How do you say goodbye to a beloved person that you were pretty sure was immortal?

My aunt Vita, zichrona livracha, died this past Sunday at 5:50 pm. She was 83, and had fought off stage 4 pancreatic cancer for over six years. Yes. You read that right. This is a diagnosis where most patients are advised to get their affairs in order because they will not live longer than three months. Someone I knew who received this diagnosis was gone in three weeks.

And yes, you read that right. I said she fought a battle. Until Vita died, I was firmly convinced that no one should say this about a cancer patient, ever. Because it can only lead to saying someone “lost their battle,” which is unconscionable to me. So, in speaking about my own journey and that of other people, I have used more neutral terminology. I say that I “dealt with” cancer.

But neutrality will only get you so far when you are dealing with a truly pernicious adversary. What I faced completely pales in comparison to what Vita faced — and here I am reminded of something my dad liked to remember with humor: my mom’s (and Vita’s) godmothers, sitting around comparing their swollen ankles, competing to see who had it worse. So Vita, although we never had a conversation about this, hands down, you win. What I went through only qualifies me for amateur status.

Vita was one of my favorite people, and I strongly suspect everyone in the room at her funeral will feel the same way.  She was brash and bold, she asked probing questions, and she had a different idea of boundaries than other people. She was brilliant and brainy. I spoke to her in Spanish, and unlike the rest of her family, who kindly and quietly keep their opinions of my language skills to themselves, I could not utter a sentence or send a whatsapp message without having my Spanish corrected. I don’t know what I will do now. Continue making a fool of myself, and imagining I am not making any mistakes, I guess. Vita was a translator, so I also appreciated the times we connected on a professional level.

Vita was a terrific cook. I am already worried about facing Thanksgiving this year without her signature caramelized apple cake on the dessert table. She kept careful mental notes on who didn’t like what in their empanadas. I never had to eat a single one with hard-boiled eggs or olives in it — even long after I had decided the egg was acceptable to me.

Vita, like her son Pablo, me and Young J, my cousin Aileen, and our beloved grandmother Lía, had a December birthday, so this year the birthday season will be less bright, compounded by the fact that we lost a family friend two weeks ago, at age 99.9, who was also a December baby.

I am writing this on the morning of Vita’s funeral, so I will wrap this up by saying that Vita most certainly did not “lose” her battle with pancreatic cancer. She decided when it would end. I will never forget her bravery. Rest in power, Tía Vita.

PS Vita also liked to comment on my posts here, so the silence will be deafening. Please send some love.

PPS I am sorry it has been a while since I posted. My health is fine.