I’ve never been good at showing emotion. My friends always make fun of me for never crying during movies, or even books. And for the most part, deaths never bothered me because I was always too young or disconnected from the person to feel any real pain. But that line had to be crossed eventually, right?
My grandmother constantly had issues with her health, and had pancreatitis when I was in fourth grade. Even then, I was still too young to understand how serious the situation was, even when my mother was constantly at the hospital, extremely stressed out, arguing with doctors over whether or not it was time to sell my grandmother’s apartment. Meanwhile, I was at home, playing with my puppy, Cocoa, trying to sneak in one more episode of Spongebob before bed. I remember crying after a spelling test once because I thought I did horribly on it (which is kind of sickening, since I had gotten a 93), but my teacher just hugged me and said not to worry about my grandma instead of calling me a perfectionist bitch like she probably should have.
As ominous as everything was, I became a little less oblivious only after my grandma miraculously recovered. She moved in with us for a couple of months, and nurses would stop by my house while everyone else was at work or school. I felt like I had it all at home: my parents, my sister, even a grandparent and a dog.
But that was the problem: my dog. Cocoa was a German shepherd, and (like most dogs) would bark up a storm and jump around at the sight of a guest. And we couldn’t run the risk of having her accidentally scratch my grandma’s...