All I’ve ever wanted from this life is peace. I’m not talking about peace on Earth and no more war. I’m talking about peace from depression, the kind of depression that is so strong you can’t even talk to somebody about it. The kind that doesn’t make you want to hurt yourself but maybe cry on the inside about. You cry out loud every once in awhile but hold deep within every other time and day. The dagger that pierces deeper on the days you spent more time with them than usual, like Christmas and their birthday. Yes, I’m talking about the lost loved-one depression. I gained this depression not long ago, and it will probably never fade, just be more bearable. I lost my grandmother, Deborah (Debbie), to cervical cancer. I mourned the day of her passing but hardly at her wake, full of relatives that I either forgot or never met. I believe that the depression worsened that day and started on the day or afternoon of her passing.

She wanted to go for a walk, so we walked down the hospital hallway to a resting area. There were tables surrounded by at least five chairs and having a newspaper on each. They were evenly spread about in a neat and not very tight manner. We sat down at the closest table and I opened the newspaper and began to search for the comics, getting frustrated at trying to find the right page. When I finally found the comics I searched for “Garfield” or some other comic we all knew. I read it and about two other comics when my grandma began to have a coughing fit and breathe weirdly. When we asked if she was okay, she said she was fine. I continued reading, but kept an eye on her. When I finished reading all the comics, we walked her to her room. She laid down on her bed, and was fine for awhile, but then began to feel some pain. Marissa and I went searching for a nurse. We found one, and she helped my grandmother. She gave grandma her medicine and then helped her to the restroom. When grandma laid back down on the bed, she began to doze off, so we said goodbye and left.

My mother and my uncle were with her in her final moments, as she fought to continue living on the machines. After awhile, they decided to take her off the machines. She didn’t survive, but she wasn’t alone. I haven’t eaten jello, pudding or yogurt since; just the thought of it makes me sick. The most likely reason for this reaction is because besides water and ice cubes, that’s all she could have. I guess that losing wasn’t the only thing that upset me, but the secret guilt that I felt from reading that newspaper and not stopping until I was finished, the guilt of non-associative blame on myself for her passing. It may hurt to see photos and things that were once her’s and now mine but I look past that hurt and see the good things, for example that she isn’t in pain or ill anymore. If you suffer from this depression seek the good and happy things that came from and were made with the lost loved one and hold on to them. I can tell you personally it helps the bearability of seeing their photo get stronger.

So live on and prosper and remember the lost ones because they taught you so much valuable information that shouldn’t be lost in time and they are still watching you even if it doesn’t feel like they are.