On April 16, 2015, my life as I knew it crumbed at my feet. I received the devastating news that we all encounter throughout the duration of our lives: “Grandma died.” On April 16th, my beloved grandmother passed away, exactly one week before my 16th birthday. On April 16th, I lost one of the women who I cherished the most. It was a typical Thursday. I awoke to the chirping of my alarm clock, went to school, ate the lunch I managed to get together two minutes before the bus left, rode the bus home, and began my walk toward my house. As I turned the corner, a terrifying alarm rang internally; my parents cars were parked in the driveway, something that did not occur until nearly 6 PM. With each step closer to my house, the internal alarm sounded louder and louder and my stomach began to painfully knot. Something was certainly wrong. I entered the house through the unorganized and cramped garage to be greeted by the sight of my parents waiting for my brother and I to return home from school. Then it hit me: grandma was no longer with us. Years prior, my grandma had been diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension. Due to her age and severe symptoms, it was certainly a death sentence. The youthful 65 year old had transformed into a old 90 year old in a matter of 5 years and she was no longer able to do the things that she loved, the things that made her who she was. Throughout the majority of my life, grandma Jean had lived in the house she raised my dad and aunts in, located
