Goodbye

I have never been good at goodbyes.  I'm sure there are a number of beautiful people who know me who can attest to that.  When I left San Francisco for Texas, I only said a final goodbye to two people, Brian and Sandra.  That is mostly because they lived down the street from me and Sandra asked me over so she could make me and my husband of a few days dinner since our kitchen was packed and waiting for the movers.  Because my family is so f'd up, I made my own family out of my friends.  People who took me in, laughed at my jokes and loved me, warts and all.  It was so hard to leave them.  I couldn't bear a final goodbye.  A normal person would rationalize that they would see them again and be excited about their new venture.  But every time I look at a menu, I order as if it's the last meal I will ever have.

I think it goes back to the time my papa passed away.  I was thirteen, had just turned thirteen.  We had been staying with my grandparents over the weekend and it was time to go back to our house.  I was so happy to go home and see my friends.  My Granny told me to say goodbye to Papa.  Normally I would go give him a great big hug and say I love you.  But this time was different.  I quickly kissed him on the cheek and ran out the door.  After I kissed him, as I turned to run, something told me to tell him, "I love you".  But I didn't.  I can't remember ever leaving his house before that day without telling him I love him.  He died peacefully in his sleep the next day.  I never saw him or spoke to him again.  He was 69 years old.

Today my dad, at 65 years old, is in the hands of MD Anderson having the nephrostomy bag on his right side removed.  I'm sitting in The Park at the main campus in the Houston Medical Center.  The place where I like to sip my hot white chocolate mocha while cruising the world wide web and people watching.  It's a lovely little faux outdoor environment space with skylights, greenery and metal patio tables; each complete with a large umbrella.  I am watching a toddler screaming as her mother with a freshly shorn head weeps because her little girl is too afraid to let her mommy hold her.  It's devastating.  The dad holds the mom.  The aunt holds the toddler.  Just as gravity wins over the enormous tears filling up my eyes, a table of young doctors next to me erupts with laughter.  They are oblivious to the scene unfolding before me.  My instinct is to be perturbed, but in the very next heartbeat I realize these are the saints who never fail to smile while caring for us, patients and loved ones alike, here at MD Anderson.  They are due a little levity.

I think of my dad.  I think of my own children.  I think of my husband.  I hate goodbyes.