“Even when I dream of you, the sweetest dream will never do…” -Aerosmith

My granny, Nancy, found out she had cancer in May of 2004. On August 6, 2004, less than three months after her diagnosis, she took her last breath. Those three months consisted of emotions I didn’t know the human mind or body could convey. When I think back on my life, of life-changing moments for me–moments that completely changed the person I was–I can only think of those months.

It’s been six years since I saw her. It’s been six years and one day since I last spoke to her. I write about her often, but only in pieces. She is who makes up most of my favorite posts on this blog.

My granny was young when she died; she was in her fifties. At the time of her death, I was fifteen, and while I thought I knew everything, I knew absolutely nothing. I was selfish. In those three months, I went through periods of denial; I went through moments of determination–she was going to get through this; I went through moments of wanting her to die just so I could get on with my life. Like I said, I was fifteen, and I was selfish. I thought my entire world was shattering, but I failed to look on the outside. I failed to see how terrified my granny was. I failed to think of my dad, who was quickly losing his mother–the woman who gave him life. I failed to look into my pawpaw’s eyes and see the sadness that engulfed him because he knew he was losing his wife, his best friend. I only looked within, and I had rough moments.

It’s hard for me to recall a lot of how I felt in those three months, though I can remember what I felt when she did pass away. First, I felt relief. I was finally at a point where I wanted her to no longer feel pain, and I wanted to go through the healing process. Then, I felt anger at a god I wasn’t sure I believed in anymore. Then, I felt anger at myself for being so selfish. I soon felt intense sadness, and I didn’t know what life had to offer. I eventually found peace, but it took a long time. I’m not even exactly sure how long. I changed; I grew up. If you ask people close to me, they would tell you that I was a completely different person after that point in my life.

My granny was amazing woman. She was/is the most amazing woman I will know in my lifetime. She was opinionated, and everyone loved her. Everybody knew her as “Granny,” even if they weren’t related. She always had a table (and countertop) full of food at dinnertime, and there were always leftovers. She loved my pawpaw with an immense passion that I envy at times–I only hope I love Husband with that same passion. She loved him in a way a woman loves her husband after being with them since age seventeen. They were best friends, and when my pawpaw passed away eight months after Granny, I wasn’t surprised. He wanted to be with her, and that was their purpose in life.

Right before Granny died, she was happy. She was ready to go; she wanted the pain to be gone, and more importantly, she wanted to move on from this world on to a better place. Today, it’s a little easier, but I still miss her. I think about her daily, even if it’s just a passing thought, a fleeting memory. I plan on telling my children about her, and though I know I can never do her justice through my words, I will always continue to try.

It’s been six years since she took her last breath, but she’s still breathing.

I remember the day Granny died. I remember being there the day before, telling her we were leaving to get ice cream (we weren’t; we were leaving for the night to stay with my aunt). She knew the truth, and she knew she wouldn’t be there when we got back, but she played along and told me to bring some ice cream back to her. I told her I would, and that’s the last conversation I had with her. The next morning, she was gone. One minute, she was breathing; the next minute, she was no longer of this world. I saw her lifeless body soon after that, and it wasn’t the easiest thing to endure. I was fifteen, and I felt like my world had collapsed around me.

Eight months later, Pawpaw came to visit. We went to the aquarium, and he wasn’t feeling that well. Later that night, he asked to go to the hospital–something he wouldn’t have done if he wasn’t worried something was wrong. He told me he’d be back; he didn’t come back. He died of congestive heart failure in the hospital bed. I was sixteen. He was my favorite man in the world, and Granny had made me promise to take care of him, the love of her life. I wasn’t hard on myself when he died–by that point, I knew it was a part of life, and I was becoming numb to death. I was angry, though, that two people who I loved with my entire being were gone.

I’m twenty-one now. As the years pass, it gets easier to live without them–because it has to. In the past, I was confused. I had some really bad moments.

Today, I miss them. I miss them every day, but it’s different some days. I often try to forget that year of my life because it’s sometimes easier to do so. There are a few things I won’t forget, though, because I don’t want to: the way they held hands in bed while Granny was sick; the way Pawpaw cried when Granny was saying her goodbyes–it showed me exactly what true love was; the way they kissed when they knew they’d be apart for a little while; the way Pawpaw sat next to me at Granny’s memorial service and squeezed my hand, allowing me to realize I didn’t have to try to prove my strength around him–that I could cry now. They’re all sad moments, but they were the perfect example of love.

Those memories are also a reminder of where they are now–together for eternity. Wherever that may be, it’s exactly where they want to be.