All Words Fly
Photo courtesy of the author. 1.
A week before it happens, I buy a mini crème brûlée on Christian Street, in South Philly near the Italian Market. It’s not something I do often—normally it’s a dessert reserved for special occasions, one I split with my grandma. The rest of the family likes chocolate; she and I like the vanilla cream, cracking the sugar crust with little spoons, feeling the sweet burn in the back of our throats. When I buy the dessert, I don’t yet know that my grandma’s body is manufacturing a crush of white blood cells, cells that will become the enemy instead of the defender, clog her marrow and veins, ravage her body with a terrible speed. Neither does she.
2.
On Wednesday, she goes to the doctor for a regular appointment. The doctor, worried about her blood pressure, sends her to the ER.
It’s cancer, the ER doctor says. Leukemia.
My grandpa protests: She just had bloodwork. She was just fine.
Months, the doctor says. Weeks, maybe.
When my mother calls with the news, she assures me I can visit tomorrow, after they admit my grandma to a private room. Once she stabilizes, we’ll bring her home. Instead, I drive north to them as fast as I can. My parents and grandpa are already there; my uncle and sister arrive soon after.
We have no explanation for why we’ve rushed to the ER, where visitors are not even allowed, but when we do, my grandma wakes for a moment and says:
Oh good, you’re all here. That’s so important.
Then she looks to the corner of the room and says something to my Uncle Jack, her firstborn. Jack, now dead 18 years—bladder cancer. I know then why we’ve all
