When mom remarried, we moved to a house about 5 minutes away. Since I was no longer a gap in the fence away, I settled for calling my Grandma every day when she got home from work at 5:30. My Aunt and her family lived in Kentucky, and anytime Grandma and Grandpa would visit them, I was taken along, stowed away with blankets and pillows in their full-size van for what was a very long trip to me back then. I spent the return trips sleeping peacefully in my Grandma's lap.

Each Christmas, Grandma and I made it our tradition to get together one evening and make several different types of Christmas cookies. Thumbprint cookies stand out in my mind, the kind where you put a dab of jelly in the center. I remember making them without nuts so my Grandpa could enjoy them the year he was recovering from diverticulitis. And it was from my Grandma that I learned that it isn't really neccessary to refrigerate peanut butter cookie dough before you drop it by rounded tespoonfuls. When I got to be around 14 or 15 and my illness began to prevent me from standing for long enough to bake the cookies, I was provided a stool. Ingredients and measuring spoons and cups and cookie sheets were brought to me, because, to Grandma, it wasn't about how efficiently we could bake; it was about being together.

My Grandparents are devout Christians, and for several years when I was a teenager they picked me up--every Wednesday and twice on Sundays--and took me to church with them. My Grandma was always so proud of me and never missed a chance to introduce me to her friends. "This is my Granddaughter, Megan," she'd say. "She's my special girl."

My Grandma hosted my 15th and 16th birthday parties. She had my youth pastor over to her house for dinner. She hosted my high school graduation party. She told my stubborn mother to get me a bouquet and she made sure I had even the smallest reception after my shotgun wedding. She was elated to be the first to know that my first baby would be a girl, and she planned and threw the baby shower. She and Grandpa took me to obstetric appointments for my second baby. She wept and greived and agonized with me as my marriage fell apart, and encouraged me to look ahead for better things when I got divorced. I can't remember any time that something significant has happened to me that my Grandma wasn't right there with me for.

In the summer of 1998, my Grandparents announced their plans to move to Arizona. Of course, everyone wanted them to stay put and most of the family was very vocal about it. I wanted them to go probably less than anyone, but I kept quiet. They had already found a trailer in Tucson and put money down on it; they were going no matter how much we begged, and I knew if I did, it would only make it harder for Grandma to tell me goodbye. Once, I got put on the spot: "Tell her they've got no business way out there in the desert, Megan." I swallowed my agreement and said firmly "Grandma, you go out there and you have fun." She put her arm around me and proudly said "Thank you, Sissy."

Grandma and I remained close through phonecalls over the years that physical distance kept us apart. In the summer of 2005, I got a letter from her saying she had misplaced my new phone number, so she was writing instead to tell me shocking news: she had lung cancer. The shadow was found in a routine chest exam. Grandma had never smoked or been around smoke. There was no family history. When the doctors went in to remove what they thought was one malignant tumor, they found malignant cells in several lymph nodes. They simply closed her back up.

At 76, Grandma's oncologist would not consider chemo for her, which was fine because neither would she. Grandma was put on experimental drug that shrunk the tumor. It had some rough side effects but she lived free of lung cancer symptoms for a few months, except for a couple of bouts with bronchitis. She was even well enough to make a trip home to see everyone in August.

From her diagnosis to the end, it all happened like a snowball rolling downhill: the farther the snowball rolled, the faster it got. At the end of November, Grandma got bronchitis again. I spoke to her on December 3rd and told her some of my dearest memories of her and that she was the best Grandma in the world. On December 5th, Grandpa took her to the hospital and on December 6th they implanted a shunt to drain excess fluid off of her heart and lungs. She was released on the 12th, but re-admitted on the 19th. She had become unable to eat and the fluid on her heart and lungs had returned. On the 22nd, she told my Aunt and Grandpa she was ready to go home to Jesus. That night, she was moved to a hospice. On the 23rd, she had a good morning and there was a glimmer of hope that she might pull through this time, but that night, her organs began to shut down one by one and she was placed on a Morphine drip. I called twice a day every day she was in the hospital or hospice. Sometimes she felt well enough to talk, but most of the time I talked to my Aunt or Grandpa and they would tell her I called. My Aunt held the phone as I spoke to Grandma for the last time on Christmas Eve. I reminded her of when they were planning to move to Arizona, how I had told her to go and have fun. I said "Here it is 7 and a half years later and I'm gonna say it again. Grandma, if you've gotta go, you go on and you have fun, and we'll all be fine." It was the most difficult thing I've ever said.

"Thank you, Sissy."

"I love you, Grandma."

"I love you, too."

A couple of hours later, she stopped speaking and responding.

She went to Jesus on the morning of His birthday.