I have never felt ashamed of my anxiety and depression. I have suffered, tread through, and rejoiced in its remissions for the better part of ten years. Since I was 12 years old, I have found ways to overcome and to live with these conditions. You would think all of this pain, and losing my grandfather — amongst dozens of other relatives so early in life, would have prepared my for what I am about to speak of. But, nothing prepares you for moments that rip apart your being, your core.
Two years later… with a month to spare… the lights went out. Slowly, they are flickering back on. At first I could only see shadows and now I can see the room, and the outside of the window. I am no longer devastated, but I am not the same.
My grandmother, a wonderful lady, supported me through much of my life. She was kind, compassionate, funny, and vain at times. Many never knew the last bit, but we still joke about it, my mother and I. She was vain, but not selfish.
The morning she died I was awoken by my mother, scared, frantic. “Grandma’s in an ambulance”. You see — we lived across the highway from the hospital. Right there, across the road from my childhood home, is where my grandmother was being carted off. So, I went. I went, and I called my relatives — we all met. Then, we were told it was much more serious so she would be sent to another hospital 45 minutes away…
We found out the day she died that she had cancer. In her brain. There was no saving her. So, still trapped in that hospital room today, I can explain to you the metal of the sink, of the bedding — the lost look on the doctor’s face. She too, had lost her father mere weeks before to the same grappling illness.