The Unwinding of the Miracle - Julie Yip-Williams Page 0,116
sister. He loved them, too, of course, but it just wasn’t the same. (It was widely known, however, that my brother was my mother’s favorite and my sister was my grandmother and the uncles’ favorite, so I didn’t feel too bad.) During one of our many car rides together, I asked my father, “Don’t you think that it is not right for you to love me more than Older Brother and Older Sister?” He took his right hand off the steering wheel and held it out to me, its fingers stretched. “Look at my hand,” he ordered. “You see my fingers? Are they even? No. It isn’t possible to love your children the same.” And that was that. My father, the sage Chinese philosopher, had spoken.
Anyhow, knowing that he loved me as much as he did, I felt incredibly sorry for him as he stood helplessly by when I left for college three thousand miles away from home and then on my various adventures to far-flung places, the kinds of impoverished places that we had risked our lives to escape. He was and is a worrier. He would sit morosely watching me, shoulders drooped, as I packed for my next adventure, wringing his hands and running his fingers through his virtually nonexistent hair. Sure, I was nervous about my travels, somewhat afraid of what I might encounter, but mostly I was excited and enthralled by the promise and possibility of newness and all the things to be seen and experienced. I was off to have fun, to grow and learn, to be changed and challenged; my father would be left behind at home, worrying. His life centered on me, and that center was leaving. I swore then that I never wanted to be the one left behind, even if I were to have my own children, that I was and would forever be an intrepid traveler and adventurer.
It seems that with the latest bad scan results, I will continue to make good on that promise I made myself so long ago. I will be the one to die young. I will be the first among so many family and friends to embark on the greatest adventure of all, the one that involves traveling beyond this life into the next. Were the choice mine, I would stay longer, to watch my children grow up and to age with my husband, to bury my parents, to see more of this life that I have loved so much. But the choice is not mine. It has never been mine.
I am busily packing my bags now. I am making my lists, leaving my instructions, putting in place my final estate-planning documents. I am making my final memories, saying my goodbyes, telling everyone I love them, writing my last words. I am noting not just all the people I will miss but also the things of life I will miss. I will miss the simple ritual of loading and unloading the dishwasher. I will miss the smooth patina of my cast-iron skillet, brought on by cooking countless meals. I will miss making Costco runs. I will miss watching TV with Josh. I will miss taking my kids to school. I will miss this life so very much. They say that youth is wasted on the young. Now, as I approach my final days, I realize that health is wasted on the healthy, and life is wasted on the living. I never understood that until now, as I prepare in earnest to leave this life.
Sleep no longer matters. I tell myself as I race against time to make the flight, before the pain settles in, before my mind becomes addled by opiates, that there will be time enough to sleep later. Sadly, this time it’s not just my father who sits helplessly by; it’s also Josh and my children, my mother and siblings, cousins and so many friends. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry to leave it to others to pick up the pieces. It is a selfish act, perhaps unknowingly brought on by a selfish promise I made so long ago. But believe me when I say that this is not of my conscious choosing.
I know that soon I will stand on the brink of something extraordinary, something greater than the human mind can understand. I have far greater faith in the belief that there is more than this life than I do in a God. I know with every fiber of my