My dad died before my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. In a way he was lucky; he didn’t have to watch the fiercest woman we knew breakdown. My dad loved his mama and seeing her this way would have broken him.
In a much crueler way, life was brutal yet again to a woman who had already been through a special kind of hell in her lifetime. This is not a biography of a woman I loved and sometimes wanted to smother with a pillow, but here are just some of the trials life threw at her: as an LA girl she lived through the Zoot Suit Riots, watching people she knew and loved beaten just for having brown skin and speaking Spanish while cops did nothing; she lived through Operation Wetback and watched friends who had spent their entire lives in the US get taken away; she woke to a home full of dead relatives who succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning, saved by my Uncle Charlie, two at the time, crying her awake. She raised two boys alone in the 50s; she buried my Uncle Charlie when AIDS took him at 37. She buried my dad less than twenty years later.
Hers was not a life for the weak.
By the time of her cancer diagnosis she was ready to die - her words, not mine.
One thing she always had - again, her words - was an amazing rack. And it is true, my grandmother would get hit on by men not old enough to be my own father more times than I care to remember. Eww. But I tell you that because there was a psychological toll we menfolk probably never consider.
When grandma was diagnosed with cancer she was almost 80. She wasn’t sure how much fight she had left in her, and I, being the amazing grandson that I am gave her a list of ways to off herself without losing that sweet life insurance payout. She laughed.
You know, after my surgery if you make me laugh it’s going to hurt.
You know I’m going to, right?
Mancreao!
I was newly married and had just come off of months of taking care of my wife in her own battle with cancer when I got the call from grandma.
Yes, I know, I am a saint and you hope your daughter or gay son can find someone like me.
Anyway, I said my goodbyes to my wife and headed down the 14 from the California desert, and headed across the 15 to Fontana. For the uninitiated, that’s like going from hell, heading south, then east, and yet still being in hell.
I had magical powers when it came to my grandma; I could get her to do things nobody else could. I cajoled grandma into eating better by telling her, you will eat what I cook, young lady.
Okay, I may have exaggerated my abilities when it came to my grandma, but I did get her to eat better for a few months. I was trying to get her into fighting shape.
Most of the time I spent in those months was in the run up to surgery and then caring for her after. That left a lot of down time and that’s how I learned so much about things like the Zoot Suit Riots and Operation Wetback. She told me about her uncle being beaten while waiting for a bus in Long Beach. She told me about some of our family going back to Chihuahua because this country didn’t want us.
I also got to hear how she learned about my Uncle Charlie being gay. She showed up at his apartment unannounced and found him kissing a guy in the hallway. She told me she thought he was trying to assault her son so she flew into a rage.
I asked what made her realize that wasn’t the case.
Your tio pulled me off of him and told me, ‘mom, this is my boyfriend.’
How did you react?
Whoa, I was angry and hurt! This is my son and the world is not going to be kind to a gay Mexican! And I didn’t think it was right to find out like this!
Would you have reacted better if he’d sat you down and told you, ‘ma, I’m gay.”?
She chewed on that for awhile before saying, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
After her surgery - double mastectomy - there was talk of chemo/radiation, but not until she was fully recovered and the doctors were guardedly optimistic that there may not even need to be treatment. I got her home and cared for her - draining things, cleaning things, cleaning her, feeding her, wiping things. Hey, a woman’s arms aren’t going to work so well for a little while after a surgery like that.
There was no shame.
I used to do it for you and at least I don’t pee on you!
A twisted sense of humor is a Martinez family trait.
WhenI was little Rod Steward had a hit song - Do Ya Think I’m Sexy. I was six when it came out as a single.
She would sing it to me. Did I mention I was six? And that never stopped long after the song was no longer relevant. When I say she would sing it to me I want you to imagine your truly getting ready to go to my first Junior High School formal, with my date present and as my dad was doing that dad thing with the camera and I hear that f@#$ing song at the top of grandma’s lungs.
I bring all of that up to tell you about the first time I bathed her. Now, up to this point I had been rubbing her down with a wash cloth, but no full nudity. Well, she was getting kinda ripe and we both knew the time was coming so I got one of those attachments that are a sort of shower-head on the end of a hose. I helped her get into the tub and got the water temp just so and helped her strip down.
Yep, I was doing this. And as the water began to run down her body she started to shake her hips ever so slightly. Mostly I am there for everything shoulder level and above, and knee level and below. So I am not really paying attention until…
iiiiiffffff you want my body aaaaaannnndddd you think I’m sexy…
We both ended up in pain from the laughter.
Ultimately, the cancer didn’t get her. Being 80-something, tired, and missing her boys did her in. She’s with them now.
No doubt torturing them with that horrible song.