The Day I Lost My Mary (February 3, 2019)

Honorary family member: a person who isn’t technically blood related, but might as well be.

Every family has those select few people who have become part of the family without actually being related to anyone. Mary Koval was that person in my family. She had been best friends with my aunt for as long as I could remember. She was the person who everyone was excited to see at family gatherings. The person who would always take the kids for the night when the adults needed some time off. The person who made the best food and would show up at your doorstep with homemade chicken noodle soup when you weren’t feeling well. No matter what the circumstances were, if you called her, she would be there - no questions asked. She was my best friend, my favorite person, my Mary. Until that day: the day she left me.

It was October 22nd, 2016, and my friends were at my house for a sleepover. We were upstairs making pizza when I realized my phone was about to die, so I went into my parents’ room to get a charger. As I unplugged my mom’s phone, I saw a text from my aunt:

I’m at the hospital. I need you to bring Liza as soon as you can. It’s Mary…

A lump formed in my throat as the tears poured down, blurring my vision. I ran into the kitchen, my head spinning, and collapsed to the floor. As my dad picked me up, I tried to tell them what was wrong, but I couldn’t. All that came out was my silent, but violent cry.

My friends stayed that night due to my parents’ ill-fated attempt to get my mind off of the pain and the hurt. Despite their company and light jokes, I cried myself to sleep. I was numb, knowing that when I woke up in the morning, my life would never be the same.

Walking into the hospital the next morning, I felt strangely at home. I guess that’s what happens when I seem to spend half of my life in those blank hallways thanks to the death that seems to have invaded my family. The doctor told me that she was resting and I wasn’t allowed to see her because I wasn’t immediate family… so I waited. I refused to leave until he let me see her. Stubbornness. Something she taught me well. After three long and restless hours of sitting in those hard waiting room chairs later, he gave in and finally let me through the sliding double doors to hell.

I could barely hear the harsh sounds of monitors beeping in the ICU over the sound of my own heart pounding in my chest. I was no longer in control; autopilot took over – my feet were moving but I was somewhere else. I was walking through a vortex of doctors frantically hustling from room to room, but as I saw her frail and motionless body on the bed, my entire world stopped.

Mary had an aneurysm that ruptured. She collapsed in the middle of Trader Joe’s where there were thankfully people who called the ambulance – opposed to her being alone in her house on the floor. The doctor told me that with surgery she could live, but would need almost round-the-clock care and would probably only have another three years with the amount of damage done. I had hope. Not much, but hope. I spent the rest of the day flipping through my day planner; frantically crossing unimportant things out – which was everything in comparison to helping Mary. I was planning how I would, with the help of my aunt, take care of her. How I would be there for her everyday and put my life on hold to make sure she lived. She would’ve done the same for me. But I didn’t have the chance.

She refused the surgery. I was so mad at her. How could she be so selfish? How could she leave us… leave me? She had the option to live, and instead she decided to let herself die. How could she be so stubborn? I had just watched my grandfather die in a hospital bed five months earlier. He didn’t have a choice, but she did. And she chose to leave.

I realize now that I was the selfish one. She had been in so much pain over the last few years. Everything hurt, and I knew that. I saw her wince while walking across the kitchen. I saw her vacant stares as she waited for the pain to pass. She didn’t want me to see it, but I did. And there I was thinking she was selfish for wanting to be rid of that pain.

For the next three days I walked around school like a zombie. I failed my tests and zoned out of all my classes. I was glued to my phone, checking every notification I received. I was walking on eggshells, waiting for the text that would destroy my world. And then it came:

Hey honey, I’m on my way to get you. I love you, Dad.

Crash.

My heart shattered. Right there in the middle of math class as Mr. Moccio yelled at me for having my phone out. Tears once again created puddles on the floor as I tried to explain to him the hell that had been my life for the last four days. I saw his rigid face soften, and he walked me down to the guidance counselor who was sitting with my father.

“She died this morning.”

He didn’t have to say the words; I already knew; I could see it in his eyes before he said a thing. Everything went black. I blocked everything out. Every consoling word. Every apology. Everything. I didn’t cry or scream or anything. All the pain and the anger was gone; nothing mattered anymore. I didn’t feel; I couldn’t feel. I was alive, but I didn’t want to be. Not without Mary.

I remember our short conversation that day at the hospital. Our last conversation. I played it over and over in my head for weeks after she died. We tried to joke and make light of the situation, but we both knew that it was only because we had no clue how to possibly say goodbye.

Goodbye to the weekends filled with baking and laughter. To the summer days where we would sit by the pond and skip rocks, seeing who could get the most bounces. To the endless conversations on her front porch steps while watching the birds on the feeder. To singing at the top of our lungs on long car rides. To Sunday mornings and the sly glances we exchanged when our favorite songs came on during worship. To the bond that we shared that could never be replaced.

I spoke at her funeral. I picked up the pieces of my heart and glued them back together, but there is still one missing. There is a hole that can never be filled. I put on a broken smile for the hopeful eyes fixed on me, longing for me to give them relief. I read them a letter I had written to her before she died – but she never got the chance to read it. And then, with tears in my eyes and an ache in my chest, I told them the story of Mary Koval.

Mary Koval: a honorary family member who will forever be my best friend, my favorite person, my Mary.