Dear Grandma,

Remember when I bit your stomach? I remember doing it, but I can’t recall why. I remember getting in big trouble after. You called my dad and asked if you could spank me. He said yes.

My mother made me go to your doctor’s appointment with you last month. She couldn’t do it alone. You checked yourself out of the oncologist your doctor recommended. Your doctor wanted you to reconsider.

Remember when you called me last year upset that my mom wouldn’t take you to get pizza on your birthday? She wanted to go somewhere nice, take you out. You just wanted some damn pizza. Why didn’t she understand?

They caught it early. The treatment wouldn’t be so invasive. You are healthy. A mother of ten children and a grandmother to 40+, you are strong. “Think of your family,” he said. He motioned towards me.

Remember when I brought a boyfriend over to meet you at your house? You made us breakfast. We came to take you out to eat, but you tricked us into staying and eating a feast of eggs, tamales, beans, and potatoes.

“I just want what’s best for you Paula.” Silence. “You could beat this.” Silence. My mother’s eyes implore me. Perhaps now I realize why she’s brought me. If anyone is equally stubborn as you grandma, it is me. If anyone is equally as crazy as you, it is me.

Remember when you said you would never babysit any other grandchildren, then you took me in? My mother always told that story. A month before I was born you lost your husband. I never met my grandpa.

The doctor speaks again, “Think of all you have left to give your family.” “Don’t you want to be around for it all?” You speak. “I have given them everything. And I’m tired, I am tired.”

Remember when you broke my resolve with 3 words? “I am tired.” You looked at me, and I saw it in your eyes. A life of work, a life of giving. I study your wrinkles and rolls — that’s the only way I’ve ever seen you.

I look at my mother. She knows I will say nothing. She sees that I agree with the old woman sitting across from me. Grandma is tired, and she just wants to live.

Remember when you taught me how to make buñelos in your kitchen? Everyone was yelling at me, my mother was impatient, I needed to get the masa just right. You showed me, trusted me.

We left the doctor with no tears. You could live another 10 years before the leukemia kills you. But you won’t lose your salt and pepper hair. You won’t ever be weak. We went to eat tacos after the doctor, and I made you laugh, as always.

Remember that I love you? It is every day. Now I will tell you more. I was a wild little girl, always running away and pushing the rules. You never tamed me, and now I will not tame you.

So live grandma. Regardless of what anyone else says — I want you to live out your life in the way that makes you most happy. Live until your body can’t live anymore, because I know you will always love.

-Angelica