Rideology

Oh me, oh my, I bought a bicycle. This was all part of the 10-year plan but it came about a year earlier than expected. Let me explain.

I decided earlier this summer that I should wait until next summer to buy a road bike. That would give me time to save money, do research, and write my will. The only problem was I didn’t stop looking at used bikes on Craigslist and KSL Classifieds. (Note to self: “If you look, you will buy.”)

Bicycles and I have a long, somewhat complicated history. Here’s the run-down:

A Quick History of Bicycles

First (circa 1991) I inherited a light pink vintage girl’s bike with a banana seat from my sister’s best friend. I was eight-years-old when my dad taught me how to ride. We went to a construction area in my neighborhood where a brand new elementary school was being built. The area was deserted and after several trials and many errors I was riding like a pro. I was amazed that with the right momentum the bicycle would just “go” by itself. When I felt confident enough to go home and show my mom what I had learned I underestimated the difficulty of steering on a sidewalk. The bike made its way out of a driveway and, as my parents watched, I was nearly hit by a car. Talk about a great beginning!

A year or two after the new school was completed I found myself getting teased a lot for having such an old bike. One day I went to Burger King with my mom and the lady at the drive thru handed us a kid’s trivia booklet. I filled out the booklet and mailed it into Burger Kind headquarters as the instructions indicated. The number of questions answered correctly determined the number of times participants were entered into a drawing for prizes. A few weeks later I got a letter from Burger King congratulating me for winning a bike kit. I had no idea what it that could include but I hoped and prayed it meant I had won a halfway normal-looking bike.

As I counted down to the delivery of my mysterious “bike kit” I rehearsed for a school talent show with my best friend Naomi. We did a skit where I sat on her lap with a sheet covering me up to my neck and a table in front of me. I kept my arms out of sight while her arms were visible and acted as though they belonged to my body. The table was full of objects and Naomi had to blindly find them and use them as I recited a monologue my mom had written. I specifically remember putting on lipstick and getting a tin pie pan filled with whipped cream squished in my face. It was really fun and it was great to know my mom was in the audience.

Our performance happened to coincide with April Fool’s Day. When we got home my mom said we did a good job. She also told me there was a surprise in the garage. I thought, “This is it! I might have a new bike!” Naomi and I rushed into the garage and found a large cardboard box addressed to me. I was disappointed there was no bike but we took the box into the living room to open it up in front of my mom. She had a huge smile on her face. I carefully cut the packing tape, opened the box and reached inside. I grabbed a handful of cushioned nylon material and pulled it out with my eyes closed. When I opened them I was very puzzled to see a very familiar sight – one of my old taupe snow boots. Worst thing was, there only one. Or perhaps the worst thing was my mom bursting out in hysterical laughter.

This is probably a good time to tell you my mom is a big jokester. She once forged a letter from the First Presidency and sent it to her friend to inform her that all full-time missions were being extended by six months. Her friend’s identical twin sons, who were about to come home, were instead going to miss a third Christmas at home. The poor woman was devastated until my mom confessed her prank and assured her that the boys would be home in time for Christmas.

Back to the boot. My mom was laughing, Naomi’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and I was wondering if the entire Burger King letter was one of my mom’s scams. I was really sad. Before I could start crying in earnest my mom pulled out a box with a much more official postage label. I hardly trusted it to be the real deal. My mom swore it was. This time the box revealed a pair of biking gloves, a helmet, a water bottle and a Haro sports bag. I was thrilled and for a long time I considered it one of the best days of my life. The only problem was none of the modern, streamlined items coordinated very well with a floofy, frilly light pink bicycle.

Second (circa 1995)

I remember trying to bargain with my parents. “What if we sell the pink bike and use that money to pay for a new bike?” They replied that it was wrong to sell a gift. Instead, years passed and I finally outgrew my bike. Hallelujah! Seventh grade was right around the corner and my parents took 5’2” me to the store to buy a new bike. We found something well under $100 and thoroughly less embarrassing than the pink bike. My new bike was dark green with thick tires, four gears and magenta accents. I also got a new Bell helmet and with that I was ready to ride. I rode the bike to middle school with Rosario countless times but there was a problem – I kept getting flat tires. That left Rosario with a difficult decision to either ride on without me or walk beside me and my useless bike. She was a great friend and always stuck beside me unless I insisted she go ahead without me.

My dad fixed all of my flats and even though we bought special tubes they still got punctured. The combination of constant flat tires and increasing social pressure at school led to a decrease in my riding. During this time my dad was getting into mountain biking and although my sister was brave enough to go with him a couple of times I could never gather the courage to ride with them. I knew that it would be easier to pick up the hobby early in life as opposed to waiting until I was grown up and brave enough. However, as my dad came home with bruises upon bruises, cuts and even broken ribs, I became cemented in my refusal to ride. By my sophomore year of high school my bike had turned gray with a thick layer of dust.

Third (made in 1987, bought in 2011)

The last time I rode my green bike I was probably 15-years-old. There is a certain amount of guilt associated with wanting something so bad, finally receiving it, enjoying it for a while, and then abandoning it as soon as it becomes incompatible with your lifestyle. I had begged for that bike but in the end the pink bike had been a steadier companion. When I began browsing for my current bike I wanted something with a solid reputation – something I would be proud to sit on. I eliminated the cruiser category because I wanted to get something light enough to lift. I eliminated the mountain bike category because of my deeply burrowed fear of getting injuries like my dad’s. That left me with one traditional category: road bikes. And so the search began.

I am usually very meticulous when researching a big purchase. I am usually positive I have enough money before handing over the funds. I figured that buying a bike next summer would be the way to go, but when I spotted a used red and white Bianchi Premio on Craigslist, I lost all control. I was disheartened to see that the seller lived an hour and a half away so I decided to calmly send an email and see if the bike was still available. (It had been posted three weeks prior.) Over the next 24 hours I pushed it out of my head and prepared myself for disappointment. When I found out the bike was still available, I started carving out time in my schedule to drive to M-town the next day.

When I arrived at the seller’s home I caught a glimpse of the bike leaning against the frame of the garage door. As much as I wanted to hold onto all of the $20 bills I had just taken out of the ATM, my heart jumped at the mere sight of the bike’s brilliant red frame and worn white tires. It had to be mine. The seller was very patient with me and worked with me for almost an hour as I learned how to ride, turn, shift gears, and stop. One time I panicked and forgot where the brakes were and was well on my way to crashing into the neighbor’s fence before I bailed. Before I left the seller gave me a small rock with an angel painted on it to keep me safe. That day I drove home with a few bruises, a bike in the back of my car and a huge smile on my face.

Present Day

I completely underestimated how hard it would be to “learn” to ride a road bike. Either my 12-year hiatus from riding bicycles is to blame or I am the biggest chicken in the world. A month ago I was only willing to ride on deserted residential streets in a gated community. I’ve made progress thanks to patient friends and their contagious taste for adventure. Three practice rides with friends and two solo rides later I can honestly tell you I have a love/hate relationship with my bike. There are moments when I’m convinced I’ve done the right thing and I might be a roadie for life. I dream of my next bike – most certainly a Bianchi, preferable painted Celeste – and think about participating in some kind of triathlon. Then there are moments when I want to call it quits, snap a photo of my bike and post it on Craigslist before I get in a wreck.

Today I was walking my bike along the side of the road to a stoplight where I intended to begin my first ride in two weeks. Another cyclist passed me and asked if everything was alright. I told him I was just learning and didn’t want to begin my ride in the street. He wished me well and continued on his way. An hour and a half later he found me again. This time we were on our way down the canyon and I was hating life. My hands, wrists, arms, shoulders and neck were all exhausted from braking during the constant descent down the canyon. We rode and talked for a while and he clued me in that even though the experienced cyclists make it look easy, it never is easy. It is always hard. He encouraged me to keep at it and not give up.

Although my rideology might fluctuate between ends of the spectrum during the course of one ride, one thing is for certain: Good things in life are hard to come by and once you get them it is a fight to hold onto them. Sometimes our own guilt, regret and fear rip our dreams right out of our grasp. Other times it is the mocking glances, whispered rumors and pointing fingers of our peers that reduce us to sniveling messes. Whether the opposition is physical or social, inflicted or self-imposed, real or imagined there is no doubt our bodies, our courage and the people that surround us can fail us. The part that matters is whether or not you hit the brakes and bail. For me, there only seems to be one choice. “Ride On.”

Salt

I was about 8 or 9-years-old the first time I saw the Great Salt Lake. It was the grand finale of a week-long family vacation. We had driven all the way to Colorado to visit my mom's grandparents and then we met up with several family members to celebrate my paternal grandmother's birthday in Park City. We rode the alpine slide and took a nighttime ride on a ski lift. I had never seen a landscape quite like that one and I bought a postcard to try to remember the beauty I had seen. It was the perfect end to a summer day. It was sad to think that soon we would be driving home. It seemed we had been on the go for weeks (I had the blisters on my feet to prove it) but we had one more stop to make before heading back to California.

While I rely on postcards and photographs to conjure distant memories I will probably never forget approaching the Great Salt Lake dressed in swimming gear. My older sister ran out to the water with my two cousins. My parents had explained that the lake was shallow and the water was so salty it practically held you up off the ground. At that age I had a very difficult time floating in water (I was skin and bones) and I was fascinated with Peter Pan. I constantly wondered what it would be like to walk on a cloud. I looked out on the water and heard my sister and cousins playing and laughing and longed to join them. There was one problem: I was incredibly grossed out by the 10 foot stretch of filthy black silt mixed with seagull poop that surrounded the lake for as far I could see. The only way to get in the water was to walk through the muck. I stood on the sandy shore and considered my options: watch my sister and cousins have fun or go join them. Someone cheerily explained that the ‘mud’ would quickly dissolve the second I stepped into the water. “Hmm… that couldn’t be too bad,” I thought. I unlaced my canvas tennis shoes.

I set my shoes and socks in the sand and took a stomach twisting step into the slime. My other foot followed and I tried to move carefully so it wouldn’t spatter onto my legs. It was a torturous balancing act to move fast enough to suit my unsteady stomach but slow enough to ensure my footing. At last I reached the water and lifted my blackened foot over the water’s surface. The water was warm and I quickly stepped in, happy to be free of the wasteland behind me. My hopeful feet had expected to be buoyed up as though I were standing on a spongy cloud but in a moment I knew something was terribly wrong.

As soon as my feet were immersed they began to burn, and I mean burn. This mysterious water had somehow managed to set my feet on fire. I threw my head back and screamed. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I cried as loud as I could. How could my sister and cousins not feel this burning? Convinced that the seagull sludge was burning my feet, I futilely sloshed my feet in the stupid magic water in an attempt to unslime myself. Someone yelled, “Get out of the water!” To my great dismay I stepped back in the seagull poo. I shifted my weight from side to side crying, “My feet, my feet!” Through squinted tear-filled eyes I could see my dad running toward me. He picked me up and ran so fast toward the parking lot I thought I’d bounce right out of his arms and into the excrement. Luckily that didn’t happen. Instead he found an outdoor shower head and turned it on full blast. My uncle helped him point the freezing cold water at my feet. The water cleared away all the grime and exposed bright red blisters slightly obscured by transparent flapping skin. The salt water had done quite a number on my poor blistered feet.

After my feet were clean I sat wrapped in a beach blanket on the passenger seat of my uncle’s giant camping van. The pain soon subsided but I was so upset and confused it took a while to stop crying. Lucky for me my uncle had been generous enough to share a bag of ranch-flavored CornNuts with me and they were a great distraction. Finally the pressure in my chest released and I was able to laugh about what just happened.

I learned a simple lesson that day: you don’t expose open blisters to salt water. Ever. My parents always did their best to teach and protect me but there’s no way they could warn me about every single risk in life. I’ve had to discover many of them on my own. Sometimes we look at people in the distance and say, “That’s where I want to be. That’s what I want to do.” We put ourselves through a lot of crap to get there only to find out we don’t belong. Instead we have to turn and retreat. Sometimes it is a public spectacle but many times these battles are private. We can scream and shout when we don’t get our way. Our parents come running. Sometimes we accept their help and sometimes we swat it away. Regardless, they won’t abandon us in our hour of need. It doesn’t matter if we’re surrounded by darkness and filth or burning in a pool of consequences. They understand the world’s luring power but more importantly they understand what it is like to hurt. I’m grateful for parents who carried me from danger and showered me with love, even when the water was freezing cold.

Grandma Campbell

As a kid I walked to elementary school with my best friend every day. Winter temperatures often plummeted below freezing but it only snowed once every five years or so. Instead of finding the satisfying layer of snow that we would dream of, Naomi and I were instead surrounded by sparkling frost-covered roofs, cars and lawns. Just looking around made my teeth chatter. We would get to school and carefully wipe down the monkey bars before braving the wet structure. If you asked me on any one of those morning I would tell you I'd prefer to be hot than cold. It was a decision I made early in my life and stuck to like glue. I think this preference comes from my dad's side of the family. My mom, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. I find that hilarious because her mom was the complete opposite of her. Grandma Campbell loved the sun and sought out climates hotter than even I could handle. Her sunny disposition, magnetic personality and adventurous nature blended in perfectly wherever she went.

When I was growing up Grandma lived a few hours south in an upscale south Bay Area town. I loved going down for family visits but the best thing was when she'd visit us after a long trip abroad. She'd pull up to our house and dig around in her trunk for a huge bag of souvenirs she'd bought for us. I oohed and aahed at every item, puzzling at their origins. I have no doubt that my grandma gave me the travel bug. She was a true wanderer and thanks to an incredible work ethic, impressive career and comfortable retirement she was able to travel anywhere she could dream of. It never seemed to bother her that she was alone - she just kept doing what she wanted. She was amazing.

In the fall of 1989 I was in Kindergarten. One day I came home from school and was playing in the kitchen with my sister and her best friend. They were pretending to dance all crazy to a song in the radio. Suddenly their movements became very convincing and we felt like the whole room was moving. Then we realized it was actually shaking. The walls felt like they could close in on us and the whole house groaned. The song on the radio was abruptly cut off and the people on the station were shouting that there was an earthquake in San Francisco. We realized what was happening and got under the kitchen table. After a few short minutes the quake ended and we went outside to check on my mom and the day care kids. Everyone was fine as was the house. My grandma, however, had a completely different experience in her Bay Area home. She had barely escaped serious injury when her tall, solid wood entertainment center came crashing down in her path and strewed shards of glass everywhere. Several items in her house were completely destroyed and we knew how lucky she had been to make it out of there physically intact. She had been so emotionally affected by the quake that she decided to promptly move. Next stop: Hurricane Central.

I remember being sad that Grandma was moving to Florida. My attitude changed when my parents explained that if we saved our money very carefully for the next four years, we may be able to afford a trip to visit Grandma and go to Disney World. We did just that and when I was ten I took my first plane ride. The trip was absolutely amazing. We spent the first week on the beaches near North Fort Myers. I had never seen anything like the fine white sand on the beaches. It was like walking on flour. Even better were the treasures hidden in the sand. My grandma spent a lot of time with me looking for shells. My favorite excursion was the time we all went to Shark Tooth Beach (at least that's what she called it) and dug for ancient blackish-gray shark teeth that were hundreds of years old. I bought a post card which identified the teeth of several species of local sharks and tried to match them with those I found. Grandma helped me and my mom grimaced as the plastic bags full of teeth and shells began to pile up in the trunk.

Everything with Grandma was an adventure. One of the funniest experiences of my life was the day we went to Venice Beach. My family had just gotten situated with our towels strategically placed on the white hot sand. We were pulling out sandwiches and Cheetos when we saw the most bizarre sight coming towards us: five women who appeared to be wearing itsy bitsy bikinis. My Grandma's jaw dropped (which is funny because she was wearing a bikini herself) and all of us wondered if one of the women was wearing any clothes at all. By the time they picked a place close to the water they had turned every head in sight. Everyone on the beach wanted to go in for a closer look, but my grandma had a secret weapon: incredibly reflective sunglasses that would prevent anyone from telling what she was looking at. She walked toward the water very calmly, dipped her feet in, turned to face the women, tried to suppress a look of shock, and quickly returned to our camp to report that the women were indeed wearing clothes and that every last one of them was wearing the tiniest thong bikinis imaginable. We laughed maniacally as men passed by the group of women and accidentally dropped things they were carrying, knocked down sandcastles, or fell into holes dug by children. It was the best entertainment we could ask for.

Over the next several years we were delighted when Grandma would come to visit us in California. I'll always remember her busily preparing Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt's house. Her ability to multitask convinced me she must be some kind of magical sorceress. The kitchen was her realm, love was her spell and gravy was her potion. As I grew older we realized we had a lot in common. We were both into make-up, shiny objects, glittery clothing and flashy jewelry. We thoroughly enjoyed making crafts and performing in productions. I loved discovering our similarities and strove to connect with her on a more grown up level, the way I'd never gotten a chance to do with Grandma Cuca. I knew time was precious but I assumed time would be abundant. Grandma Campbell was young and vivacious. Even better, Grandma would soon be moving a little closer to home. She'd had her fill of the Florida hurricanes and was headed for her next place of residence: Sin City. Grandma found her livelihood by starring as an extra in various movies. I was very proud to know that she was making the most of her time in Vegas. Even better, she was a movie star!

Around the same time I was preparing to leave the country to serve a mission in Brazil. I knew that life would continue to go on without me while I was away for 18 months. There was no guarantee that everyone would still be there waiting for me upon my return. It was a risk I was willing to take but maybe that's because I was 21 and didn't know any better. When I arrived in Rio de Janeiro I was grateful to have experienced humidity in Florida or I may have just collapsed from shock. Halfway through my mission I was working in a mountainous region in a city originally founded by German and Swiss settlers. My part of the city was built into a mountainside and everywhere I went I was either climbing up (and wishing my pack would get lighter) or going down hills (and wishing my toes would stop smashing into the fronts of my shoes). Regardless of the physical demands I was very happy. I was surrounded by wonderful people and enjoyed my time there. One week I received an email from my mom saying that my grandma had decided to move to my hometown in the North Bay area. I was excited to know that for the first time in my life she'd be living only 15 minutes away.

One morning our doorbell rang very early. Sister Richey and I used the intercom to ask who was there and the voice identified himself as Elder Miles (he was the leader of the local missionary district - maybe a year younger than me). Sister Richey and I walked downstairs and wondered why on earth the elders would be at our house. When we opened the door and saw the look on their faces I knew something was wrong. Elder Jones looked at Elder Miles and Elder Miles looked right at me. I saw deep sympathy in his eyes. He told me I needed to call President Quatel immediately. We borrowed their telephone card and walked to the pay phone in a nearby parking lot. The city streets were very still in the early morning hours. The deafening silence was broken as I dialed each digit of that fateful call. President answered and I identified myself. He told me my parents had called to inform him that my grandmother had passed away. He said I could call my parents and talk to them for as long as I needed, I just had to walk to the branch president's house first. I indicated that I understood him and hung up the phone. As I stood looking at the three Americans surrounding me in this place so far from home I felt the first tears break the surface. I wanted to be home. I wanted to know what had happened to Grandma. She'd had diabetes for years but was controlling it with medication. I began to fear that she had died in some kind of accident. I couldn't bear the thought of her passing in pain and fear.

Two hours later Sister Richey and I were on our way to President Eleazar's house. We had been there many times before and I knew the route was arduous. Few roads were as steep and windy as the one that led to his house. I couldn't climb fast enough. Thoughts flew through my mind - memories of the Florida beaches, her California home, our holidays together - I was in complete disbelief that there would be no new memories. Up and up we went. The higher we climbed the farther my heart wandered from Brazil. I would have crawled on my hands and knees the entire way if it meant my mom wouldn't be at home crying and my family could be put back together. My grandma was the anchor of the family and without her we would wander like a ship in a storm with no bearing. Waves would crash over us, separate us, make us question what we believed. In the open water we'd find ourselves in darkness waiting for rescue from despair. Would we come out of it as an intact family or as individuals fractured by such an unfair loss of life?

We finally arrived at Eleazar's and I called home. I talked to my mom and with a broken voice she explained what had happened. Grandma had just finished moving to my hometown. My aunt stopped at her place to check on her. She saw that she was sleeping in her bed with an open book in her hand, holding perfectly still. Too still. Despite my aunt's efforts, my grandma never woke up. She had simply gone to bed and slipped out of this mortal existence. Peacefully, painlessly, fearlessly. It was an ideal passing. However, the timing was unbearable. Losing someone so unexpectedly shakes you and makes you question the foundation of everything you know. The safe and comfortable house I had built to protect my heart, mind and beliefs was trembling. The floor was rolling, the walls were moving in, the furniture was tipping over, and everywhere I looked there were paths of broken glass. I could only slide under the kitchen table, put my hands over my head and wait for it to be over, hoping that those left outside my walls would find safety and shelter. I was alone in Brazil to brave the quake, flee the aftershocks, and rebuild what had been damaged. I prayed that my family would be left unscathed.

I feel a tremendous amount of guilt that I couldn't be home to attend the funeral services. My parents sent me a copy of the funeral program, my dad's talk and the eulogy my uncle had given. I sat on my bed and read along. I sang the songs listed there and held my own memorial service out of sight from Sister Richey. I knew the coming years would be very different without my Grandma Campbell but I found a source of solace in the words of one of the hymns sung at her funeral:

The Lord is my Shepherd; no want shall I know.

I feed in green pastures; safefolded I rest.

He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow,

Restores me when wandering, redeems when oppressed,

Restores me when wandering, redeems when oppressed.

Years have passed since I lost my grandma. As the anniversary of her passing approaches I am drawn to thoughts of her. I always knew she had a wandering soul. Maybe she started her last great adventure a little sooner than the rest of us were ready for. I just hope with all my heart that wherever she is now she can feel the sun on her skin, hear waves breaking, walk miles of white sandy beaches and find new treasures in the sand. She's free of life's storms, bodily pain and mortal strife. I just hope she'll still visit home every once in a while.

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.