It was at that very moment that the spine-chilling thought entered my head and grasped it’s ghastly hands around my brain. Years spent in the hospital waiting room refusing to let in the ugly truth. You can hear it knocking at your door and ready to be heard, but the denial takes over instead.

As a kid you can’t tell the difference between a broken and a solid home, only what you come home to every day which eventually makes its way out to be normal in your eyes; but one thing that has no question about it is Grandma and Grandpa's house. Your nose starts to depict certain smells from that house. The constant rush of Grammy’s freshly baked cookies, the subtle laundry detergent that fills the air, and the distinct smell of Papa’s old batting gear. Everyday my bus would take me to a stop that was in between my mother’s house and my father’s house, yet I always found myself walking to Grammy and Papa’s. The moment you step foot into the house, the smells come flooding in along with hugs and kisses. Many questions are asked about your day and if there is anything they can do to help. For as long as I can remember, Grandpa has always been sick, yet never ceased to amaze me when he says to do a cartwheel for him. Everyday when I get home from school, he waits in his recliner to watch me, as I look up at him, I can see him bringing his hands up to his face to pry open his youthful eyes that have been glued shut with sickness. Once I do my rehearsed cartwheel across the living room floor, he yells hooray- everytime. 

I grew up with that practiced hooray and the overwhelming hugs and kisses, so when I heard that Grandpa was in the hospital again, I didn't think anything of it. We would go visit him in the hospital after school almost everyday. I would tell him about my day, and ask him how the doctors were treating him, and he would always respond positively so that no one would worry. It was when we would visit him with a tube down his throat that I would really start to worry. I had to stay strong and keep on a smile because I didn't want anyone to worry, just as he would. Everyday got easier, and we all continued to pay a visit to Papa so he wouldn't get too lonely/homesick. When the bus dropped me off on a rainy day, I searched for my grandmas car expecting it to be parked at the stop sign per usual. Only to find some black car parked across the street. The window rolled down and my mom hollered to get in. I hopped in and was excited because of a change of scenery. My mom said something that I couldn't quite make out, as if only half of me had heard it. I could sense my throat closing up, and clouds start to work their way in from the corner of my eyes. Feeling the tears drop from my face, but feeling nothing at the same time. I don't remember the car ride home, only the feeling of the next morning. Waking up with no preparation for the first thought that comes into mind. While you're asleep, you don't remember what happened or how you feel, so when you wake up it's like getting hit by a load of bricks. 

First deaths are always a big part of people’s lives. There are some points when you can feel so powerless, and so betrayed that there's no bringing them back, that you give up on seeking for help. It took me years to recover, but I had to remind myself that my own life has a purpose and that I had to start finding things that will become important and feel normal to me again. My grandpa’s passing has molded me as a person and taught me to treat people as you would like to be treated because nothing lasts forever. You have to live a life that isn't stuck on pause in order to fully experience the great creation of human existence. Time is a valuable thing, you have to treat it as though you are only passing by, because in the end, that’s all we're really doing.