathering ourselves, leaving the hospital and making our way to our hotel.

* * *

A few days later and it’s the morning of the funeral. Family from both my dad’s side of the family and Andrea’s maternal side: cousins, uncles, aunts, friends, mentors, and just about everyone else. I walk up to the casket in my frilly black dress and ebony flats. Placing my hands on the lilac edges, I run my fingers delicately along every curve, every design, every glossed corner, eventually finding my way to the silky padding supporting my sister’s body, and lastly grazing her own gelid, pale brown hand. I pull my hand away, now looking at Andrea as a whole. Even in her death, she looks as beautiful as ever.

To my left, I see a large collage of memories, and in the middle is an image of the two of us: massive grins are prominent on our faces as I sit in a child-size plastic car, my sister crouching next to me while we enjoy our time at a now forgotten park. I know that I’ll miss her, but as I hear sobs as monstrous as a mother bear’s fury, I realize that I’m not as affected by the death as most people in this glum funeral home. In fact, as I spot my favorite family members, the main emotion bubbling it’s way out of me is joy, even when Andrea’s mother sends a gloomy smile my way. I find myself more excited to play with my cousins after the service than I am mournful about Andrea, not realizing the depth of everything.

After tearful speeches and uplifting prayers, everyone parts ways, though not before comforting each other with sweet hugs of farewell. Once most people leave, my Aunt Karla guides me to her familiar silver car where my cousin waits for us. I hop in and tug on my seatbelt, feeling the eagerness from before form itself inside of me again. My aunt shoves her jingling key into the ignition, causing the car to rumble as it starts up. She puts the car in reverse, then puts it back to a forward position as we head on to the the old country roads back to my dad’s hometown. As soon as we drive off, I leave the events of what happened these past couple of days behind me and bask in this moment of exuberance.

* * *

Years. Seven years have gone by since the day I said goodbye to my beloved sister. Though at the time I didn’t know that I only had one more night left with her, I also barely grasped the intensity of  what went on that week.

Now, as I look at old photographs of Andrea throughout her short time in this world, I see that I took her for granted. I just about ignored her death as I was overwhelmed with selfish thoughts. Yes, I was eight years old and without much understanding, but I can’t erase the guilt that’s slowly been eating away at me as I got older. What I experienced — though I wish I never had to — helped me understand that every life is valuable. Every friendship I’ve created, every supportive family member, every stranger in need should never be looked over, ignored, take it for granted.

As I see it, I’m a lizard who lost its tail, not paying mind to the loss. But it grows back stronger, just as I grow with every new understanding.