I vividly recall the day I learned of my grandfather's death; it was a pivotal moment in my life. The morning of December 10th, 2018 was a normal morning for my family. As usual, I awoke to the sound of my father knocking on the door to my room, yelling,
“Get up! moveMove your feet! you'reYou're wasting time, you can be outside in the sun, moping inside!”
I ran into my brother in the hallway, and we took our time going down the stairs, still groggy from the night before. I considered what to have for breakfast as we made our way to the kitchen: fried eggs, pancakes, an omelet, or perhaps just some cereal.
The phone then rang, and dad picked it up. It was difficult to tell what the problem was, but it was obvious something had startled him. However, I thought nothing of it and continued with my day and went to school. I was in class, it was a typical, happy day. My father had planned to pick me up, but instead, my friend's mother did. I didn't think much of it because she wouldn't tell me why. The car ride to the hospital is one of my most vivid memories. My friend's mother refused to tell me why she was bringing me to the hospital; she said was,
“I'm driving you to the emergency room”.
I can remember her telling me, "Just know, Marie, that no matter what happens, we will always be here for you."
WeWe followed the signs that seemed to guide us through this maze of hallways after we reached the third floor. We finally arrived at a hanging sign that marked "Intensive Care" after what seemed like several turns and turnarounds.