Last Friday I went to see my grandma, my mamo. She was sick with cancer. I knew the end was near. Out of respect I went to visit her with my father.
When I first saw her she was amid a tug of war between life and death. And death had the upper hand. The struggle had left her frail, feeble, skeletal. But even with death pulling her closer, when she saw me her eyes lit up, her smile broadened. It felt like for a moment she forgot the struggle, the cancer, everything. Alas, it was only a moment. She wanted to get out of bed, but was too weak. I picked her up. She was light as a feather. I could’ve tossed her into the heavens. Instead I set her in her wheelchair, and then wheeled her to the kitchen.
Her body was dying but her mind was still intact. I told her I was glad to see her. She at first scolded me for not visiting her more often, but that anger soon dissipated. She was happy I was there regardless of the circumstances.
We talked about life. We talked about family. And then I brought up one of my favorite subjects - her cheese enchiladas. My most favorite meal. As a little boy I would always ask her to make it. No matter the occasion Christmas, Thanksgiving, my birthday I’d ask for her cheese enchiladas all the same. I used to tell her as a boy I dreamed of opening a Mexican restaurant. I would call it Mamo’s Place. I’d only serve her enchiladas, rice, beans and canned Coca Cola. Nothing else. As we aged, my affinity for her enchiladas never waned. She was the only one who knew how to make them with her super secret sauce, so it was always a special event whenever I could have them. She told me she would teach me one day. And that one day came several years ago. She wanted to pass on the recipe through me. It was the greatest gift she ever gave me. And so when we spoke of the enchiladas another smile broadened across her face. I told her how I thought of her every time I made them. She knew I treasured the gift.
While we were talking she was also eating. One of my cousins fed her eggs and potatoes. My father gave her coffee. She demanded her coffee to be very hot, and to have some kahlua in it. My dad saw she was struggling to drink the coffee. He said she was finished with it when she really had half a cup left. She said, “You give me the damn rest of it.” He tried to shortchange her and she wasn’t having it. Classic feisty Mamo. After her coffee, she asked for a cigarette. My dad obliged. He knew he would get another tongue lashing if he didn’t. She wanted to smoke it by herself, but couldn’t really hold the cigarette, so my dad held it for her. And then finally she wanted some water. I helped her with that.
We got to a point in the conversation where there were no more words to be said. She would look up at me and smile. It was a struggle for her to lift up her neck, but she did it for a moment and then drooped it back downwards.
She got tired. She wanted to go to bed. I wheeled her back. I put her in bed. I kissed her forehead. I said, “Don’t let these people trick you.” She said, “You know I won’t.” Classic feisty Mamo.
Those were the last words we said to one another. She passed away the following day on Saturday November 17.
It is a strange feeling. To have known her my whole life, to have just visited with her. And then just like that she was gone. It truly is like that UGK song “One Day.” One day you’re here the next you’re gone.
