a light has gone out of my life

Grandma--top right--with her mother and kids (there's my mom with the black hair!)

This week, my grandmother lost her battle to pancreatic cancer. Some of you might remember briefly hearing about this back in October, when we first found out and still hoped it'd been caught early enough.

Given that this is not exactly the best place to disclose too many details, I won't go much into her last few weeks. Suffice it to say that while she was indeed in a lot of pain and spent a lot of time sad or afraid, she still actively maintained a positive attitude and never wanted anyone else to worry about her. For awhile, I invented different flavors of smoothies to bring her, and when she was still eating, she requested a lot of baked goods. I practically sprinted home every night to make her whatever she asked for, but she didn't end up actually finishing a whole lot of it.

There's been a lot of grief. I would even admit that most of it probably hasn't hit me in full force yet. However, my grandma wasn't the kind of lady who wanted anyone to dwell on unhappiness. Having said that, I think anyone reading this deserves to know exactly what kind of woman she was.

My grandmother always said her greatest hope was to see her daughters and granddaughters grow up to be ladies who also knew when to curse like sailors.

She always had enough food in her kitchen for anyone who was visiting--and if she didn't, she practically teleported to the nearest Asian market to go get some more.

She was a banging mother. I'm not even remotely doing her justice here, but she spent years as a single, hardworking mom with four kids in a country that wasn't hers--and she refused help from her well-off relatives because (in her words) she was too proud and wanted to make her life herself.

She was always running around in her little trademark straw fedoras. For her birthday one year, Marcus and I each bought her new ones. Jesus, she loved those hats. If it wasn't hats, it was colorful hair clips. Accessorizing runs in the family.

She was an unbelievably strong lady. Her life reads like a damn Univision soap opera, except all of it actually happened. She went through some serious adversity. I would even argue she was still going through a lot of it before cancer even became present in her life. I never heard her being negative or down on herself--she waved everything off and said it wasn't worth the fuss.

She said I had her face, and she loved that. She always called me her mini-me to anyone she introduced me to. After she did, my mom said "you have so much of her in you" and cried.

She was unbelievably crass. Seriously, appearance-wise, she fit the textbook definition of a sweet old Spanish grandmother, but the things that came out of her mouth were insane. I couldn't get enough. She somehow managed to relate to everyone because she never acted like she was above them--she had the raunchy vocabulary to prove it, too.

My grandma was universally compassionate and loving. She could make anyone feel like the most important person in the world to her--and so many people adored her. She had so much room in her heart for everyone, and it would be arrogant to assume you came first in her life because of it. We never minded, of course--knowing anyone, much less a person you're related to, who has that much capability to love, is an incredible gift. I don't care how many people thought of her as their grandma even if they weren't related to us. She probably felt just like one, and I love that. 

She knew everyone. Seriously. If she didn't, she at least found common ground with them. I can't tell you how many times we'd be grocery shopping when she ran into someone with an accent she recognized. She'd proceed to engage them in Tagalog and carry on a full, enthusiastic conversation. She had connections out the wazoo, and I finally just decided to go through life assuming she did know everyone in our immediate proximity rather than not.

We used to fight about the way I wanted to dress. I remember clearly, for my first homecoming dance, I just wanted to wear a conservative dress with sleeves, and in the middle of Kohl's, we had an argument about it. "No granddaughter of mine is going to a school dance dressed like that!" she declared, waving the sequined, strappy, ass-grazing number she favored for me instead. "You're going to show off what you've got, young lady! If you've got it, you'd better flaunt it!" I can almost guarantee very few similar arguments have ever occurred between a grandmother and a granddaughter. This continued until I came into myself over the years and eventually transitioned into a style I felt more comfortable in (which now includes a lot of printed dresses). 

Following that, in her last few weeks, she'd always want to be touching me or my clothing. I got into the habit of wearing her favorite dresses, then laying down next to her. From her little bed, she'd play with the patterns on my tights or dresses and smile for an hour at a time.

I could go on for hours about the things that made this woman someone I was lucky to be able to grow up near. So much of who I am is because of her. I probably can't even begin to guess how many people in the world consider themselves lucky to know her.

It hasn't hit me all the way yet. The hole in my life no longer being filled by her presence feels like a dream to me still. I keep thinking that if I just dial her phone number, she'll answer me like always.

I can't say when this is going to become more of an immediate reality to me. I've never experienced a death of a loved one before, and this was kind of like losing my queen in the beginning of a chess game. There's never going to be a way to replace her--not that I'd ever want to.

I only hope I was able to do her justice and appreciate her enough while she was here. I let her know all the time how much I loved her and wanted to be near her, but somehow I still wonder if it was enough.

If she was sitting here, she'd probably have smacked me in the arm by now, rolled her eyes, and told me to stop it already.

Jesus, we all loved her so much.

The hospice worker told us to say "see you later" instead of "goodbye", because we had every reason to believe we'd see her again someday. I don't know where I stand on that, but I sincerely hope it's true, because I'd give anything to have her back.

Wherever she is, I hope she's unimaginably happy. Someone like her deserves nothing less.