A Soldier of Other Sorts

Summer of 2010

My grandmother's name is Kitty Holst.
If I were to make a list of things I've learned from my grandma, boy, you and I would both be here all day.
I remember shopping with my grandma on black fridays, how she always has a coupon for everything. How she would give us cough drops from her purse if we had a bad taste in our mouth. How she taught me all  the swearwords I know in Deutsch, and how she alone influenced me to take the language in high school. The over-the-top christmases she would spend months shopping for and decorating the Christmas tree every year. Her stories. Her hugs.  Her laugh. how she loved my craziness, how she encouraged my mistakes and appreciated how different I was from my sisters.  Those and many other things will forever and always be embedded in my memory.

About eight months ago my grandma was diagnosed with lung cancer.  She had many different types growing in her body and they gave her only four or five months to live.
The day I found out I went for a walk, not uncommon for me when something upsets me and I need to think things through.  I took my phone, sat on the bleachers at the park behind my  house and called my cousin Mikey.  I'm always able to talk to him about serious things like that.  He and I talked about the situation for a while, both of us unsure of what to do or what could happen. It felt unreal.  Cancer is just one of those things that doesn't make sense to you, until you are the one dealing with it.

I cried the next time I saw her, at Thanksgiving.  She was cheery as could be.  I gave her a hug and ran downstairs crying.  It was so hard to know she was sick on the inside when she didn't look any different on the outside.
At the cabin for Christmas I went running for my grandpa because she was screaming for him, crying and in what sounded like too much pain.  He went in there and sat by her on the bed, and asked me to shut the door.  Once more I held back tears.

I avoided calling my grandma for a very long time.  It was too hard to talk to her on the phone.  Because she sounded just fine over the line. There was nothing wrong in her voice. But I knew, in the back of my head, that she was sick.  Like a nasty little joke the telephone was trying to play on me.  So I avoided it.  My mom told me I'd regret it.  I'd look back one day and wish I had taken more time to chat with her.  And I felt guilty.  But I couldn't make myself pick up the phone.
Until, that is, about a week ago today.
I called her because I had no classes.  And she was delighted to hear my voice.  We talked for while, and she told me about having a lunch date with her friends, about some old times, memories she had. I cringed every time she brought up her treatments, like it was some casual topic of discussion. But when we hung-up I felt like a ten thousand pound piece of guilt had been lifted off my concious.  I only felt bad about not doing it sooner.

I am so PROUD of my grandma.  She has decided to go through kemo to buy more time.  Not for herself, not because she wants more days for her own, but because there are people that love her in her life that she refuses to let down.  She's fighting for her eight grandchildren. For her three children. She's fighting for her husband.  She's fighting for her family and friends, for her pastor and all the people that are praying for her.  I have never seen a person commit a more self-less act.  Because kemo is no picnic for her.
Since that day she was given four to five months, she has shown them up them by three or four more.  Just this weekend I was blessed enough to come home from work and see both her and my grandpa.  They stopped by before heading out to do some casino hopping with their friends down south.

I love my grandma, and words cannot describe how proud of her I am.  When I am older, my last memories of her will not be taken over by the fact that she was diagnosed with cancer. I will remember instead how she fought back stronger than the cancer could act.  Like a tiny, stubborn little soldier.
I will forever remember, how she is, and how she did, fight for her life.