She was more than just my cousin - she was my big sister, my coffee khaki, my cheap book supplier (staff discounts when she was working at borders), my confidant (the first relative I introduced Joe to), my chinese translator (who never laughed pr tsk-tsked at my deplorable grasp of the language), my neighbour (she used to live in the block of flats directly across, we could wave to each other from the window).
In a way, it was comforting to find out that my other cousins were just as shaken, because she was big sister to all of us. Going for concerts and movies together, organising everyone to come to my grandmother's for saturday night dinners, and just knowing the family secrets, like which cousin named himself after a ninja turtle.
She wasn't born the perfect big sister - I heard she used to poke keys in my eyes when I was a baby, and I remember she got a massive caning for slamming her baby brother's fingers in the door (it might have been accidental). But she matured into somebody who took care of everyone, aunts, uncles and cousins, especially her brother. She'd always call to buy food back for him, did his laundry when he was in NS, didn't tell the parents when he got a massive tattoo, put lotion on it so that it wouldn't hurt.
She was first diagnosed with cancer two years ago, malignant cells in her salivary gland. There was an operation and radiotherapy. It seemed like everything was okay, and she recovered enough to visit me in Melbourne during winter last year. I made her roast chicken and apple pie, which she loved. I remember a dinner at la porchetta's, she wore a yellow lance armstrong wristband and the sweater which they displayed at the wake. I remember her laughter and infectious optimism. I remember her $1,000 bill for a handbag, and her strong instruction, don't tell my mum ya.
It started with a limp and hip pain last October. Scans showed the cancer had spread. We went out a couple of times after I came back for summer, then one day she fell, broke her pelvis and it was just a series of hospital stays after that. I saw her every week, brought my laptop so that we could still catch the latest movies illegally, bought the new paper or whatever magazines she wanted, sneaked in french fries for her.
I couldn't be with her in her last days, and it was hard to talk to her over the phone because the hospital reception was so poor. I wish we had more time together. I found out she kept my newspaper articles for me, and over the last couple of weeks, I had a strange craving for nasi lemak, which is apparently what she was asking for too.
Her final request, about a month ago, was for the latest issue of australian cosmo and organic shampoo but I wasn't able to get someone to bring them back for her in time. I placed them on the altar, making sure I covered up with cover of cosmo, which had a large blurb for EROTIC FICTION - sealed section, with the day's copy of the new paper.
I couldn't find the magazine or shampoo after the cremation, I was really hoping the monks hadn't ripped open the sealed section or looked at the other issue of cosmo on her table (best body orgasm ever!!!) but it turns out the funeral director threw everything away as part of the rituals.
The hardest thing for me, more then seeing her body, was hearing my grandmother and her parents weep, knowing that there was nothing I could do or say to take the pain away.
It is surreal, some moments I realise that she's gone and the grief just cuts through , other times I find it hard to believe that I will never see her again.
When we were at the wake last night, for a couple of seconds I smelt rosemary. The only rosemary nearby was the shampoo (which wasn't opened), so I'm taking it as a sign that she's doing okay, where ever she is, and she knows how much I want for her to be happy.
