What if?

What if?

I remember the last day I saw her alive. She lay in the hospital bed, so thin, so tired, so NOT herself. I could hardly believe that was my grandmother. She had been so strong and healthy, and now—now she was a ghost. She was a living ghost.

The smell of the sickroom made me gag. Her body was killing itself. The cancer was a plague, infesting her entire body. I remember her long fingernails and how the nurses cut them. They were still strong and tough. Her hand clenched mine with a fierce desire to live.

Or perhaps that was a fierce desire to pass on into the next life.

I told her to think positive, that she would get better. I denied to myself that perhaps she wouldn’t get better. I didn’t know how to react to her illness. Death and dying were taboo subjects in my family. I was 18 years old. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t understand anything.

Sure, I’d been to a couple of funerals. But those were for elderly relatives that I barely knew. Well, except for my maternal grandfather. He died four years before my paternal grandmother, the grandmother of this story. I wasn’t close to him in the way I was close to my grandmother. Grandmothers and granddaughters have a special bond, especially if they are the firstborn grandchild, as I was, on that side of the family.

I didn’t truly understand the FINALITY of death. I had no faith to fall back on. She was dying, and I was helpless to do anything. She was wasting away, in spite of chemotherapy and drugs that made her retain water. I remember one particular day: all she wanted to eat was some Sugar Smacks. I went to the store and got them for her. A mundane thing to do…eating cereal. But every bite she kept down was a victory over the cancer. Generally, she had no appetite. She either wasn’t hungry because of the drugs used to fight the disease, or she couldn’t keep food down because chemo made her throw up.

I remember so many things about those weeks and months. I remember how I had to take care of her. I had to help her to the bathroom. I had to bathe her. I had to help her out of the tub. She was skin and loose flesh, the bones were heavy in her body. At the time, I hated having to take care of her. Gah, I feel so guilty for that now. I should have been more supportive. I should have been more caring. I should have been a better person.

What if I had been less selfish?

What if it had been me instead of her?

I remember the day she passed on. It was October 13, 1990. The day was sunny and bright. I had on sunglasses and I didn’t take them off. I didn’t want to have to look at anyone’s naked eyes, and I certainly didn’t want them looking at mine. If I had looked, I would have seen my own sadness reflected in them, and I didn’t want to cry. I had to be strong. I didn’t want to lose control in front of the gathered family members. I didn’t want to say goodbye.

She never saw my high school graduation, my college dorm, or my first college grade card. I never told her I loved her. I never told her how much she meant to me. I took her for granted.

It should have been me.

Time has dulled the pain, but I fear the wound will never heal. I regret that I never got to know her as a person. That hurts most of all. Who was this woman? She wasn’t just a mother and grandmother. Who was she on the inside? Who WAS she? How is she a part of me?

What if she were still alive today?

What if it had been me instead?