Her life was a jumble. To me, the order was a puzzle forcibly pieced together in such a way to create a beautiful image, simply not the one intended. Life is meant to be linear, a bright, taught guitar string, playing its own tune in an attempt to make an impact on the chaotic song of the world. My first memories are an orange chord, deceptive to her age, dyed to a poppy that wanted to turn to the white of winter. Annually, in August, the heat of the summer would multiply with the warmth of the flower to celebrate three birthdays: my sister’s, my mother’s, and mine. Our family gathering was always one of my favorite occasions and grandma sat at the center, holding everyone’s eyes and ears as captives at her mercy as she told stories of her life as a mother. She held everyone’s attention as a president would as he gave his inauguration speech with the delectably charming, old Californian accent that made “Wednesday” one of my favorite words to escape her lips. All I could do was listen in awe at the powerful matriarch as she smiled back at me with the joy of memories brightening her eyes and her tinkling laugh rang true as we sat together and hid from the summer heat.
After a twelve-year bright and sunny autumn, came a glistening white winter. A beautiful valley of wispy snow replaced the fallen leaves of fall. This cruelly foreshadowed an event so unexpected as a sudden change in hair color. Those years were beautiful in their calm and warmth as a lit fireplace in a winter cabin. The lighting spark stemming from a loveably garish fashion sense, with jumpsuits of unnamed colors and jewelry from far and wide to accent them perfectly. However, under this brightness, was a silent snake from Eden, slithering upwards to tempt Eve. By the time we noticed, the wound was already open, dripping with the toxic unknown.
It started in a cool January. The sky a blanket of speckled darkness, the cold air pinching my nose. I was walking the dogs of a friend who was out of town with my dad. Towards the end of the walk, we stopped on the corner. I could tell that my father was worried. I asked what was wrong. His response chilled me more than the cold air of a winter night could.
“I don’t know.”
When applied correctly, those were easily some of the scariest words in the English language. However, while I may have been scared of my glistening winter, I knew that I have the voice of calm. I take that role in stride, and, thus, comforted.
After the results of the “I don’t know” came back, we knew. Adenoid carcinoma. Multiple brain lesions stemming from the former. And no symptoms. The snake had struck and had done so both in full force and in complete silence. However, I knew the strength of winter and knew she would make a decision. She took a chance at life. The potential for a future.
The first five sessions of chemotherapy tore through her body. She became ill, was unable to eat right, see right, be right. As the antidote tried to work its magic, it pierced and ripped and punched in a shamanic and tribal dance of internal ruin.
However, after those sessions, she stopped. Her body couldn’t take the abuse. The beautiful blanket of snow winter brough dissolved into a barren field of fleshy exposure. However, while she may have been suffering, she was still a lady. A lady with dignity. A lady who would still be gracious, and as presentable as possible, and a mother. A grandma.
However, the dignity of a lady quickly fails when one’s thoughts, motor skills, consciousness, and bodily functions shut down. Finally, it was April. And to be frank, we didn’t think she would last this long. She laid in the cot in the middle of the apartment, like a baby bird fallen from its nest. Helpless, vulnerable, bald, exposed. The lady no longer existed.
April 2nd, sometime around 5 in the morning, the year ended. It was both a relief and a guttural pain of loss. A dull knife in the stomach. Not sharp as to be quick and effective and devastating. But with the slow pain was a swirl of emotions – both of a relief that life goes on, but, like a black pearl, a pain that told me one of the people I was most attached to was gone. Gone. Now and forever.
However, with this came the spring and summer I never saw. A baby I only recognized by name, and a head mason’s fiery daughter forever encapsulated in photograph form, came forth from the depths of closets and cabinets, sealed away until just the right moment. As we went through the cardboard treasure chests, we found certificates and accolades. Many of which she received for her work as a nurse with sick, underprivileged, and African-American kids during an era in which that was not acceptable. Her work with CCI dogs furthered these accolades. Her longest-lasting canine partner was left behind in the form of her dog, Lyric. The black labrador, with wintery greys gathering around her nose and ears, eventually followed her true owner in a final act of loyalty. While all physical evidence of her work may be limited, her impact is undeniable; her intrinsic desire to aid humanity was like no other. The roots of this beautiful poppy stretched in every direction, touching lives as delicately as a flower yet as powerful as an aged oak.
Finally, on her resting day, I saw the pictures. A younger lady, with the same air and beauty and joy of life. The spring of a red-headed cherub in the stark yet fuzzy black-and-white photographs from a time long past. The summer of a spirited and intelligent young woman driven to help those in need. All of these pictures beautifully captured the elegant blossoms of spring and bright fireflies of summer in a few snapshots of happenings I never saw.
Now, I occasionally reminisce. In Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.
A jumbled year coming together in a beautiful painting done in reverse. A lady with talent, compassion, purpose. A beacon of strength, the humblest dragon: my grandma.
