Times Square’s ball drop displays on the TV while Pitbull’s “Time of our Lives” is playing in the background. The champagne is poured into tall glasses, and apple cider waits for the kids. Family and friends are packed into the living room and kitchen, waiting for that final countdown. The house fills with smiles and laughs as we shout “Happy New Year!” and hug the loved ones around us.
That’s how New Year’s Eve goes every year — except for four years ago. Then, there was no smiling or laughing; then, it was praying and grief.
It’s September 2015, I’m 7 years old. I just found out my uncle (Papa) was diagnosed with lung cancer. We went to see him. He looks the same as usual — I don’t understand.
As time goes on, there are a couple hospital visits or canceled sleepovers with my cousins because Papa isn’t feeling well. I don’t notice anything else.
I’m 11 now. COVID-19 is everywhere, and I’m not allowed to see anyone, yet my parents take my siblings and I to go see Papa. We all put masks on before we go inside. He stands on the other side of the living room, six feet away. His hair is gone. We laugh about his bald head. I don’t notice anything else.
It’s Christmas Day. I’ll be 13 in four months. We open our presents and drink hot chocolate. Quarantine has been going on for over a year; we don’t wear a mask to see family anymore, but we do when we go see Papa. Papa isn’t standing by the door to greet us, not even with his cane.
I finally notice something.
We quietly walk to his room; he sits bundled up on a brown recliner — a new wheel chair next to him. There are weird machines. I don’t know what they’re for. I see the outline of his frail body under the blanket. He is too skinny, he barely speaks and he looks drained.
It’s December 31, 2020. Almost a week has passed since our Christmas visit to Papa. I can’t stop thinking about him. But it’s New Year’s Eve; Papa will have a fresh start — we all will. My dad hasn’t been home all day. My mom’s picking up a new phone call every five minutes. She tells my sister and I to spend the night at my cousins’ house because Papa’s in bad condition, and they need support.
Papa looks so different. He can’t talk, I can see his bones and he has lost so much weight. We stand around his room for a bit. No one talks — it doesn’t feel right to. I can almost hear a clock ticking, a countdown playing in my head.
As I sit in silence, I think about how my 6-year-old brother won’t know how kind, loving and hardworking Papa is. I think about how I’ll never feel Papa pinch my chin when I’m hugging him again. I think about how I’ll never be in his car again, laughing my head off as he approached a random road and said, “Get out and jump! We’re at Jump Street like y’all wanted!”
My thoughts come to a stop, and so does the clock in my head. The countdown hits zero, and I watch Papa take his final breath.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again. “Happy New Year!” texts flood my phone. I check the time: 12:17 a.m. It’s officially January 1.
There’s no champagne. The TV isn’t on and Pitbull isn’t playing. Instead, my family is spending the first day of the new year mourning his last day.
The clock restarts every year, but I’ll never forget when it hit zero four years ago. This will be the fourth holiday season without him. Since that New Year’s Day, my mindset has changed.
My New Year’s Resolutions aren’t the typical “run a mile every day” or “make my bed every morning.“ Every year I tell myself that I’m not just going to grieve him — I’m going to remember him. Every New Year’s Eve, we visit his grave, and while tears and sadness are unavoidable, knowing he’s no longer suffering provides a sense of relief. He made such a big impact as one of the smartest, kindest, passionate members of our family. Every year by his grave, I pray to be more like him.
It feels wrong celebrating Christmas or New Year’s Day without him, but when I look around and see the love from my family and friends during the holiday season, I see him. Papa doesn’t have to be gone; he will live through me and everyone who loved him.
Just like Papa fought for everything, I will fight to make sure he’s present in our family’s life. I’ll pinch my nieces and nephews’ chins every time I hug them. I’ll make the same Jump Street joke when I’m driving my kids around.
That night, it was cancer’s final countdown, not his.
