How Do You Say Goodbye?

I am about to drive over to the hospital to say goodbye to my dear aunt and godmother for the last time.  I don't know how to do that. 

My mom's sister has been battling cancer for the past six years.  We knew that the end of her suffering would be coming soon, but I was still unprepared to receive a call from my mother last Tuesday telling me that Aunt Amalia had taken a severe turn for the worst.  I knew it was time for me to come home. 

I wasn't certain that I would make it in time, but I got on a plane the next morning along with my eight-month old (I am still nursing -- she had to accompany me) and flew to Philly.  I wasn't sure what I would find when I arrived, but when my sister met us at the airport, to my relief she told me that Aunt Amalia was still alive. 

So for the past several days, we've been back and forth to the hospital trying to cram in a little more time with her, steal a few more minutes before she slips away.  We know this is the end -- no one is talking

about alternative treatments or experimental trials anymore.  We've graduated to "making her comfortable" as her body starts to shut down before our very eyes.

My baby and I are leaving tonight -- it's time to go back home to my husband and other daughter.  They need me at home and it's where I belong.  But, leaving means saying goodbye to a woman who has always had such a prominent role in my life.  She was never married and never had kids.  Her nieces, nephew, and dogs were her children.  She had some funny quirks and my family is not one to let those kinds of things go buy unnoticed and uncommented upon -- we teased her relentlessly, but lovingly.  She has always been the most generous-to-a-fault person I've ever known.  I remember being afraid to admire anything she had -- she would try to give it to me.  And, she took her role as my godmother very seriously.  At every milestone in my life, she found a special way to mark it; I always knew that I was special to her.  I also know that I took for granted that she would always be around (as younger generations often do).  I mean, she's only 67 years old; she should have years ahead of her.  But, she doesn't. She doesn't even have weeks.

My aunt isn't an emotive person, either.  She was never big on "I love you"s nor was she very physically demonstrative.  But, I always knew that she loved me.  She found so many other ways to express it.  It seems wrong to go to her hospital room today and start telling her how much I love her and how much I'll miss her -- it would just make her uncomfortable and embarrassed.  Somehow, I am going to have to keep it together, and silently convey to her all that she means to me.  She and I will both know that when I leave that room it will be the last time we see each other.   Even though it will go unsaid, I'll be wishing her godspeed as she nears the end of this journey.  And, I'll promise never, ever to forget her.