Personal Narrative: My First Death

“The hardest part wasn’t losing you, it was learning to live without you.” I was 12 years old when my mom got a phone call. It was the morning of October 30, 2011. My grandma was ill, she was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis. I learned something valuable, you don’t understand the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. On that day, I experienced my first death of a loved one. My grandma Brenilda was sick for a long time. I remember her always walking with an oxygen tank, barely grasping for air. I recall going to her doctor appointments one after another. As the day went by her lungs grew weaker. I used to think why do bad things happen to good people. My grandma loved to smile, she was always happy despite her illness and little to offer, she always gave to people in need. Time grew and the clock was ticking but that didn’t stop her from cooking pancakes on Sunday morning or teaching her granddaughters how to sew. My mom called her “superwoman”. It was one night, I stayed at my grandma’s house, we were watching tv, meanwhile I remember her coughing up blood. She didn’t want me too see but I didn’t want her to hide from me. Watching her grow sick, made me value the moment I had left with her. Everytime she had to go to the hospital, I went with. I wasn’t there every single moment but my mom was

It was October 30, 2011, my mom received a phone call, my grandma just had a heart attack. We rushed to my grandma’s house as soon as possible. She was still alive, still breathing, everyone said their last goodbye’s. The room was filled with crying sorrow. 12:42 there was no sign of breathing, no heartbeat to be found and no sign of living. She lays there lifeless, pale as snow white, she no longer looked like my grandma. I cried as I watched her die right in front of me. It was the last time, I was ever going to hug her and eat her Sunday pancakes. I felt an emptiness because I knew she was gone