We sat around the hospital bed in my grandma's house, my family's arms or legs or shoulders touching as we watched the slow breaths rise and fall from her chest. She looked small, skinny, fragile, her cancerous body lying under the thick covers.
I had rushed out of class, leaving homework in my locker when my dad called saying we needed to drive to my grandma's house to say our last goodbyes. We knew she would pass soon, the cancer she had fought for three years was taking a toll on her strength and memory.
When first diagnosed with oral cancer in Florida, I was young and ignorant about what it was. My grandma went to Florida every winter, but this time she hadn't come back because she had gotten sick, my parents told me. She was always a fighter, so I had no doubts she would come back soon enough. But as time progressed, she got so ill that the doctors were weary if she would make it, and my family made the decision to fly her back to Michigan in a medical helicopter so she could spend her days around people that loved her.
When she arrived, she was nothing like the grandma I knew. The cancer, chemo, and radiation had taken her hope. Her face was burnt, covered in dried blood, and she was skin and bones. My aunt, a nurse, became her caretaker, and as time progressed and much work, she regained strength and ability. I think a lot of this improvement came from being around her family. Never underestimate being around people you love and that love you.
With my grandma having oral cancer, the radiation was done on her jawline, making it hard to communicate verbally. It was painful and when she did try to talk, it was hard to understand. As a 14-year-old, I tried to understand the words, saying back what I thought she had said, but I knew I wasn't getting it right. She looked frustrated, I felt bad, but I looked into her eyes and I could feel the love she was sending my way non-verbally and I was grateful.
Those moments of eyes-locked, silent interaction are one of the most meaningful moments and I will never forget the ones with my grandma.
As my family surrounded her bed, eyes bloodshot from tears, we touched her spot-aged hands to feel the warmth for the last time. My mom's leg started bouncing uncontrollably from the uncomfortable impact of the moment and I watched it shake the bed slightly. In that moment I was mad at her for this, the last moments of my grandma's life distracted by a constant bounce. I touched her leg and she slowed, the tears on the edge of her eyes. This bounce was her coping mechanism.
My dad took his mother's wrist in his hand as my aunt told my grandma it was OK to go towards the white light, that we were OK. She shut the breathing machine off and she said it again gently. My dad felt as her pulse slowed and stopped. We watched as the last exhale left her body 9 years ago today.
As I was thinking of her throughout the day, I began making a mental list of things that I remember about her. I was 16-years-old when she passed, so the way I looked at moments was juvenile and different than I would today, but these are some of the things I thought of
-pearly pink nails
-gardening
-lipstick
-coffee
-4th of July parties
-peanut butter cereal bars
-classical music
-the one time I spent the night at her house
-those pesky deer eating her garden
-snow bird
-the Samantha American Girl doll she got me for Christmas
-bird clock that tweeted every hour
-flower embroidered sweatshirts
-sitting around her kitchen table talking
-her stack of crafts and novels on her kitchen table
-her stubborness
-her strength
-telling me that she was glad I didn't wear a lot of makeup because I looked beautiful naturally
-always trying to teach me something, whether it be personally or with a science kit for my birthday
-so excited to give me clothes she found at a yard sale
-when she came to my cheer competition even though she was weak and ill
-visiting her in Florida and picking grapefruit every morning
...just to name a few. Miss and love her forever.
