I don’t like to think about that day. It’s not something I am proud of, not something I like looking back on and reflecting. But I force myself every night to remember what I did. It was an average Saturday. I had gone to practice and returned home to be told we would be visiting my great-grandmother in a nursing home. Her declining health was a known but unspoken subject in our household. We thought a year ago that we would lose her, and this year was just a repeat, hoping she would return home as always and go back to feeding her cats and collecting pictures of all of her grandchildren. After the long drive up to the Standish Nursing Home, we pulled into the parking lot. At the same time our uncle and his wife pulled up next to us. We walked through the hall, the smell of medicine and old people filled my nose. There is really no other way to describe that peculiar smell. My heart contracted as we walked into the room seeing my grandmother lay there like that, she looked frail, her breaths barely enough to push the thin bed sheets up and down.

We filed in one at a time through the small door. Her chances of living at this point were about as good as all of us fitting through that door at the same time. I hadn’t realized the severity of her vulnerability until I gave her a hug. We knew she couldn’t remember much. Forgetting that her own daughter had been there that morning to see her, making me hope that one day I wouldn’t forget. I grew uncomfortable standing there and sat on the floor, my boredom was eating me alive, I yearned to leave the stuffy little room that my grandmother had lay in for weeks. I don’t doubt that she wanted to leave just as much as I did, so maybe she could be more comfortable as well.

“Do you like the food?” My uncle had asked her.

“Bleh. I hate it.” She answered. Her stubbornness which my family resented was evident in all of them, even myself. It was one of the traits that we all refuse to acknowledge but hate in each other.

That was the most of that conversation I remember. I didn’t want to be there. It kills me now to say that, but I wanted nothing more than to leave that room, go home and watch tv or text or anything that wasn’t there. My father stood up and announced that we had better get going, I was so happy, I finally got to leave. When I leaned over to say goodbye to her, I just expected it would not be the last time. I gave her a hug, and a kiss and quickly said goodbye. I told myself I would see her again.

The next day was Easter Sunday. We were with my mothers side of the family, enjoying ourselves visiting, telling stories, just like every other visit. Later that evening I noticed my dads phone ringing, it was his sister, which was strange. I quickly gave him the phone and watched his expression with urgency. His face contorted, he never shows pain I thought to myself especially emotional pain. When he walked outside I knew. I knew what would come of the phone call, the one we all dread. We watch television shows that show us how the parent gets the call. Consoles the children and tells them how their now dead relative is happier or in a better place. The picture perfect way on how to deal with the death of a loved one. But I’m not going to tell you that. I am not going to lie and say I was sad but happy that she was now in heaven, because I can’t lie to myself.

I cried. I reminded myself time and time again that my grandmothers last day on earth was a waste of time to me. I remind myself that I will never get to see her again. I will never get to give that real goodbye. How are you suppose to live with yourself knowing how heartless you had been? She had never done anything wrong. I punished myself. I talked to no one. I sucked all emotion out and left it on my bedroom floor each morning. I pushed away anything that had any meaning to me, because I knew there was no way that she could ever forgive me, so how could I forgive myself.

The funeral. I, once again had already rid of my emotions. I told myself I could not be sad. We walked into the church. My favorite cousin walked up and gave me a hug, as if trying to comfort me. I brushed him off. I even laughed as some talked to me, just to make it seem like it was okay. When I turned after talking to my aunt about my latest accomplishments in school and equestrian II looked at my grandma. She stood there with my grandpa looking like a bird with a broken wing. Tissues in hand, she moved her glasses frequently to soak up tears. I couldn’t stop myself. I gave her a hug, I remember feeling big, which made me feel like I could actually make her feel better.

I vowed after that funeral to never speak of it again, what it did to me, what it made me realize I can’t bring myself to think about. I stopped cutting myself off. I rejoined reality, I figured out that hiding myself from the truth will never help anyone. I will never forgive myself, and found out the hard way what they mean when they say “Don’t take things for granted.” I hope that she can forgive me wherever my grandmother may be. I found it will be easier to live with myself knowing what I did, and taking something away from it. But I do know that I can cry no more.