As a child I was perfection, I had to be. My brother, Holden, had some serious issues with social skills, and around people in general. My parents already had enough on their plate trying to deal with him, so from a young age, I decided to be the reliable good-girl. Never complaining, always conscientious, and my parents soon learned that I could be trusted by myself. Throughout elementary and middle school, my parents gave Holden the majority of their attention, but I didn’t mind. I liked the independence. Then a tragedy struck our family. My grandma was diagnosed with Leukemia the summer before my sophomore year. Our veil of order was shredded. Grandma was the only one who understood me, and who I felt that I could be honest with about my feelings. Having her be reduced to a shell of her joyful, loving self was like a bullet in my chest. She was my slab of stability for when I would break down under all the stress and pressure to be perfect. …show more content…
I am afraid that she won’t make it, that my hero will be gone, reduced to a memory. My parents and Holden seem unaffected by the fact that the strongest woman in history is being eaten from the inside out and I want to scream at the unfairness of this world. Why do the good people suffer the most? Is it just some cruel joke, or is there a higher meaning? Whatever the answer may be, I know that I’ve been spiraling out of control ever since that cold winter morning she phoned from the hospital. When she gave us the news I ran out of the house, tears running down my face, staining the world with my grief. Sometimes, during one of her bad days, I consider taking out the Japanese carving knife that lives in the bottom of my sock drawer, and I consider putting an end to all the pain and misery. I always end up putting the knife back, with the exception of one