Dear Aaliyah

Dear Aaliyah,

If you are reading this, I’m dead.

I’ll admit, that sounded better in my head. Sort of pithy, and maybe a bit funny for an opening line. I was going for something that would make you giggle, but I’m realizing now just how ominous it looks on paper, given the circumstances.

I guess it’s too late now.

There are only a couple of pages left and I’m using my favorite pen. Bad choice, I know, for this kind of thing. But as I didn’t think of writing this until just now, I’m hoping you will forgive me. I suppose I could cross it out, but I think that would look even worse.

Anyways, here goes.

I’m hoping you’ll be willing to read this, at least this last bit. I don’t expect you to read everything. In fact, I’m hoping you won’t, especially not the first few pages. (I went through a vampire phase, okay?)

It won’t make much sense, since none of the pages before this are about me, but they might give you a little insight into the kind of life I wanted. I shared so much with you, but there were some things I kept only for me.

This was my writing notebook.

I picked it up at the little bookstore outside my brother’s work. I always wanted to be a writer. To create stories about strange people in even stranger worlds. It started with a bit of fanfiction (hence the vampires), but soon I was creating my own characters and planning out their adventures. There is some poetry in here, too. Mostly sappy stuff, but some (hopefully) funny ones as well. It isn’t very good, but I still like it. Ignore the drawings, please. I never learned how to properly sketch anything, but I did do enjoy doodling every now and then.

This little black notebook is full of so many beginnings. I loved them all, even if none made it past Chapter 3. I never could commit.

I would start out so ambitious, so optimistic and sure of my ability to finish a complete story. But somewhere along the way, I would inevitably lose interest. Often the doubt would grow too big and I would put the notebook back in my drawer.

Yet, I always picked it back up again. Started a new story. A new set of characters with a new set of problems. That’s why I have it on me now, sitting in this room. I started a new story last week, on page 53. (It has scary mermaids!) Maybe you can finish it for me, if you like? You did say that you won 2nd place in the 7th grade creative writing contest last year. I believe you could do it justice.

It just seemed fitting that if anyone should get a chance to read this, it should be you.

I wanted to talk to you about all this. To explain myself in person, but I’m out of time. We’re out of time. So, this will have to do.

Last Thursday was my 18th birthday. I know we planned to celebrate on the weekend. I was supposed to try and sneak in a pepperoni pizza (with extra cheese, of course!) past the nurses’ station and we were going to re-watch Ponyo. I know you were excited about that, and I’m sorry, but something came up.

I had my 6-month check-up scan on Friday.

It’s back.

I know it should have been a shock, but somehow it… wasn’t? I’ve been getting headaches again, like I used to. I know I should have said something, told someone, but I don’t think it would have made any difference.

They wanted to do radiation, but I just can’t. Not again. You remember how it was. How I was. I just can’t go through that again.

So, they offered to try surgery. Something about how, because we caught it early this time, there’s a chance they can get it all in one go.

There’s some major risks. I could come out okay, with some serious recovery time. But I could also die. I could lose huge pieces of myself. I could wake up and never be the same.

That’s why I’m doing this.

I really want to reach the finish line (again), don’t get me wrong. I want to get to have a second Farewell Party. (Remember when Lucas from down the hall called it a “Get Out” Party?)

But if this doesn’t work, if I don’t wake up, I just want this all to mean something.

I remember when you first arrived. You had just started 4th grade and you still had those braids with the lime green and hot pink beads. I helped you work on that pony puzzle with the purple house.

I asked you why you were in the ward and you told me you had a hippo kidney. It took a bit of questioning to understand what you meant, but I guess hypoplasia is hard to say when you’re 9 years old.

You’ve spent years waiting. Waiting for the day when dialysis wasn’t a weekly thing. Waiting to leave and go back to school. Waiting for your life to continue.

I don’t want to die, let’s be clear. This was always Plan B. I wanted to follow our agreement. To get better. To get this thing out of my head. But we are running out of time. You are running out of time.

I know it was always the plan that once I got out of here, I could donate. But it’s starting to look like maybe you’ll have to enjoy your Farewell without me.

Today was supposed to be a good day. If I didn’t know I was sick again, it would have been a great one.

Remember how I told you that when I turned 18, I was going to buy a lottery ticket for my birthday? I bought three.

The first two were duds, but the third worked! I told you I was going to get birthday luck! It was one of those crazy millionaire-making ones. I didn’t land the grand-prize, but I did get the 4th place one! $20,000! Insane, right?

If this wasn’t happening, I would be hopping on a plane to a beach somewhere. I would be blowing up your phone with pictures of me in the ocean waves. I would bring you back seashells and all kinds of souvenirs for your room.

But that money will probably never get spent, at least not by me.

A few weeks ago, the last time I visited, I saw your mom crying in the hallway. We normally don’t talk much, but your dad wasn’t there and she just looked like she needed someone. We hugged and I let her rant a bit. She told me that you were getting worse. That the donor you guys had lined up fell through. She didn’t tell you that last bit, I know. I think she didn’t want you to lose hope.

I knew once I turned 18, I would be able to donate. I was so excited. Nurse Maria drew up the blood work the day before my birthday and said that we looked like a good match. They tested me again today to be sure. I so wanted to tell you on Saturday. But, after the news from my appointment, I just couldn’t bring myself to face you.

I talked with my doctors, and since I only have a primary brain tumor and it’s never spread, I am still eligible. But there are some risks. Almost equal to those of the brain surgery.

That’s why I’ve chosen to go ahead with it.

The way I see it, this could go one of two ways. I could wake up tumor-free, and after my recovery, I could donate. Or I don’t wake up, and you still get one of my kidneys anyways.

I don’t know what other parts they will be able to use or who will get them, but I agreed to donate everything I can if something goes wrong. There are so many people out there who I could help. If I don’t wake up, I don’t want to take anything with me.

I’d like to just give you everything. All of the lottery money. But my family will need it. For the hospital bills. For the funeral.

I want you to understand. Or maybe to just know me better, if even a little. To know why I did this.

I know you’ll be sad, and maybe even a bit angry at me for this, and that’s okay. I know it isn’t what we discussed, but I don’t care. I just want you to be around to be able to be angry.

But I’m hoping that will pass too.

I don’t want you to be bitter about this. I want you to remember me, sure. Who doesn’t want that? But I don’t you to remember the end, I just want you to remember the laughter.

That silly princess coloring book that we absolutely destroyed in the playroom by turning all the girls into semi-demonic versions of themselves. That time we played hide ‘n seek with Nurse Maria, who was very unamused. During the last movie night, when the power flickered at the end and we all ran around screaming like banshees until the generator kicked on. Even Lucas joined in. We laughed so hard that we cried.

Remember how you felt then. Not how you feel now.

I suppose I could write a bit more as I do have the space for a few more lines, but the nurses are here, wanting to get started. I guess this is goodbye, for now. I already wrote both my mom and Aaron their own letters and put the lottery ticket in the envelope. They are in the waiting room and I've already said goodbye, but I wanted them to have something after.

I know he will understand, but I’m not sure she will. If I’m gone, could you reach out to them from time to time? Make sure they're okay?

I hope I’ll wake up, and if so, you’ll never read this. But if not, just know that this was my decision. Years from now, if you are missing me or if you're just sad, look through this notebook. Read my stories. Laugh at my terrible doodles. Just smile, okay?

Be happy. Be kind. Live the life that I will might never finish.

Love, Emma

P.S. Tell your mom that the chocolate chunk cookies she made the last time I visited were amazing. She should bring them again for your Farewell Party.