POSTED AT 12:00 AM ON Sep. 28, 2006 | PRINT | Email | SHARE | COMMENTS (0)

Coffee is hot.

According to a recent beverage statistics report, it's the most popular beverage in the world. There are more than 400 billion cups consumed each year -- more than eggnog, Fresca, celery juice, Panda breast milk, lava and Ovaltine combined.

Coffee is loved, foremost, for its delectable taste. Each sip is like a liquid lap dance, giving the tongue a sensuously caffeinated shimmy of erotic, bean-filled delight.

Even more amazing -- coffee is good for your health! Studies indicate that coffee can lower rates of colon and rectal cancer, thanks, of course, to Folgers' new line of coffee suppositories -- the 17th best part of waking up.

Whether by insertion, ingestion or immaculate consumption, coffee has found its way to the stomachs -- and hearts -- of millions. And its popularity keeps spreading.

It's the chlamydia of beverages.

In the musical "Rent," writer Jonathan Larson suggests that life itself can be measured in cups of coffee. Moreover, I believe life is quite like coffee. A miraculous macchiato. A confounding cappuccino. An invigorating and empowering drink -- one that should be savored to the last drop.

This realization struck me last weekend as I watched my grandmother's life cling to that very drop.

Appropriately enough, when I received the call that she was having a heart attack, I was holding a cup myself.

McDonald's. No cream, no sugar. Just black.

A color soon contrasted by the pallor of my grandmother's skin. At the hospital, I watched her through the door's tiny window. An oxygen mask was over her mouth, attached to a tangled web of cords.

Her face was pale, almost blank -- a stark contrast from her usual vibrancy.

She always looked so healthy and colorful, wearing clothes with bright jewels and crystals. As a child, I would routinely marvel at them, watching them glisten in the light.

When I came out, years later, my grandmother told me that had been her first clue.

"The gays certainly love their gemstones," she said.

Then she hugged me. Now here she was, even more vulnerable and exposed, and all I wanted to do was hug her back.

For hours, we waited, sipping on cups of stale hospital coffee. It tasted awful -- bitter and depressing, like liquid divorce -- but emitted a comforting warmth in a place that felt so cold. And when I was half finished with my third cup, the doctor gave us the news.

Luckily, the cup was half full.

Her vitals had stabilized. She was regaining consciousness. And when she opened her eyes, her irises shone like blue crystals, with a shade so deep you could sink to the bottom.

Beautiful.

The next day I visited her, bearing glorious gifts from the Dollar Tree -- a teddy bear, balloons and a neon-green glow bracelet -- to jazz up the otherwise dull hospital wristlets.

After she finished opening the gifts, I asked her if she wanted anything else.

"Cream and sugar," she said, picking up her steaming cup of coffee from the table. "My nurse forgot."

"Why didn't you just remind her?" I asked.

"Because," she said, completely unaware of the following irony, "I didn't have the heart."

With that, I smiled and gave her a hug.

"I love you, Grams," I said, squeezing her into oblivion. "You are ... the ultimate badass."