Chapter 2: The Decline

My loving grandma was well — until the day she wasn’t. Diabetes started taking over, not just her health and her life, but mine too.

The strongest memory I have of her beginning to change was the day she became blind. My brother had started bringing his friends to our home. My grandma was still walking around the corridor and began chasing them with a rolling pin — including me, as I was home too. I was in my room at the time. When I saw her like that, it broke my heart. It wasn’t funny for me. Watching her decline like that... it hurt. Even blind, she was still trying to bring order to the house, still trying to send them away, because they shouldn’t have been there. There were no other adults present at that moment, and it was scary — especially because there were about sixteen small steps that led downstairs.

One day, I arrived home with my mom. She couldn’t open the door. She felt something was wrong — and she was right. I don’t remember who managed to open it, but someone entered through the back door that led to the kitchen. All I remember is seeing my grandma lying there, surrounded by a pool of blood.

I’ll never forget the cold shock that hit my body. It wasn’t like a bucket of cold water — it was like lightning made of ice, striking me deeply from the inside out. I gasped, as if I had forgotten how to breathe. But I composed myself. I didn’t scream. I was in shock. I looked into her eyes and couldn’t tell if she was alive. Her eyes were glass — no life, no soul.

I stayed calm, or maybe I was just frozen in disbelief. The only thought in my head was, “Oh my God, is she alive?”

My mom called the ambulance, and they took her to the hospital.

Some time later — I don’t remember exactly how long — she came back home. She could still speak, but she was confined to a bed. One day, she asked my brother for water, but he refused. Somehow, I was blamed for it. I hadn’t done anything that day, but I must confess there was a day when she asked me for water, and I froze in fear. Thank God, my mom arrived not long after. She was angry — upset that children were expected to take care of someone so ill.

I loved my grandma dearly. I still do. But I had a serious fear of doing anything in front of people, or even for people. I was terrified, even though I loved her.

Eventually, she had to start drinking only liquid food, and then she stopped talking. After that, she began developing bed sores. Nurses started coming to take care of her from time to time. It was a full decline — not just hers, but mine too.

One day, the nurses were there taking care of her. I hadn’t eaten yet, and I was really hungry. It was already late morning. I went downstairs, and just as I was stepping off the last stairs, I heard a commotion. My mom rushed down, clearly nervous and distressed, and picked up the phone. She said she had to call the rest of the family — especially the ones living far away.

I asked innocently what had happened and why she was acting that way. She snapped and yelled, ‘Your grandma died!’

Just the sound of her voice frightened me, but the words... those words hit me hard.

I had just seen her. She seemed fine — as fine as she could be in that condition.

But I had forgotten something important: It wasn’t just any day. It was my eighth birthday. There was already a cake waiting. I had been expecting to celebrate. But instead of having a birthday party, I had a funeral. It was a shocking contrast — one I had to process in silence.

Because even though I didn’t know what was coming, deep down, I had felt it. I’d seen a glimpse of it in her that day when she chased them down in the corridor.

I always cried alone. I never felt safe or comfortable enough to show my emotions. It felt safer to hide them.

I don’t remember what happened to the cake. Did we eat it? I honestly don’t know. But a celebration is definitely not what I had.

For the next seven years, I didn’t celebrate my birthday at all. I didn’t mind — because I didn’t know whether I was supposed to celebrate life or death.

Now, I see things differently. I understand we can celebrate life while still honoring those we’ve lost. I know she would have wanted me to celebrate everything I could while I am alive. Because those who truly love us... they want us to be happy, no matter what.

She waited for me to leave. She fought as long as she could. Deep down, I believe she knew what was coming — and she protected me as much as she could. But I’m grateful she didn’t spend too long on that bed. It would’ve hurt us even more.

It wasn’t just her who passed away that day. I swear… a part of me died with her.