Grandma Cuca

I am the youngest of my parent's four daughters. This means I get to tease my parents a lot for being old. I have always been quite content as the youngest child (I know what you're thinking: "spoiled rotten") but beside a few advanced privileges (getting my ears pierced and wearing make-up a little earlier than my sisters) I feel like I was treated the same as any other middle class girl in similar circumstances. The only downfall of being so young is that I've seen many of my father's relatives age and pass away. Some passed away when I was too young to remember, but one will never be far from my mind.

My Grandma Cuca lived in my hometown for as long as I could remember. She was in an apartment complex for elderly people on the other side of town. I loved going over there. My favorite memories were walking through the community garden and going to McDonald's on Mission Avenue to buy hotcakes. They were called pancakes everywhere else, but at "our" McDonald's you had to call them hotcakes or they wouldn't understand what you were asking for. I remember awkwardly cutting the spongy concoction with my clumsy hands. I tried to cut nine perfect tic-tac-toe slices just the way Mom would cut French toast on Saturday mornings but I could never get it quite right. My grandma would reach across the table and easily take control of the flimsy plastic utensils with her experienced and steady hands.

I remember one day I sat in her living room looking at her hands. I was probably six or seven-years-old. My eyes traced the curious lines and marks that her life had left there. She held up my hand next to hers and pointed out how they were shaped similarly (long and thin) even though mine was a fraction of the size of hers. Curiosity overcame me and I held her hand and traced the lines, bumps and bones with my finger. I lightly pressed down on one of the protruding purple veins, astonished at how stubbornly it would pop back up again. My grandma could have taken offense to this poking and prodding but she just sat quietly next to me, allowing me to explore her aged hands.

The best times with my grandma were the Friday nights when I could sleep over at her house by myself. The neatest thing was that she had a TV in her bedroom. It was the kind that you had to turn a knob to change the channel but I loved it. One night she had recently gotten a waterbed and I was very excited to sleep on it. I woke up the next morning with wet hair and we discovered it had sprung a small leak. We were vexed and laughed about it. She might have said something about not having to take a bath that day. As much as I strain to remember these precious days and nights with my grandma, they seem to stray further away. I can't grasp them. I can't remember specific words or conversations. I try with all my might to remember the sound of her voice the way it was before she got sick but so many years have passed that I'm not sure how I'll be able to hold on to what I have left.

Tonight as I tried to fall asleep images of her apartment kept popping into my mind. I tried to zoom in on the small things - the sofa with the high curved back that reminded me of a turtle shell, the emergency pull cord in the bathroom, the brown glass in the lamp that hung from the ceiling. They fade in and out of view. I keep going back to her hands. They are a solid memory, one I can still feel. I can still see them tossing dough back and forth, deftly flipping a tortilla on the pan without getting burned, cutting potatoes to fry them the way Mom refused to do at home. I can see her hand held out behind her waiting for me to catch up to her in the garden or on the grocery store aisle where I could occasionally pick out a toy. I never had an unpleasant moment with my grandma, and if I did the memory has been wiped clean with all the others.

Grandma Cuca was diagnosed with throat cancer when I was eight. The doctors were puzzled as to what could be the cause of her illness. The only thing we could deduce was exposure to second hand smoke though we'll never know if that was the cause. I quickly gained a basic understanding of cancer, chemotherapy, radiation, and remission. Her battle went on for two years. There were good times and there were bad. When I was ten a new word entered my vocabulary: Hospice. It was what the doctors did for people who could no longer fight their illness. It meant we were going to set up a hospital bed in my sister's bedroom. That summer as I stayed home with my best friend, we would carefully watch for any movement from the bedroom in case she needed help walking. We would make sure all the toys were clear from the floor so Grandma couldn't trip on anything. My mom bought case after case of Ensure at Costco and eventually it became the only thing my grandma could consume. The raw skin and swelling under her bandages were a constant reminder that the cancer could one day block her throat. Time was running short and we stood and watched and cared over this gentle woman who had once done the same for us.

One day my mom came out of my grandma's room saying, "I think today is going to be the day." She told us that Grandma was pointing to a corner of the room and speaking to someone else in the room, someone my mom couldn't see. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the person looked like. My mom said she thought it was my grandma's brother Danny. Danny must be wearing all white. He must be glowing, healthy and young, his face framed by thick dark hair. He has his hands out to her. He is speaking quietly yet she can hear every word. He is here to bring her home.

I knew with all my heart that we had a kind of angel in our house at that very moment. He would be there until it was over, and maybe they could stay a while longer, and then they'd be gone. Within a few hours my grandma had passed. This struggle had broken our hearts, but we knew she was free of pain and medication. No more radiation burns, no more chemo-induced nausea. The only problem was that we didn't have her.

Time is so often cut short. I felt so cheated to have lost my grandma when I was ten. It was the first time I wished I had been my sisters' ages so I could have known her for five, ten, thirteen more years. Some nights I wonder how I've made it so many years without talking to her. I cry, I try to remember, I sing, I do whatever I can to feel her by me again, even if it's on that leaky waterbed from so long ago. On nights like this I'm glad I have a place to store these memories of the woman who shaped my early years and gently molded me in her delicate hands.