After Cancer, I Visited The Burial Site I Chose if I Died — A Plot Next to my Grandma
In 2017, I was hospitalized and diagnosed with advanced stage leukemia, with a not so good looking prognosis — at the time, it would’ve been a miracle if I made it OUT of the hospital, then it was projected maybe a year at most that my loved ones would have with me alive, then as time went on the number of years became a question mark, but life is a question mark in general. So, when all those things come up, Death inevitably enters the room and interrupts the conversation. Trust me, Death did so in a painful way while an older family member asked me: the youngest in the room, where I wanted to be buried. Calmly, I replied, “with grandma.” Now, I no longer have cancer, underwent a stem cell transplant, and 4 years later, I went to visit my grandmother’s gravesite for the first time in over 13 years. Because I also needed to see where I very easily could’ve wound up multiple times during my cancer battle. I needed to stand over that plot, with me alive, and see the physical space reserved for my body sitting above my grandmother empty. In short, I needed closure, I needed to surrender Death in a place like a cemetery. Needed death to see: I am still alive.
My grandmother was like a second mother to me and she passed away when I was 13. I can firmly say I was not the same after her death. There is something special about the love that exists between Black elders and the youth in families and I was lucky to have even experienced it. It’s been over 13 years and I still miss her deeply — she was my best friend. My grandmother Mary was born in Texas and moved to Los Angeles in her adulthood. She met my grandad David and had two children: my mom and aunt. She was known in my family for always her phrases, her wit, her charm, her tenderness, and her style.
When I was born, I was bestowed with Mary as my middle name. She still remains there with me as I have her name tatted on my hand. When I was very young, my grandma would say, “that child has been here before,” she’d also call me Gertrude Ederle, first person to swim the English channel, because of my work ethic as I got older — very random I know. She was the one who took me to swim lessons on the weekend and for rainbow sprinkle donuts after. I did my first steps in front of one family member and refused to get up and walk again until my grandma came over days later — and of course, for her, I was walking all over the house, all day. I was an absolute handful and she carried all of me with such joy and pride. She’d call me everyday between 3:30–4:30pm just to chat — often filled with her making jokes or attempting to prank my gullible ass with “fake news.” And as I approached middle school, I would usually rather spend the weekend with her instead of friends. We’d eat Mexican food, watch The Proud Family, Judge Mathis, and Maury, and go on walks around her assisted living home. We were truly tied at the hip.
In 2007, my grandmother was hospitalized and was dying. She didn’t know what was happening and I was supposed to go to New York for a few days. She encouraged me to go and said she’d be there when I got back. & she almost made it to April 1, 2007. I was supposed to fly back to Los Angeles that date. That morning, I woke up and was told she was gone. Still in a state of shock, I boarded the plane; as it hung in the sky, I sat wishing we were passing by each other — her on the way to her ancestor hood, me on the way to putting her body to rest.
My grandma has a double plot in the mausoleum she’s buried in. One part of the plot has always remained empty — even this many years after her 2007 death. So when I was asked where I wanted to be buried: I knew where it was, I could see it because I had been there, I was able to envision even my potential funeral at that location, and surprisingly it wasn’t scary — I was relieved to know this body had a potential resting place somewhere meaningful, somewhere with love.
It’s been 4 years since that diagnosis and hospitalization. My cancer was a long term battle filled with obstacles that knocked me on my ass a multitude of times. Death, always looming, always tapping at the shoulder, reminding: I can come in anytime I want and show you how to stop a heart from beating. Life and illness are unpredictable meaning I constantly had conversations with myself about dying, what I wanted to do with my things, who was going to handle everything, what did I want to leave behind in this world, what was my legacy, what songs did I want played at my funeral, which Bible passages meant the most to me. I always strived to be responsible to my loved ones, just in case, in the event of my untimely death, they had everything they needed to make my burial as smooth as possible. I kept a large majority of these thoughts to myself because I was also that patient who “never wanted to make anyone sad.”
Tuesday, October 19th, I realized closure was going to see the very place I spent years thinking and talking about. The place that would be the final destination of my human experience. I needed to see it: the plaque and the plot and the absence of my own plaque. I entered the mausoleum filled with colorful stained glass windows and ceilings. I stared in awe at how high up plots were — the walls were filled with endless rows of marble and flowers. I stared at a couple while searching for my grandma. The second I hit the chamber of fidelity, I knew where she was. Automatically, I walked to the end, look at the bottom row, and there it was. The blank space, with a plaque beneath that read: “a beloved mother and grandmother.” I was her only grandchild. She was my only true grandmother. I stooped to my knees and couldn’t stop staring as I placed fake flowers by her plaque. My eyes swelled like a tide.
I reach out and touch the blank marble. My hand creates this immediate meeting between: life and death. A meeting in which I shake hands with Death and say “well played but try again at a different time.” A time far from now. I spent four years thinking about you and I want to live. I want to know what that means. I want to finally envision my life beyond “maybe if I make it to 30.” I want years, I want decades, I want fulfillment, I am hungry to be alive. Yes, I am often lost or confused in the face of survivorship. But being able to look down at a grave meant for you inside a massive, haunting, mausoleum & saying, I beat that, is about as full circle as it can get. I got to survive. I got the lucky dice roll. Something changes in you.
Whilst in the cemetery, I imagine my grandma throwing the ball into my court saying: “now, you know you better do this right.” She’ll nod to the hoop, “you beat what was rigged for you to be 6 feet under. Shoot the damn ball.” I will let the basketball float out of my hands and swish will rip through the air. I will dance, there will be wind, and my grandma disappears. But I am still smiling. Because we still made it. Me, the accumulation of my ancestors, made it. A lineage of resilience. We defy the laws of physics, peoples idea of holiness, we interrupt the world with our presence whether as spirits or as human beings. Not a tear was shed. There is nothing to be said other than: thank you. And I was able to leave, walk down the stairs, and face a sun beaming down on me while I walked back to the car. Yes, I will die someday. We all will. It’s just not anytime soon for me today and I needed to truly know that. Instead, I play my grandma’s favorite song — I Trust You by James Fortune — on the way back from the cemetery as my girl and I wait for Krispy Kreme donuts in a drive thru line. Then on an open road home, Nao’s And Then Life Was Beautiful plays softly:
“Here’s a moment just to think about, think about
All that is you, all that is you, yeah, yeah, yeah
Take a second just to breathe it out, breathe it out
’Til it feels it good, you’re doin’ so good, Yeah, Yeah.”
I’ve learned that not everything I write needs a conclusion, a revelation, or epiphany. When I stumbled back into my apartment, I sit in my corner of the couch and cuddle up to my phone. I search the meaning of fidelity. I knew the chamber was meant for couples but what does fidelity mean at its core?
Fidelity: faithfulness to a person, cause, or belief, demonstrated by continuing loyalty and support.
That’s what I want to do. Lead a life of faith. Faith in myself, faith in my abilities, faith in those around me, faith in joy, faith in hope, faith in a better world, faith in liberation, faith in love — in all its forms. I want to be loyal to that kind of faith. I’ll be but a fragile chapel. I want my heart to be an illuminated window. I want to reclaim all of my scattered parts across Los Angeles where trauma has happened. Utter a small prayer in an incense filled room as I step into myself and cloak myself in an emerald green robe. Reborn. I didn’t go to hell and back so many times for nothing, you know.
“Today // you are the oldest you have ever been and the youngest you ever will be// Know that // This is one small man // With one big heart // In this prison of seven billion // No happy ending // But God does it feel good to be here” — Miles Hodges, Count On It
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