My first memory is of my maternal grandmother’s death (I never knew my paternal grandparents). I was 3. I heard a commotion early in the morning. Grandma had fallen in the bathroom. The next thing I remember was seeing her lifeless body in the living room, all wrapped up except for her face, ready for the funeral; my mom and aunts sobbing by her sides.
I was there by my mom’s side when she breathed her last breath in a hospital room shared with three other patients. Before she passed, she said she didn’t care anymore if she died, and that her parents had come to pick her up. A nurse was there, checking all the apparatus attached to my mom when her heart stopped beating. She didn’t know what to do. She ran out for help. Help came about 15 minutes later, which felt like forever. They unnecessarily intubated her. There was no way they could’ve brought her back. After all that, the doctor came to me and said, “You knew it was coming, right?” That was all she said to me before she left.
I learned about my father’s accident and of his death last week from Facebook posts I was tagged on. There was never any personal messages to me from my family. I’ll just leave it at that.