I lived in fear of my cousin Tarlie’s death for more than seven years. When the text arrived from my aunt, Tarlie’s mom, my husband and I had put our children to bed and were sitting outside on our patio.
“She just passed. It was peaceful and her dad and I were both at her bedside when it happened.”
Tarlie died on Memorial Day, shortly after her 31st birthday. When she was 23, she was diagnosed with a form of melanoma so aggressive but benign looking that three dermatologists were fooled by its appearance, and by the time it was recognized, it was too late. Melanoma spreads through the bloodstream and lymph nodes, moving so painlessly and invisibly that it can metastasize for a long time before anyone knows.
As I read my aunt’s text, a rush of hot, electric energy ran through me. I felt my consciousness rise out of my body and then crash back down. I cried while clutching my heart as if it might fall out and shatter.
I remembered how much Tarlie wanted to live for her parents and herself. She told me her two big fears were her own suffering before death and the suffering of her mother and father.
