The Cardinal's Cake

In Loving Memory of my mother’s mother

Dear Grandma Rosie,

Last week I turned on the animated movie, Balto. My initial reaction was excitement- you know how I just love kid movies like The Lion King, 101 Dalmatians, and Horton Hears A Who, but just as the opening credits began to shimmer on the screen a sense of sadness and hopelessness overwhelmed me.

I remembered that the leading human female was named Rosie and that at the end a child would be calling for her grandma Rosie.

So I watched the movie, half of me relishing in the sound of your name.

The other half was dying a little bit at the knowledge that it wasn’t your voice answering back. It wasn’t your face lighting up when you saw me or mom or anyone else that you loved. A small part of me shriveled into an indefinable mass of pain at the thought of never having a second chance.

And when mom sent a text to make sure I was okay I told her that the movie made me sad, but she just sent me a smile and told me she loved me. Not because she understood the connection I had made with your name and the character’s, but because she knows that I still cry when Simba loses his father Mufasa, when Bambi runs through the snow crying for his mother.

She knows that I can sit through any gory horror movie and think nothing of it, but when it comes to the loss of a family member or loved one I become an emotional wreck.

And I don’t blame her. In fact, I wanted her to think that the reason I was sad was because of my normal reaction. I didn’t want her to get sad and go through her day thinking about October 8th.

October 8th, 2009, 9:00 pm. That date and time will forever be imprinted into my heart and soul while the weekend before seemed so normal. You were tired of sitting in your little trailer alone- you were always independent and refused every one of moms invitations to move in with us- so you called and mom drove down early Saturday morning so that you could sit with her on the new porch, drink coffee, and watch the birds munch on their food under the desert tree’s shade.

Then we all drove into town and spent the day together. We ate out, bought new and needed things and then returned home to watch the television. Sunday you repeated the previous day’s morning routine and we again went into town, just to get the few odds and ends that were missed the day before.

That night, before I took you back to your little trailer, I remember you wanted cake. You insisted and asked everyone to go and buy one, but since it was eight at night mom didn’t want to take the trip back over the little mountain we have to commute, so you didn’t get your cake.

Who knew that one little decision would haunt my mom and me to this day?

You called me Monday morning, only twenty minutes before I had to leave for school. So I drove to your trailer, only to replace the light bulb in your bedside lamp. I didn’t think anything of it and went to school.

Then, in the middle of learning veterinary vocabulary, I got the call. The message was in mom’s shaky voice, the one where she tries to stay calm while everything around her collapses. She informed me that she had driven to your place from work after you called her. The voicemail then relayed how you couldn’t use the restroom, and in the struggle of breathing collapsed on your bed into a seizure.

All day you stayed in a hospital room, telling us to go home, complaining about how much you hate how they poke and prod you, and your vitals looking as stable as an 87 year olds vitals could with rheumatoid arthritis.

We thought it was just another visit, nothing to be too worried about.

But we were so wrong.

Tuesday you began to deteriorate. Your lungs could no longer process CO2 correctly, so instead of exhaling the CO2 your body rejected the incoming oxygen. Your lungs filled with more CO2 with every breath, causing you to sleep while your family and friends waited anxiously by your bed.

We knew your time was up, so at 2:00 Thursday afternoon mom had you transferred to Hospice, that way you could go in peace and away from the hospital setting you so hated. Seven hours later, with mom and me at your side, you gasped your last breath.

And our world shattered.

I made the appropriate calls, informing our friends and family about your everlasting peace, all the while holding the orange plush kitten that the Hospital’s gift shop let me have for free when I tried to buy it.

You never did get the chance to see the kitten, but I picked her out just for you because I knew you always wanted an orange cat, and while you were at the hospital I made sure that cat was always with you, resting under your limp, arthritis filled hand.

It’s almost been six months, but I still look for your calls, I still think I have to take you to a doctor’s appointment.

I still think you’ll be sitting in your little trailer just waiting for me to drop by for an unexpected visit.

Grandma Dottie always said that I should treasure the time I have with you because one day that time will be gone. I never paid too much attention to that advice when I was little, but now, even knowing that I did everything I could to spend as much time with you as I possibly could, I still feel like I didn’t do enough.

I still feel like I failed you.

But I know that I didn’t fail and that if you were here you would look at me as if I was crazy and tell me to stop acting like a fool.

Because I know I did so much for you. I was there for every doctor’s appointment, every grocery list, every lonely day.

And I have to learn to accept that. I have to find a way to accept that I did everything I could and that you thought so much of me.

June 12th I plan to surprise mom with a birthday cake in honor of you. It will be shaped like a Cardinal, the bird you favored and the one animal I sketched for you just under a year before you passed.

We will enjoy the cake with family and friends like we should have done that fated weekend in October.

I know that someday, hopefully after I have accomplished all the things that would have made you so proud, I will see you.

And I will never let you go again.

With all the love of my soul, spirit, and being,

Amanda Rose Smith