It was the spring of 2017.  My favorite time of year arrived, and summer slowly approached as well.  What I expected to be the best part of the school year quickly fell apart.  The landmarks became more and more familiar, and the sound of our rough black tires gliding across the smooth highway would soon be embroidered into my mind, as trips to the Toledo hospital became nightly events.  Scurrying into the hospital to relieve ourselves of the cold windy air, I always hoped a miracle would happen.  Every day I imagined my mom would say to me, “She’s allowed to come home.”  After a long three months of exhausting hauls to Toledo and constant worry and tears, I would finally hear those words.

The sports-filled summer breezed by.  The fall came, and Grandma was able to be in the stands at every volleyball game. As the holiday season neared, spending time with her during these times remained unmatched.  While drinking her homemade lemonade and eating her mashed potatoes that always had chunks in them, which I didn’t like very much but ate anyway, I never thought about not being able to eat or drink them again.  
My world descended once again once Monday, January 8th, 2018, arrived.  I flung my basketball practice jersey over my head as I overheard my mom talking on the phone with my sisters.  As she explained why my sisters were going up to Toledo Hospital, she said, “They don’t think she is going to make it,” as she struggled to hold back the tears.  She wanted to be strong for me like always, but I knew she couldn’t handle the heartache.  I knew I had to go with my sisters; there was no question that I was going.  As I hugged and kissed my mom goodbye, too many thoughts spiraled through my mind to even comprehend what was happening.  My mind circled and circled like a merry-go-round, attempting to stop but continuing to spin.  Trying to drive while my eyes became rainclouds and drool poured out of my mouth, I sped up to my sister Mindy’s house. 

When I arrived, not even remembering where I was told to park my car, I hopped into Sara’s pearly car, and the four of us rushed to the hospital.  The pounding in my chest blocked out what my uneasy, stressed sisters said to each other.  “Should we still go?” 
“We’re going to regret not going.” 
“Maybe we should just go back to Mom’s house.”
The pain in my chest from not being able to breathe felt like nothing compared to the pain that I would be feeling within the next hour. 

We arrived at the hospital within five seconds, and as soon as I walked into the hospital room, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together.  Ever since the last spring, I attempted to prepare myself for this feeling, but no amount of preparation could have readied me for what I felt as I walked into that cold, crowded room.  I looked at my grandpa; his hand clenched tightly to my grandma’s.  His eyes were puffy, red, and wet.  I looked at her as she rested immovable in the hospital bed, and I immediately broke down.  My chest burned; my heart hurt; my eyes swelled. 

Rushing out of the hospital room, I pressed the side of my face against the pale blue wall that sent a chill through my body.  It hurt too badly.  I couldn’t breathe.  The pain was unbearable.  Absolutely unbearable.  I sat out in the hallway for a few minutes, and I knew this was it.  This was the moment I had been dreading. 

When I gathered myself, I trudged back into the room.  The feeling of my aunt’s hand rubbing my back made me cringe.  I didn’t want to be touched or talked to; I blocked everyone out.  We sat there in silence for a few minutes, only to hear the occasional sniffle from our dripping noses.  Finally, the nurses entered the room, and they slowly whispered the dreaded words:  “She’s gone.”  In a split second, my heart dropped.  I hated the nurses.  I hated them.  I didn’t want them in the room, although none of this was their fault.  After saying a prayer, I took one last look at my grandma, who was no longer breathing the same air as I, and we went out into the waiting room for a while.  The amount of pain I felt couldn’t be accounted for.      

I never knew how much I would miss seeing my blonde, blue-eyed Grandma sitting in the stands at every single one of my games.  I never knew how much I would miss the fact that I knew I could call over there anytime, and she would pick up and say, “Hi, honey!”  I never knew how much I would miss walking up the blue, creaky stairs just as she began making bird noises to guide me to where she was.  I never knew how much I valued her big cozy hugs -- until it would never happen again.