I'll always remember the moment.

It was pretty late--after 11:30p, at least--when the phone rang. No one ever calls after 10 at our house. Not with good news.

I knew it wasn't good news.

Two weeks prior was when I found you on the floor in your room. You'd had falls before and my job trains me to deal with circumstances like these. This time you were non-responsive. That was unusual.

With some help, we got you off the floor and into the bed but still you were silent. I remember the look you had in your eyes: fright and confusion. We called the paramedics and when they arrived, they swarmed your room, asking us questions about your medications and what about your current behavior was usual and unusual. It was all unusual.

Nobody told me how bad things were while you were in the hospital. I had finals and Mom and Dad both thought it would be better if I focused on that. I'm still mad sometimes thinking about it.

The time you spent in the hospital was a blur. Once my last final was over, Mom called me and told me you weren't doing well and that I might want to go see you. I couldn't get out of work so I visited you the next morning.

I remember your hands and how small and cold they were. They were always small but had never been that cold when we used to match up our hands in your room and you used to tell me how long my fingers were compared to yours.

The night the hospital called was the night Dad and I went to see Wicked. Aunty Iris called early that evening, while we were in the show, but Dad didn't answer it for fear of what she might say. "I don't want the rest of the show to be ruined," he had told me. So we waited til afterwards to call her back but she was just looking for an update on your condition.

That night, I had just tucked into bed with my laptop. I don't even remember what show I was about to start watching. It doesn't seem to matter much now.

Dad answered the phone through a haze of sleep. I went into their bedroom to confirm what I already knew was coming. You were gone.

We got dressed and went straight to the hospital and all I could think of was that you were alone when you went. I wasn't there. I should've been there. But I thought you'd hold on at least another few days.

When we got there, you looked the same. The palor hadn't even set in, like I know it does. Your mouth had fallen open slightly, something that happens to residents of mine when they pass, so I rolled up the towel--like I was trained to do--and placed it under your jaw so when the rigor mortis set in, you would be in a more dignified position.

I wish we had more time together. I guess I should be grateful we were able to have the time we did but I had just come back from college. I had just come back for you. I thought it was a cop out, moving back home instead of fending for myself in the real world, but I know now that it was the best possible thing I could've done. You drove me crazy but then you'd make that cute face that says you don't understand why I'm upset and I had to laugh; you were just too adorable.

I didn't want to put this down in words--didn't think I'd have the courage to. But I guess 2am brings out things in people that even they don't know are within.

Through it all, I just hope you know one thing, wherever you are:

I love you Grandma.