For Mimi

In between fruitlessly searching for a job and getting used to living across the country from my friends and family, I got the email no one wants to get: My grandmother was getting worse by the day, and my family thought she may only have a few days left. When you're borderline broke and 3,000 miles away, news like this causes pure panic. I quickly called my mother, who booked me a flight for the next morning. I'm really not sure what I'd do without her.

Backing up a bit here - my grandmother was diagnosed with stage 3B lung cancer a little over a year ago. I wasn't completely shocked - Mimi was a smoker for over 30 years, but she had quit a while ago. Still, when I found this out, I was crushed. I sat on the phone with her, crying as she told me she was thinking about not pursuing any treatment. I begged her to at least try. She opted for chemotherapy, which took a lot out of her. She stopped treatment a few months later, then began it again on the advice of her doctor. Again, she became weaker as the weeks went on. She was only able to talk on the phone for a short time before becoming winded, and she was easily confused. My aunts were concerned, but they thought it could have been a lot of different things: The chemo, her medication, the fact that she wasn't really eating or drinking anything. No one wanted to admit what was really going on - that our Mimi was dying.

Wednesday, September 1st, Mimi was in her apartment trying to do a crossword puzzle. A few hours later, she was at my aunt's house because my family thought she shouldn't be alone. A few days later, she was admitted to Hospice. 2 days after that, she was gone. I still can't wrap my head around how quickly it went, and how grateful I am that I could be there. Seeing a loved one in Hospice is no picnic. Mimi was weak and barely coherent at times. That last day, she tried to communicate with us, but we couldn't understand most of what she was saying, and you could see the frustration in her eyes. We felt it too.

But even through the pain, sadness, and finality of it all, Mimi was still in there. There were moments where our Mimi shone through that shell of a person lying in the hospital bed. She would use my cousin's middle finger to flip us off. She loved watching Family Guy, which still makes me shake my head in disbelief. She would reach for my hand - as if to hold it for comfort - then use it to try to pull herself out of bed to escape. She didn't want to be at Hospice, but we had no other choice. My aunt was trying to take care of her at her home, but she just couldn't do it anymore. Between trips to the bathroom, hourly administering of medication, and the fact that Mimi couldn't be left alone for any extended amount of time meant that Aunt Kelly was getting zero sleep. And we all needed to rest and keep our strength and spirits up for Mimi.

I still don't think it has fully hit me that Mimi is gone. You see, my grandmother helped to raise me. I spent a ridiculous amount of time with her when I was a kid. She was always there for me - even in this last year when she could barely afford her co-pays or groceries, she still made sure to send me $20 for my birthday and a card apologizing for being unable to send me more. That was just her. Loving, generous, kind, and hilariously funny. Even when she was first diagnosed, she was cracking jokes about her mortality. She didn't want to be sad - she wanted to make us laugh. Some days, now that she's gone, it's hard to remember that. It's easy to say that Mimi would have wanted us to laugh and be happy, but she's not here - and there are a few hours every day when I just can't bring myself to remember the good times. All I can think of are those last few days when she was begging us to take her home, to please get her out of there.

But there are other times when I'll remember something she said and laugh, or look at a picture of her with that crazy poofy hair and can't stop myself from smiling. Mimi was a ball of energy and life during her 76 years, and for that I'm grateful. And while I'm angry that this had to happen, and that she won't be here to hear about my adventures in LA, or lecture me that California is unsafe, or be at my wedding someday - I'm glad that she's not suffering anymore.

Sometimes it felt like we were outsiders, like it was she and I against everyone else. And now there's a part of me that feels really alone, and that I'll always have this little hole in my heart. I've never experienced this type of heartbreak before - when my grandfather passed away, I was younger and more immature. And while I still miss him terribly too, this is different. Mimi was more than my grandmother - she was my friend.

The one good thing to come out of this is that I feel closer to my family than ever before. And for that, among a million other tiny things that she taught me throughout these past 28 years, I will always be grateful.

I don't think I'll ever be able to watch an episode of Family Guy again without thinking of her. I don't think I'll ever be able to delete her number out of my phone. I think I will miss her forever.