I Don't Want to Lose You

I think of my Gramma a lot, and the more I think about her, the more I want to just spend time with her. I remember her smile while I'm at work, her wisdom as I go through challenging times. Her ability to get a Khol’s employee to accept a 1-year expired coupon, every time I’m on Central Ave. Growing up it was odd to not see her at least twice a week. She was always “gramma”. She was always my best friend. I was her permanent shotgun, her daytime TV buddy. She is an amazing woman and I have looked up to her for as long as I can remember. Her whole life she has dedicated to others. As a mother, a substance abuse counselor, a musician, a shoulder to cry on and a diary whose lock would never be picked.

When I think of her, I try to give her a call. But now that I'm older, our schedules conflict and that’s when I miss those early days the most. Last week was one of those weeks. Overwhelmed with work, school, and preparing for my sibling’s graduation party, it seemed by the time I’d try to call she’d already be asleep. There were notes sporadically placed on my desk “call gramma”, “try to call gramma right after work”, “ask gramma to have dinner!” to remind myself. I texted, called, but heard nothing back. My mother said she wasn’t feeling well, and with the hot weather I assumed it was her COPD. I went on, my movements a montage of mundane everyday life. “She’s in the hospital, we think she’s had a stroke.” My mother throws out on Tuesday night. “Well then I’m coming with to see her.” I replied.

The ride was a blur, I had no idea how lucky I was to be able to visit her. They had just opened up visitation that day, finally lifting Covid restrictions. The Inside was modern, and confusing. Twists and turns, tables and signs everywhere, Like a directory for a ‘Where’s Waldo’ page. Walking in I had no idea. I still thought It was a stroke. Her crow's feet stretched across her lower lids, shaking mannequin hands outstretched for hugs. She began to talk about test results. Biopsy, metastatic, quality of life, radiation. Cancer.

I was molasses, the rest of the world swarming bees. Memories kept drifting into my head as I sat with her, and I thought “I don’t think I’ll ever not need you.” Her words faded, everything getting further and further from me. I stood up, pushed my way into the hallway, following signs to a bathroom. I paced there for a long time- the word was a lot heavier than I had anticipated. The glossy tile walls felt hot, my heartbeat jumping off the echoed ground. I thought about how I lost my grandpa, how I always regretted not spending more time with him. How I needed to get back out there because she could be gone tomorrow, today, and I didn’t want to be in this stupid bathroom that had 4 half used poo-pourri bottles sitting on the vanity. I tried so hard to push myself out of that bathroom and back to her hospital room. But the air refused my lungs, my face was red and I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

It took me a long time to pick myself up off the floor. Even longer for my face to look somewhat normal. I knew it would break her heart if she saw I was crying. My gramma had always been strong. I felt I owed it to her to be strong for her now, but it was easier said than done. I splashed myself with some water, washing away the rest of the feverish cry inside of me. I wonder if I would of handled it better if I hadn’t felt so blindsided.

Going back to see her the next few days, I saw a different woman than who I remembered. She was preparing for radiation. Hair flat, fizzled and drab, her roots showing. No makeup to be seen on her face. Words never associated with my gramma. She was always well put together, but now she wasn’t able to do things like curl her hair or wear foundation. An independent “put myself through college while raising four kids” kind of woman. Now deflated, unable to uncap a straw or eat without assistance. I could see it was difficult for her to let go of those most basic independencies. Of the ability to do such a seemingly menial task.

She is beautiful without the curled hair, the makeup or the hair dye. But to me, those are part of who she is, just as much as singing and playing the piano and breathing are. Cancer was in her lungs and brain, causing her left side to not work like it should. I helped her to the bathroom, her leg trail behind, unable to move of it’s own accord, a puppet with cut strings. Her reached, bruised hands for help, me rubbing her back as she threw up. I cut her food, moved her left arm when it fell from it’s perch. I watch as she slowly forgets things that have just happened, forgets names, places. She gets worse, a staff infection and a wheelchair. She can’t play the piano anymore and I think that upsets her more than anything. Music’s been her whole life, and mine too.

She asked me to play for her, I plan to when I see her next, even though I've long forgotten the chords. I find myself thinking about how she most likely won’t be there for my wedding, my birthdays, but mostly I just can’t fathom what life will be like without her in it. I imagine quite a bit darker. I try not to think about it too much though.

She almost cried when her PT doctor asked if she could pray for her. “I’ll never turn down a prayer, I need as many as I can get.” I’ve never been very religious, but for her I'd pray day and night if it meant she could stay with us for just a second longer. Growing up whenever I’d ask her how old she was, she’d say, “Older than dirt.” we’d laugh ourselves silly, I'd ask her how she’d stayed alive so long if she was really older than dirt, and one time she responded, “water, prayer, and love.” those are things she’s got lots of and I’ve never wished something was that true in my whole life.

I tell her things that make her smile, make her laugh. How when I first tried to see her at the hospital I walked into a closet. Or when my cousin changed her ‘preferred name’ on the white board to “Vape Lord Glor.” The brightness in her tired eyes returning for a few moments. She talks about death a lot. But I suppose being one of 2 remaining siblings out of 9, she’s had it on her mind for a while. She told us everything would be alright, and that she’s fine if she dies. “you know, I’ve had a lot of difficult things happen in my life. But despite all of that, I’m loved and have had a blessed 78 years of life. I hope that you won’t be too sad, you guys.” All she ever wanted for us was to keep smiling. So even though I’m afraid to lose her.... so afraid that sometimes I want to hide away and pretend this is all just some terrible dream brought on by my anxieties; I keep filing away happy memories in meticulous cabinets .

It doesn’t surprise me that she’s accepted whatever happens. I’m not sure if I will or not when it does, but I want to etch these moments into stone so they can always be there, even if the stories themselves are forgotten. I don’t want to forget her like I've forgotten my grandpa. I want to remember the things that made her who she was. Those gentle hugs, those stories she’s told a million times, and the ones we’re hearing for the first time. The laughter that echoed in the halls of the TRIAGE West Wing. I want to remember it all.