This weekend, I won’t be waiting in the line at Skeep’s. I won’t be relaxing at home, binge-watching “House of Cards” on Netflix. I won’t celebrate the end of midterms with friends. Instead, I will celebrate the life of my grandmother. I will go home Friday morning, I will sit with my family in an impersonal room in the intensive care unit of St. John’s Hospital in Warren, Mich., and I will watch one of the most important people in my life take her last breath as she is taken off of life support.

I don’t write this so you pity me. I write this for my own sense of closure.

I last spoke to my grandmother on Valentine’s Day, when I called to see if she had any plans with friends, or with my parents, or my uncle, because I worried about her being alone. She didn’t. She said she might visit with my papa, in the cemetery where he’s laid for the past four years. I felt guilty, I remember. I had plans with my living, breathing boyfriend that night. I have yet to visit papa at his grave.

She asked me about all the developments in my life, which I was all too excited to share. I rambled on about my work at the Daily, and my internship for the coming summer and all of the amazing, coming-of-age milestones that were consuming my life. Out of obligation, I asked her what was new in her life. Nothing much, she said.

Even now as I try so hard to remember every last word she said to me, I can’t. I told her I couldn’t wait to see her in two weeks, when I would be home for spring break. That didn’t seem so long away at the time.

My grandma, my nana, was stubborn. She was proud, and she had strong beliefs and she was good and giving. There were many moments when we didn’t get along, but there were so many more when we did. I loved listening to stories about her life growing up, and about her family and papa, and everything else. My biggest regret, the irony of which is not lost on me as I attempt to establish myself as a journalist, is that I did not ask her more questions.

How many nights did I spend scrolling through my Twitter feed or locked in my room, as she sat in my living room, anticipating conversation and company? How did I not realize that she was so much more interesting than whatever fashion blog I was reading, that her nights were so much more precious than mine, so much more finite?

I had been meaning to sit her down to make a family tree, before all of the faces and names that had once defined her life were replaced with the absence of mind that so often accompanies old age. I thought I had more time.

My only solace is knowing that the last conversation my parents had with her was a happy one. My mother bought her a ticket to Florida, where we are traveling for Spring Break, scheduled to leave this Sunday. They asked if they should get insurance for her plane ticket. She said no.

This weekend, I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go to the hospital, I don’t want to see the rest of my family, I don’t want to sift through Nana’s belongings and I don’t want to face my friends and pretend everything is ok.

I do want Nana pestering me again to peel the potatoes at Thanksgiving, even though the turkey won’t be done cooking for another hour. I do want to miss 15 minutes of family movie night to make her coffee, and I want to be sent back to the kitchen to put the right amount of cream into the steaming cup. I want to explain to her, again, the difference between the Internet in general and Facebook specifically, and I want to call her on Valentine’s Day every year for the next 20.

I don’t want to say goodbye.

Alicia Adamczyk is an LSA senior.

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