Another Christmas for Abuela

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I wrote the following story on November 19, 2004.

Her name was Annie Craw. She died April 7, 2005. She was 71.

I knew her, however, the cancer had taken her so much that I didn't recognize her. I'm sorry, Annie.

She worked in my building and retired in 2003. She was one of the nice ladies who helped me laugh when I was in my wheelchair and prayed that I would walk again. Thank You, Annie. Vaya con Dios.

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It was my day off. As usual, I had spent an early hour at the Hangar Cafe for my Friday morning breakfast. Lisa, one of the waitresses who had adopted K and me, knew of my need for morning brew and lotsa cream. She supplied plenty of both with an ample amount of smiles.

With breakfast out of the way, I popped over to Salem Boys Auto in Tempe for some minor repairs on my truck. It was gonna take awhile, so I brought a book to read.

As I settled into my chair, I looked around the room at my three fellow travelers.

A regal, Hispanic woman in her late 60's was sitting by herself on the sofa. She reminded me of someone's Abuela or grandmother as she wrote Christmas cards and affixed stamps to the envelopes.

Every few minutes, she coughed. It was deep and well-practiced. She tried her best to retain her dignity.

From the look of her face, she'd been ill for a while. Her face had begun to shrink away from the living world.

The other two customers were middle-aged guys. One was doing paperwork from a briefcase. The other busied himself with magazines from the rack.

After a few minutes of reading, I grew sleepy. I adjusted my right leg into a comfortable position and closed my eyes for a semi-conscious nap.

I listened to voices cascading down the staircase behind me. A high school automotive class was being held in a front office conference room on the second floor. Teenagers, male and female, were answering esoteric car questions.

When the class ended, the students filed past us in noisy clumps of loud conversations and boisterous camaraderie. When the door closed, there was silence.

The woman and I spoke about the kids and their great careers as technicians. She coughed a little bit, so I stopped our conversation while she recovered. She used the lull to tell everyone in the waiting area about her coughing spells.

No one else wanted to listen to her, but I did. She continued to talk with me from across the way, just as loud as possible with everyone listening.

She was 71 years old and had stage 4 lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life and was quite adamant about that fact. She was supposed to die last Christmas, but she outfoxed the doctors.

The gentle-voiced woman had just buried another friend from the cancer ward last month. "The third one to die this year", she said.

She had helped her friends adjust to their cancer just as someone had helped her when she first entered the ward. That saintly docent of the sisterhood had taught the Abuela how to deal with life's last triage, then passed the docent role onto her and died.

The friend who died last month was going to be the Abuela's replacement, but the cancer took her friend too soon. "Too soon. Too soon. She wasn't ready. She wasn't at peace". She wondered who would help her friends when she was gone.

The Abuela's cancer had accelerated very quickly after the chemotherapy failed in the fall of 2003. Since springtime, it has slowly consumed her. Now, she waited to die.

The doctors promised she wouldn't have to wait too long. It was going to be very soon. They promised she'd make it to Christmas, but this was going to be her last Christmas.

She held up a handful of Christmas cards. "I'm doing my list early this year."

I asked her what she was going to do for Christmas. Her eyes sparkled.

"My children and grandchildren are coming in to celebrate at my house!"

She went on about their ages and how dear they were to her. She was as happy as a mother and grandmother could be.

The technician came over and discussed the repairs with her. She paid her bill, said her goodbyes to us and left.

She returned in a few minutes and passed out religious tracts to everyone, apologizing if her offer offended anyone.

When she came to my chair, I accepted her book of daily prayers and softly told her, "Merry Christmas". She smiled.

I'll never see her again. In the next few months, she'll appear as an obituary in the Tribune. It will list her accomplishments as a mother, grandmother, wife and friend.

But, it won't list her accomplishment for that Friday morning when she let us ride in the back seat of her '59 Cadillac of Hope as she cruised towards Christmas.

Thanks for sharing your ride, Ma'am.

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