There are certain memories about my grandmother I will never forget. She was that family member that I wanted to cherish as a child. To make her into a doll and keep it by my side at all times. I particularly remember her cancer. Even though I was too small then, only seven, I understood some things about the word cancer. It was a horrible disease that made my grandmother bald. I remember always asking her why she had no hair as she would comb my long, thick hair. She would always give me the same answer:
“Because God wants it to be this way.”
I would look at her and nod my head. God was important, and if God wanted my Grandmother to be bald, then so be it.
She was a beautiful thing to behold, my grandmother. I never saw her hair since she was always bald when she visited America, but I remember her bright green eyes. They were always filled with laughter and compassion. Always, no matter what happened. And I can’t explain the shade of green. It was a shade that made you want to stare at her eyes for hours trying to understand exactly what color they were. She was old, but her skin had not yet adapted to her age. She looked young and beautiful…and alive.
My favorite memory is when she would wake me and my two older brothers up to make us Nescafe, an instant coffee powder, but she made it taste amazing. Every day at exactly six in the morning she would wake us up by calling our names and asking us if we wanted some. Well, of course we always did. We would fly out of our beds and gather up in the small kitchen. It was as if you could taste the smell. She would put some milk and exactly the right amount of sugar for us kids. We would sit and sip while listening to her share a story. She spoke English, but it was a thick accent. Most of the time she’d just finish her story in Arabic, but we always understood what she was trying to say, no matter how she said it.
Another old cherished memory is when we used to have story time in the evenings. I always sat next to her, and my brothers flanked her on the sofas to the side. In the middle of the story my Grandmother would pass gas. My brothers and I would run away giggling, but she’d call us back saying there was no smell. And strangely there wasn’t! How fascinating. It was only until my mother explained to be it was because of the medications my grandmother had to take.
She suffered so much. She had Breast Cancer, and she traveled back and forth from Syria to America many times to get the proper medication.
And alas! The day came when my Grandma had no more cancer! We all rejoiced and cheered and happy for a year. Only one year.
I was eight when I heard my mom crying downstairs. Crying might be a bit of an understatement, she was screaming. My brother and I ran downstairs to see what happened. I cried too after that. My beautiful Grandma had died. The cancer came back and she was in a coma for some time before she passed away. I cried and cried that day. All the memories of her passing through my head and stayed there until now. Being sixteen years of age now, I always imagine how life would be if my Grandma was here with us. It was my Utopia. Imagining her alive, embracing me, asking me how my day was, making Hummus for my Kindergarten teachers, pushing me on the swings even though she was dead tired, loving my brothers and I with no extent. Cancer to me now is a horrible disease that took away the love of my life. It made her suffer for years and took her away in the end with no regard. She had a life to live. She had people to love. She had people who loved her back. She had me. And oh, how I needed and still need her.

My family overseas told me that when my Grandma’s cancer disappeared in those couple of months, she had grown her long, thick hair back. I never got to see it. I never got to brush it. I even never got to say goodbye.