Molly

Three weeks ago today, my 16-year-old cousin Molly got up in the morning and didn't feel well. She trudged down the stairs to tell her mom that she wanted to stay home from school and was going back to bed. My auntie knew that Molly had been feeling a little off, feverish and such, for the past few days, so she didn't think much about it. Molly went back to bed and slept and slept and slept. And slept.

Sometime in the early afternoon, my aunt went into Molly's room to check on her. She had, after all, been sleeping for more than even the average teenager should sleep. Auntie called her name, shook her, tried to wake her up, to no avail. She was breathing, but not responding. An ambulance was called. Molly was admitted to the hospital and dozens of tests were run. Still nothing.

By Friday morning, things weren't looking so good. Molly's brain had swelled during the night, and it was no longer responding to the tests the doctors were running. The family, hoping for the miracle Molly deserved, called Molly's two older sisters and told them to come back from college right away. But by the time they arrived late Friday night, Molly was brain dead. They kept her breathing long enough for the family to say good bye.

Molly was my younger sister Kate's best friend and like a sister to us. Like a sister in all the ways you have a sister- all the fun, as well as irritations, of a sister. She and Kate used to torture Kristi and me (though I'm sure if you ask them, they would say it was the other way around). They were annoying and loud and giggly and messy and juvenile. They were also adorable and funny and sometimes even sweet. Molly spent half of her time at my house, and Kate spent half of her time at Molly's house. Sometimes when they had slumber parties, I would make them pancakes for breakfast and pretend to be the waiter. They had to call me sir, or I wouldn't respond. When I did reply, it was only in a British accent. Sir didn't speak American.

Molly was one of the wittiest people I ever knew. Sometimes she and T-rav and I would make snarky comments about whoever was hanging around us. We would laugh about little things under our breath and then refuse to reveal their meaning. She understood jokes way beyond her years.

Molly was smart, beautiful, athletic, popular, and a little spoiled, but most of all, and most importantly, she was nice. Everyone who knew her loved her. Over 1000 people came to her calling hours; there were nearly 900 at the funeral, including her entire sophomore class. Everyone talked about how kind and friendly Molly was. She talked to the lonely girl in gym class or always smiled at the nerdy kids. She definitely wasn't perfect. But she was compassionate and thoughtful. And loving.

We don't know why Molly died. It makes me inexpressibly angry that she was taken from us, from Kate, her sisters, and especially from her parents. How do you go on with life when something like this happens? Why did this tragedy happen? I wonder when and if the anger will ever go away. This is the type of tragedy that is better read in a Reader's Digest article and not experienced on your own. It's not supposed to happen.

I know that somehow life will continue, somehow my poor aunt and uncle will carry on, somehow life will regain a sense of normalcy. But we will never forget her.

Molly, I love you.