Yet no matter the way they're verbalized, it's hard to believe they're true. But, they are. My grandma died today.
Cancer. That's what did it. Cancer. And she fought it like hell, too. She had a way of making you almost believe she didn't even have it. She'd refer to her new chemo buzz-cut as "my sexy new hairdo" and her illness as "my annoying little problem." I never saw her cry. I never saw her weak.
A few nights before I left for New York, my brother Bradley and I visited Grandma Maria's house, a lovely (read: completely messy but I wouldn't have it any other way) little townhouse in Lake St. Louis. She moved nearby after my grandpa died exactly 5 summers ago. We drove around town, scoping out the best places to nab some dinner. Bradley was always slightly embarrassed to go out with Grandma. The last time they went out for IHOP pancakes she tried to get the young waitress' number for him while he was in the bathroom. No surprise there. That was Grandma.
We enjoyed each other's company and forkfuls of each other's meals for literally like 3 hours at Mimi's Cafe. It sounded Granny-ish I thought (Mimi's? C'mon that doesn't really scream awesome good kids' food...) as I pulled the Blueberry into the parking lot, but as Grandma knew best, it was one helluva great meal. And with every server that came our way, she beamed and boasted that her grandbaby was headed off to New York to work for a magazine and that I needed a good meal before eating ramen. Right again Grandma. And I knew she was right, I let her boast away. By age of 21 I finally realized, there's no stopping grandma when she wants to brag, so let her go. And secretly, I loved hearing it. She said everything I was too modest to say.
Rewind four months. January 2010. I spent a whole weekend at Grandma's over break. We sat around watching YouTube videos. I showed her the hilariousness of "Candy Mountain" and "Dane Cook." She showed me acts from a 60-year-old woman who does stand up comedy. We laughed so hard we cried. Then she scolded me for saying, "That woman is hilarious for being so old." Grandma was in her 60s. Woops. And when you think about it, 60 isn't really that old.
We laughed again. Hard. But this time she jolted up and made a sprint for the bathroom. The chemo made her bladder weak. She emerged from the bathroom yanking out a small tuff of fur (as we called it) from her head. "Annoying little problem," she joked.
"BZZZZ!" rang the timer on the dryer. I pull open the door and wrapped myself in the warm cotton sheets as I wrestled them out of the machine. She went to one side of the bed and I the other. "I'll show you how to make a bed perfectly. My Mom always scolded me if the corners weren't perfectly tight. Hospital corners, they're called," she instructed as we fluffed the sheet into the air.
"Gotta make it good, you know. I'm taking a Frenchman to bed with me tonight. He's a great kisser."
"Oh-mi-god Grandma!" Gilbert (or Jau-bear as we all called him in a French accent) is her woolly, white dog. Grandma was right. He's a tremendously great cuddler.
Rewind two months. November 2009. It was over Thanksgiving break when Aunt Nikki called to tell me Grandma was in the hospital, "We think it might be cancer." I grabbed Bradley, we hopped in the Blueberry and were on our way to West County. Aunty M worked as a nurse at St. John's and was sure to get Grandma some extra special care. We sat around her bed as she joked about how she couldn't wait to eat real food again (because of all the tests she had to drink these nasty fortified shakes).
But as it always was with Grandma, it wasn't about her. What had I been up to? How was my work? How was my school? Were there any new boys? Homecoming was finally over. I was back at Abercrombie for break, in fact, I had to leave in 45 minutes because I needed to go in for a shift. School was school, totally stressful, but still I was in line for another semester of all A's. Yes, there was a boy.
"Well go on... does he go to school with you?"
"No. He went to my high school. He works in construction now."
She high-fived me in front of the whole family, "Construction, huh?! I bet he's great with his hands!" My face went beet red.
"Oh-mi-God Grandma!" And well (I would NEVER had said this in front of the family) but Grandma was right.
Fast forward. Back to August 2010. Not even a year since my semi-public embarrassment and the beginning of Grandma's annoying little problem. It's hard (and hurtful) to think how much in one year I've grown so strong and she so frail. Frail but never weak. If there's anything Grandma taught me, it's to be a fighter.
It's to fight for what is right. Even after my Aunt went though hard times, my Grandma supported her. Family is family, no matter what mistakes they may make.
It's to fight for your dreams. Even when my own parents encouraged me to pursue a degree in teaching, Grandma encouraged me to do what I wanted, whether it was when I was 5 and wanted to go to Harvard, 13 and didn't know what the hell I wanted to do, 16 and wanted to be a psychiatrist or 21 and wanted to be a journalist in New York City.
It's to fight for what you believe in. My family wanted me to come home. But I knew Grandma's flaming German temper would kick in and even in a coma she'd find a way to scold me for missing out on my experiences in New York. So I stayed and experienced the beginning moments of my life as she experienced the last of hers. But now I'm ready to be home. I'm ready to jump in my daddy's arms and cry like I did when I was 8, when I first found out my parents were divorcing. Or like I did when I was 12, when he said he was moving far away to California. Or like I did when I was 20, when I was in so much pain from having my tonsils removed. (I'd say like I did the night before moving to NYC, but as we know I did that alone on my floor, next to the mini fridge he bought me.)
Now, it's time for me to fight to get back to my family. Because ultimately, the love for family trumps the love for all else. Even my love for this city. And it's OK, because Grandma was right. I belong in New York. And I'll be back in New York. But for right now, I belong in Missouri -- with a Bud Light in one hand and my Daddy's hand in the other. Because that's what us Schallons do -- Plus Grandma would scold us if we did it any other way. So we'll mix laughter with tears, eulogies with wildly ridiculous stories, Bud Light with wine (Because damn did she and Grandpa love their wine) and celebrate the life of my crazy, amazing, strong Grandmother.
So maybe soon, after a beer (or five) or a few days or maybe even a few years down the road, the words won't sting as bad. All I know is one thing: I've got to be a fighter. Just like she was.
