March 26, 1994. It was the last time I saw her, talked to her, hugged her, heard her contagious laugh. I didn't have any clue that this picture would be her last. I had no idea that I would ultimately remember the next 24 hours perfectly as if they just happened yesterday for the remainder of my life. I was 13, she was 19. We talked about high school and what classes I would take. She encouraged me to sign up for Theater. We talked about Kira's Bat Mitzvah. We helped make the carrots for Passover sedar. I can still see us there stirring them while we chatted. She needed to leave with her friend from college, but she wouldn't leave until all the cousins took a picture with her. We said our goodbyes, and that was that.
March 27, 1994. It was a Sunday, and we were doing our regular routine in the late afternoon. Getting ready to make dinner, playing games, about to start our evening routine of making lunches for school the next day. Brock was at a basketball practice with Dad. Mom, Kira, and I were at home when the phone rang, and in minutes, Mom was out the door while Kira and I waited for more information. All we knew was she was in "critical condition," but we had no idea what that meant. We waited. It got dark. We waited for Dad to come pick us up. We packed Passover-kosher snacks for everyone, thinking we'd be at the hospital for a while. We prayed. We held our foreheads against the front door waiting for headlights to appear in the darkness. Finally, they came. We sped down the Tollway. Dad drove faster than he ever had before. We arrived outside the ER, and as we jogged up the walkway, we passed Brock crying. Our hearts raced as Mom gathered Kira and me beneath her. She slowly started telling us what had happened and then: "She's gone." My heart still races recalling it all.
We were escorted to see the rest of the family, and within minutes, we were already leaving. I never saw her. We went to her house. I called a couple friends to get my assignments the following day. I couldn't even talk when they answered. Tears. Shaky. I can still feel the lump in my throat. I can still hear them asking what's wrong. I still remember not wanting to say.
I was embarrassed. She took her own life. This doesn't happen to "people like us," I kept thinking. What was she thinking? How selfish! I still can't wrap my brain around how she actually went through with this. What was she thinking or feeling in that very moment? That night and days to come (and months, and years, and decades...) - so many questions, so much left unsaid, undone, unfinished. Confusion, curiosity, anger, rage, grief, numbness, silence.
She was in the coffin. Was it really her? We made a circle around her. We said Shema. Her hair curly and dark. Her porcelain face doll-like. This has to be some kind of dark, sick joke, right? "Farra, wake up!" I kept saying in my head.
20 years ago today. How is it that it feels so new and raw? It's like my brain is stuck at 13 years old trying to make sense of it. I will never make sense of it. She was perfect to me. She was gorgeous, so nice, so talented and funny, the brightest smile, the cutest laugh, the most awesome hair, a huge circle of friends, a sorority girl, a college freshman. She played with us - led games and told us stories. I looked up to her. How did she not see her life as precious and important? She was my older cousin, and always will be - even though I passed her by in age many years ago.
I wonder what she'd be like now. Would she be married? Have children? Live close by? Spend time with us still? What job would she have?
She's now been gone longer than she lived. I'm having a hard time with this. Only 19 years old, and 20 years later, I still see and hear her clearly. I remember so very much. I will never forget. She lives on in us. But, how is it that it's been 20 years already and we've lived without her longer than she ever lived?
Farra Julianne
February 19, 1975 - March 27, 1994
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