On Death and Dying

Death was a lesson that I learned about at a very young age. When I was in second grade, my grandmother, who I called "Nanny" passed away from cancer. I was so young that it was difficult to understand what was happening when my parents told me. They told me she was very sick, but she still looked the same, talked the same, acted the same, so I don't think I realized what they were talking about.

My favorite memories about my Nanny were a few good ones. Mostly insignificant to anyone else, but they meant everything to me. I remember when I was young she would let me sit on top of the vacuum and she would push me around while she cleaned. I remember that she would sit me on her knee and bounce me up and down while she sang me the "Pony Girl" song. I remember that on holidays, she would make a big bowl of white sticky rice (which was my favorite) just for me.

I also remember her decline. Without me noticing, she lost all of her hair due to the chemo. She would always wear silky scarves over her head. We would always go outside into the garden and work and play. Then one day I realized that we didn't go outside anymore. We stayed inside and read books. Then she progressed, and didn't get out of her chair anymore.

One night I fell asleep, and the next morning when I woke up she was gone. The paramedics had taken her away in the middle of the night after she had passed away. I remember being SO mad at my parents. I was mad that they didn't wake me up so I could say goodbye. I was mad at my Nanny because she said that she would take me to the first day of second grade at my new school. She never made it.

It took a long time for the anger to go away. But it did. I experienced death again later in life, but with my grandpa this time. It was different with him though, because I was older, and processed the situation in a different way. I was holding his hand when he died.