I can’t do it.  I cannot breathe in and out, my lungs seem nonexistent.  I can’t do it.  I can’t force my lungs to work, it seems like everything inside of me is shutting down like a broken machine.  I can’t do it.  Tears begin to fill up and stream down my face, but I can’t wipe them away.  My arms are stuck to me as if I was a statue.  I can’t do it.  The pounding of my heart echoes throughout my body, as the shaking begins.  I cannot will not come to terms with what my father had just said.  It’s not true.  It cannot be true.  I can’t pull myself together for my younger siblings, I am already broken.  The pounding of my heart gets louder, the shaking increases, my body feels like a ticking time bomb…I blow up.  I don’t know how but somehow I end up on the ground in my father’s arm, screaming in pain and agony.  Scanning the room I find my siblings, eyes locked on me, with tears streaming down their faces I close my eyes.  I don’t want to look at this world without him, without my Boppa.  

An hour later, a thousand tears later, my family piles up in the car to head to my grandmother’s house.  The hour-long car ride seems to last forever.  The tortuous ride is dead silent the only time, with a few sniffles now and then.  Keep yourself together, you need to do this for mom.  When we pull up at my grandma’s house I see the other family’s cars and a tear escapes down my cheek.  This house; the house we host Christmas at, four-wheeling, summer seafood cookouts, the house is sad.  It is missing its other half.  I wipe away the tears and prepare myself for what is to come inside.  As the door creaks open I am instantly hit with the cold and a view of everyone in my family.  No one says, “Hi Petersons!” like they usually do when we enter, everyone instead looks up at us and focuses back on my grandma.  I stare at my grandma, her eyes look swollen, she is shaking, and she seems confused.  I continue to stand there, I don’t know what to do.  I feel lost, I don’t know how to help without crying and making it worse.  I walk over to my cousins and exchange hugs.  Tears form around all of our faces, we can’t bring ourselves to say anything without breaking down, so we sit in silence.  

“What is wrong with grandma?” I ask finally speaking.  They look at me, shocked that I spoke.  

“She is in shock.  She doesn’t remember anything,” one of my cousin replies somberly.  Oh god.  The rest of the night passes by in a blur.  I remember sitting in the red room with my cousins while the aunts and uncles argued, and took my grandma to the hospital.  I remember walking down to the basement, to the bar, to the exact bar chair where my grandpa had a heart attack and died.  I remember breaking down in the basement while my cousin held me and broke down too.  I remember coming home after that night and not being able to sleep for the rest of that week.    

Four years later, that day lives on my head on repeat at times.  I think about it when I am sad, lost, and feeling broken.  But that happens rarely at this point.  I managed to stitch the pieces back together of myself but at times I feel like there is an empty hole of where my grandpa used to be.  My family and I have definitely grown stronger and closer from this experience though.  We remember and honor him at our Christmases, tubing on his boat, and seafood summer dinners.  We will never forget him, we will never forget our Boppa.