I'd walk into the house, and the first voice I heard was hers. It was a voice that exasperated me. A voice that was rash and coarse, and made me angry. It brought forth nothing but annoyance and the further I moved away from it, the more I felt myself at peace. I didn't like being near her. I didn't like spending time with her. I didn't like doing anything with her; simply because I was a 12-year-old girl who was too consumed with childish video games and television to give the slightest attention to anything else. You see, my Grandmother couldn't walk. Sometimes she needed to grab something that was near her, and I would selfishly ignore her because I was too lazy to take my time out for her. She spent much of her life in her bedroom alone, and there was no guilt in me that would force me to keep her company. I was heartless. I was self-absorbed and oblivious, and every bit of me hates me for the things I had to make her endure. Think about it for a second, and call me whatever you want. I've told this story to many people in my life, and some have felt remorseful towards me, while others have felt infuriated with my behavior. In fact, I have had some people refer to me as a total b****. You know what I say to that? Nothing. They have every right to their opinion, and I will not sit there and justify my actions, because I have no way of doing so. I treated her poorly, and I will own up to that. She didn't deserve that type of poor treatment. She didn't deserve to be ignored, yelled at, and wished death upon (which I had done) due to my ignorance and botheration. She was my Grandmother. She was old and fragile, and she deserved to be treated with respect. If I could go back and change everything, I would. However, life does not work that way.

Around the year of 2008, her health began to decline. My Grandmother was always in and out of hospitals. So, it did not shock me when she was visiting the doctors about three times a week. I didn't think anything of it at first. However, soon she was not able to do simple tasks. Many times my mother would wake up in the middle of the night to hear my Grandmother crying in her room. It turned out that she had fallen off her bed while sleeping, and could not force herself to get up from the ground. Now, take in consideration that my Grandmother was 106 years old, about 6'2 in height, and probably weighed at least 200 pounds. She was a heavy woman, and it took the help of my mother and her sister to get her back on her bed. She was also having a hard time going to the bathroom, and the toilet was in her room; maybe two inches away from her bed. Soon, my Grandmother needed the help of my aunt to get her from the bed to the toilet. My aunt would have my Grandmother's arm wrapped around her neck and would push her up to get her to the toilet. This was hard to do, especially because she was going so frequently. Eventually, my aunt got tired, and no one wanted to help my Grandmother anymore. So, I decided to help her for the first time in my life. I would go into her room, put her arm around my neck, so the weight of her body was on my back, and tell her consistently, ''Get up, get up!'' I would even go as far as to pulling her pants down and helping her wash herself. Then, I would help her get back to her bed. This is when I started noticing that she was getting extremely sick. Her body was filling up with fluid, and her legs had become sore. Her face was driven pale by the consistent walking she had to do to use the toilet, and there were purple bags underneath her blue eyes. I knew from that moment that something was not right.

I started to spend more time with her. I would listen to her and sit down with her, but she was not the same person I knew a few months ago. She was tired now. She would spend her days sleeping in bed and refusing to eat. She had no more energy left in her. The only time she was awake was when her nose would start to bleed rapidly, and she had to be rushed to the hospital. Deep in my heart I knew she was dying, I just knew it. No one had to tell me. No one had to give me an indication, or sit with me and give me a pep-talk about it-- I just knew. The next several weeks, my nights were spent crying in my bedroom. Every single night, I would pray to God to give her another day. Every night, I was praying. I never prayed, to be honest. I needed God so badly, because I needed my Grandmother badly. I need someone or something to believe in so I did not lose faith in her. Every day, I would wake up happy, because she was alive. Then, every night, I would cry myself to sleep not knowing what the next day had to bring. It was a cycle of emotions that kept repeating itself. After a while, I began forcing myself to stand in her room every night and watch her sleep. I would not even sit on the bed next to her, because I was afraid of falling asleep, and then waking up, and seeing she was gone. I began to have bruises on my feet, and I was very sleep-deprived, but I loved her. In the back of my mind, I really thought that if I would sit there and watch her, that maybe... Just maybe, she wouldn't leave me.

Then, one day, I was at school sitting in the corner of a classroom. My thoughts were, of course, of my Grandmother. I realized that I was about to cry once again, and got up, and asked the teacher if I could go to the bathroom. She looked at me, and knew something was upsetting me. She asked, ''Are you okay?'' In response, I told her, ''My Grandmother is dying.'' She apologized, but she could not do anything. I walked away, and continued to the hallway with tears flooding down my face. I was so emotionally torn and heart-broken that I had resulted to self-harm. Every time I got flashbacks about my behavior towards my Grandmother, I ended up hitting myself. I would ball my hands into a fist and punch my forehead. One time, I even remember walking in the wind, and my forehead was so bruised, that the wind would bring it pain. While walking to the bathroom, a hall monitor saw me crying and asked me what was wrong. I told her the same thing I had told my teacher, ''My Grandmother is dying.'' Her reply was not the same, but if it wasn't for her reply, I think I would have lived my whole life with uncertainty and regret. She asked me, ''When's the last time you told her you loved her?” I was left shocked and speechless. I did not remember the last time I had told my Grandmother I loved her. In fact, I don't think I had ever told her that I loved her. Did I love her? Yes, I did. I loved her more than words could describe. However, I was not aware of this love. So, you know what I did with this advice? I followed it.

One day my Grandmother was in her bed, fatigued and unaware of her surroundings. I sat beside her, and she was rather annoyed by it, because she wanted to go to sleep. She pushed me away and told me to leave her alone, so she could rest. However, I refused. I looked her right in her eyes while holding her rough hands and said, ''No, I can't go yet, Grandma. I have to tell you something before I leave.''

''Well, what is it? Tell me, and go.''

''I love you.''

''Okay, now go.''

''Not yet. I need you to repeat it back to me.''

''You said you love me. Now please, Saba, I am very tired.''

That was it. That was enough to convince me she knew. She had become the sickest she had ever been, and for her to be able to repeat those words to me were enough to have me convinced. I loved my Grandmother, and no one will ever make me think otherwise.

Two weeks later, I got a dreaded phone call home that my Grandmother had died in her sleep. The first thing I did was hit myself, since it had been something I began resorting to due to anger. I was in tears while clenching onto my blanket. My family drove to the hospital, and as I made my way to her body which lay on the hospital bed, all I could say was, ''You forgot something…'' while holding her black beanie that she wore every day.

Now, 8 years later, everything has changed. I can tell people my Grandmother has died, and there will be no tears that fall from my eyes. However, tears do fall when I am saying all that I have written above. I don't cry because she is dead. I cry because I couldn't do anything. I cry because when I repeat these events to someone else, it brings me back to that state of desolation and shame. I cry at the thought that I knew she was dying every day, but I could not do anything to help her. It's a feeling I want to describe, but it's just too hard to explain. The best way I can describe my emotions is through a sentence I saw in a story that I read last semester. I cannot remember the name of the story, so, I cannot quote it properly, but I will try my best to — it's like getting into a car crash, you know the very moment it's going to happen, but you can't really do anything about it. That's exactly how I felt, and that is the reason I cry. So, what happens to love when the person you love dies?

You see, my world is still spinning, and the sky is still blue. The days have the same hours, and the seasons remain unchanged. I don't cry as much anymore. I only think about my Grandmother maybe once or twice a month. There isn't much that I think about, either. However, what I do think about is the first voice I use to hear when I walked into my house. It was a voice that exasperated me. A voice that was rash and course, and made me angry. It is a voice that I am no longer able to hear again…