Chitte N. Chittoor was my father's mother, and I loved her very much. I still do. She died almost ...
Chitte N. Chittoor was my father's mother, and I loved her very much. I still do. She died almost eight years ago, and I think about her every day. My parents separated briefly when I was six and my sister was ten, and during this time, my grandmother flew to the U. S. from India to help take care of us, and returned to her homeland when my mother and father attempted to reconcile. When my parents finally divorced two years later, my grandmother flew back permanently, this time with my grandfather, to help raise us. It has occurred to me that I never thanked her for this. I thanked her for many things, but never for this utterly selfless act. She set her whole life aside for my sister and me. She flew across countries and oceans just so we would have a nurturing, maternal figure in our lives. I was just too immature and oblivious to acknowledge this sacrifice. I have not made the same mistake with my grandfather, though it is only recently that I have thanked him.
My grandmother had a mega-watt smile, and an infectious laugh to go with it. No matter how angry or sad I was as a child, she would first ask me where my smile was, and then she would slowly flash her own while poking and prodding me to do the same until I inevitably burst out laughing.
She was raised in a small village, but she had a genuine appreciation for music and visual arts including plays, films, and even sitcoms. My grandmother loved "Lucy." She was also crazy about "Seinfeld."
My grandmother could cook. I was a chubby kid, but to my grandmother, I was the skinniest boy she had ever seen. She wasn't satisfied until we were all stuffed with food.
She cleaned daily. She couldn't tolerate sloth, yet somehow she tolerated me.
She asked for a kiss on the cheek before I left for school every morning, and for one just before she went to sleep. No matter what test I had to take, or essay or project I had to turn in, she always assured me that everything would be fine.
She made me drink my milk. One time, when I was seven and spending the afternoon at a friend's house, it began to rain. My grandmother called my friend's house, and told me to come home and drink my milk. I begrudgingly accepted, and about halfway home, I saw my grandmother standing on the sidewalk with a glass of milk covered by a small tin plate, and holding an umbrella. She knew I'd get drenched so she saved me a little trouble.
She was thoughtful.
She was great with children, and though she hated the idea of us having a dog, my grandmother was extremely gentle to our new puppy and wound up spoiling her to the point where she developed a bad begging-at-the-table habit.
She read. A lot. She never finished high school, but she had true wisdom and an intellectual curiosity to boot.
My grandmother had bad lungs. At first, it was asthma, and then it was stage four lung cancer. She never smoked a cigarette in her life. I was seventeen when she was diagnosed, and the prognosis was two years. Stage four lung cancer. There is no stage five. But what the hell did I know? My dad told me that there's always a chance. I hung onto that until the very end.
You see, her doctor had to write a note to the INS to allow one of our relatives to get on the express track for a visa to get into this country so that she could see my grandmother one last time before she passed. All this time, I thought my grandmother could beat this thing. But I was the one who was asked to deliver the letter, and I have an intellectual curiosity, too. I guess I got it from her. I opened the letter, and that's when I knew it was over.
But I remember everything. I was there for almost every chemotherapy session. I was there when they told her there was basically no point to continue the treatment. As we walked out of the outpatient center and into the parking lot, she said in her own lilting way, with her signature smile "I think that maybe this means I might die..." I shot back with a, "Why would you say something like that? That's not it at all." I remember she used to love the song "I could die for you" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but towards the end, when it came on my stereo in my car, she asked me to turn it off. I remember having to set up the couch bed in the family room before I returned to class at my University because she was too weak to walk up the stairs. I remember covering her with the sheets because it was always so godamn cold in the family room, and when she was nestled in snugly, I remember her bursting into tears and asking my grandfather, "Did you see how he wrapped me up so nicely?" I remember when they set up her hospice accommodations in that same family room, and I remember looking up the word "hospice" just to see the words in front me and have my fears confirmed: "a health-care facility for the terminally ill." I remember waking up on December 17, 2003 at about 10 in the morning and knowing that this was going to be my last day with her. I remember her fighting hard to breath regularly. The last words I said to her were, "I love you." The last words she said to me were, "I love you." With that smile. I remember that she died with a slight gurgling sound roughly twelve hours later and with lifeless eyes. I remember the tears we shed in that living room.
I remember my father's brother wittily commenting that the Democrats had just lost a vote. They had. She loved Hillary.
I remember my grandfather and I weeping like willow trees at the funeral. I remember reaching out and touching her for the last time, and wishing I had written her a note, or put something in that casket with her. I remember the cremation, and wishing I could jump in that giant oven with her. I remember her doctor and nurse visiting the house a few days later to express their condolences, because I heard their voices downstairs and I didn't want to go down and see their faces. I don't know why, to this day. They were so good to her. They did all they could.
Words don't really do this justice. There's nothing I can say, or anyone can say to really describe this person. It just reduces everything. She meant so much. When someone dies, they ask you to remember the good times. I remember the good times, but I think most about the times I should have been better to my grandmother. When I should have listened more, or disobeyed her less, or made her life easier in general. And I have so many regrets. I just wanted to jot this down. Maybe it's the note I wanted to put in the casket. Who knows? And maybe it's a reminder to me and to anyone who reads this: If you have love in your life, make it mean something to you.
So just be kinder to those you love. Call more. Hug more. Kiss more. Make memories.
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