Your mom is, logically the first person who loves you. Usually, the second being your father. For me that person was my Nana. There’s always been a different sort of connection with my nana. Sometimes, I’m pretty sure I saved her life as much as she’s saved mine. We kept each other here, rather than giving up. She is the person who loved me when I couldn’t fathom the idea of loving myself. And I’ll never know what my life would have been had she not. My nana, in addition to cooking, how to get a stain out, how to decorate a Christmas tree (or twelve), and how to take care of a dog, taught me how to love.

I can remember how she and I used to go garden together, “dead heading” the chrysanthemums and her telling me stories about her childhood or my mothers. Listening to old CD’s, or her teaching me my first football terms and patiently explaining how the game worked. Nana was my mentor. She taught me about family and how not to let them take advantage of your kindness, but still loving them despite bad qualities. She taught me how to make the best soul-healing cocoa in the world and that homemade chili is perfect for a cold winter’s day (the secret is in the cumin). We would play ridiculous, and not so ridiculous games, and have roughly 200 inside jokes from every round. But the true test of our connection was last year, the summer of 2015.

That may, I was hospitalized. In the whirlwind of terror and emotions as my mental health crashed and burned. There were a handful of people I could think of that I attribute to my continued existence. The first being my best friend, who took me to the hospital that night, despite him citing it as the worst day of his life as he scrambled to make sure I was going to make it to the next week. The Nurse, who held my hand throughout everything and made sure I had what I needed. And my Nana and Papa. They were the only people in my family to ever visit me the 5 days I spent in that ward. They lived almost 4 hours from the hospital I was in and they dropped everything to make sure they could be with me. I was terrified. I was shaking and one of the few clear memories I have of my time in there (they kept me well drugged, so I was very foggy) was collapsing into my grandparents while my nana told me that she was so happy to see that I was okay. She never once asked why I made an attempt. Never questioned how school would pan out, never put any pressure on me to talk about what was happening. She was just there, letting me now that she loved me and that I was never going to be alone. Not ever again. I have never cried harder than the day I realized that leaving her was the worst thing I nearly did.

Just over two months after, my Nana’s heart turned on her. My own heart sank to my stomach as my Papa called to tell me that she was being rushed to the hospital. I dropped everything and made a trip that took nearly 4 hours in about 3. I cant begin to describe the terror that grew in my chest seeing her post-surgery. I didn’t want that picture to be the last I saw of my nana. I was scared. What was I to do without her? I still had so much to learn. I still needed her advice and guidance. I refused to leave her side for almost a week. I had to be forced out of the room to go home and sleep. I couldn’t bear the idea of being away from her. What if while I wasn’t looking, it happened again? What if this time I lost her? The anxiety that came with wanting to keep her safe ran me ragged. She would talk to me some. Sometimes entirely lucid, others, not so much. I worked to try to make sure she was well cared for, that my papa was eating and drinking plenty while I sat in the ward trying to make sure no one missed anything. I refused to walk away. I refused to lose her. I still get antsy any time she says her chest aches. I love my nana. I think she is somehow my mother, in a way that almost doesn’t make sense to most people unless they see us. She is my hero, my role model.

I’ve been told I’m just like her: in my mannerisms or in my speech. Sometimes it comes out in how I cook or how I talk to others. Hearing that you’re just like your hero is something pretty incredible. What’s always been so funny is that I grew up almost entirely independent of her influence. She says she was always able to see it, even when I was a toddler. I loved like she did, I thought like she did, I even smile like she does. Nana says our connection is one of heartstrings. No matter how far apart we are, we are always connected. I will always act like her, I will always have some piece of her as apart of me. So much of who I am, so much of what I do is so much like the person I love so dearly. I don’t really know who I would be without her to guide me. I hope, despite the setbacks, I’ve made you proud.