A Farewell

18 days. There were only 18 days left until my feet were on American soil. I thought she was going to hold on, that I would get to see her one last time. We were getting so close and I felt confident it would work out for us all – my mother, Cetta and me.

But life does not adhere to our desires and needs, it simply comes at us. Sometimes we catch the pitch, even though it’s a curve ball. Other times, it goes way over our heads and we frantically chase it, our backs turned on the game. And then sometimes, it’s a change-up; it looks like it’ll be a fast pitch but once thrown - it slows, taking longer to come into the strike zone than expected. It doesn’t mean you’ll catch it – because if we are the catcher, there is always a batter. Cetta had been standing at the plate, in this particular game of life, for a long time. We all knew she had a full count and were waiting for the outcome of the next pitch. She surprised us all, hit the change-up right out of the ball park. She jogged the bases and went home.  And when the hitter hits a homerun, you can only sit back and watch.

My mother’s friend Cetta had a big loud laugh and a strong hug. She loved loyally and fiercely. She was a damn good Italian cook and could knit the hell out of a blanket. She was my mother's best friend, and sister for the last 20 years. For a long time, sadly, I saw Cetta as another adult who understood nothing about life and was stuck in a cycle I wanted nothing to do with. When Cetta was diagnosed with cancer in the spring of 2011, I was off doing my thing in Boston. I had let go of most of my resentment of her simply through time and distance. Since I was not living at home and we hadn’t had a relationship since I was 12 years old, it was a complete non-reality for me. After some time she went into remission and was no longer going through chemotherapy. When I moved home in October, I was utterly wrapped up in Peace Corps and my ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t until later, with two or three months before my departure that I started making time for Cetta.

The last time I saw her, I had invited her over for brunch. I knew there was a chance we wouldn’t have time like this together again, but in a very disconnected way. I wanted to treat her to a nice breakfast, with my Martha Stewart blueberry scones, home fries, mimosas and all. It was a really nice time, with Cetta sharing stories from her youth and telling me if I find a husband in the Peace Corps I, “betta NOT live wit him before you getchya ring!”.  That day, Cetta let me feel the mass that had started showing a few weeks before.  At the time, she was feeling healthy and joked about the cancer saying, “Ya know, you would think – finally, now that I have cancer I’ll be skinny- but I’m still fat! I mean seriously, what the hell?!”

Over the summer, I came to understand that it was unlikely Cetta and I would see one another again.  It hit me like a ton of bricks and for several days I was processing and coming to terms with this. I started writing her a letter, apologizing for my angsty adolescent ways and pushing her out of my life. I wanted to let her know that I knew she had always loved and cared about me, that the times she told me to be better to my mother, she was right. I faced the impending reality of her death and for the first time, saw her role in my and my mother’s lives clearly. She was a rock for my mother, and I love her for this alone.

Cetta never did respond with a letter in return, but we did get to speak on the phone about a month ago. She was staying at my parent’s home after Hurricane Sandy hit the east coast – as they had electricity and she did not. We got on the phone and I could hardly recognize her voice. It was no longer booming and strong, thick with our Long Island accent. I asked how she was, she responded saying, “I’m better now, I’m not crying anymore because I’m with your mother and she’s taking care of me.” I told her I was glad, and she goes on to say, “Carolyn, I want you to know you never need to apologize for anything – we love each other, I love you and that’s all that matters, okay?”  I wasn’t ready for her to bring up my letter so suddenly and it caught me off guard, so obviously I started crying. Next thing I know, she’s asking me if there are any boys- if I’m having sex. “Oh don’t worry,” she says. “Your mother didn’t hear me ask you that!”

Yesterday, as I sat in the back of the bus listening to my ipod, I thought about Cetta. Who she’d been for me, for my mother. I’m grateful that the last moments we shared were filled with raw honesty and lined with laughter. The last day we spent together, she turned to me and said,

“I am so excited for you to do this. I always wanted to see the world, but I was too afraid to leave home. Go see everything Carolyn, do it for me and then tell me all about it.”

Concetta Morrill (11/13/62- 11/29/12)