grandparents
Becoming a grandparent makes getting older something to look forward to - all the fun of parenting, without the hassle.
A Battle Fought in Love
he hospital walls felt colder than usual, the air thick with silence and uncertainty. I sat beside my grandmother in the isolation room, the steady beep of the monitors the only sound filling the void. It was November 8 the doctor, standing outside our room in full protective gear, declared in a loud, detached voice, "Your patient is positive for COVID-19." I flinched at her words. She repeated it again, louder, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time. I raised my hand, shaking my head, pleading silently for her to stop. My grandmother was still awake, still aware. She didn’t need to hear this, not like this. But the doctor’s voice carried, cold and impersonal, slicing through the already fragile atmosphere. I excused myself, locking myself in the small, dimly lit hospital bathroom. My hands trembled as I clutched the sink, my chest tightening. Tears spilled freely, the weight of reality crashing down on me. She was positive. My lola—who barely left our house, who had spent her days within the warmth of our family’s walls—was now fighting a battle none of us ever expected. But COVID-19 was just one of the enemies she had to face. Her body had already been weakened by so much—Acute Respiratory Failure, COVID-19 Pneumonia (Severe), Type 2 Diabetes Mellitus, Hypokalemia, and Acute Kidney Injury on top of Chronic Kidney Disease Stage IV. I knew the odds, but I still held on to hope. I wiped my tears away quickly and stepped back into the room. I forced a smile, swallowing my fear. My cousin and I did a TikTok dance in front of Lola, trying to make her laugh. She watched us with amusement, her lips curving into a faint smile. For a moment, things felt normal. We were just a family, sharing a fleeting moment of joy in the midst of a storm. Then everything changed. An hour later, my grandmother could no longer respond. Her breathing grew labored, her body struggling against an unseen force. Panic gripped us as we called for the nurses. Everything after that moment blurred into chaos—machines beeping, medical staff rushing in, their voices urgent yet distant. Two days before, on November 6, 2023, she had been admitted to the hospital. We had stayed by her side, waiting for answers, waiting for hope. And now, as I stood there, watching helplessly, I realized how fragile time was. I remembered the night before, on November 7, at exactly 11 PM. She had called out to me, her voice weak yet familiar. “Ging, I’m hungry,” she had said. I had fed her, making sure she was comfortable. An hour later, at midnight, I had adjusted her breathing tube, making sure she was okay. By morning, she still seemed fine. She even ate after lunch. Then suddenly—like a cruel twist of fate—her condition deteriorated within hours. I wanted to believe it was just a bad moment, that she would get better, that this wasn’t the beginning of the end. But deep down, I knew. I fought for her. I stayed awake, praying, whispering reassurances in her ear. While most of her children had accepted the inevitable, I clung to hope. “Lola, pray, okay?” I whispered, my voice shaking as I pumped her chest, willing her to stay. Tears slipped from her closed eyes. Even in the face of death, she was listening. Even as her body betrayed her, she fought with me. But she was tired. She had fought enough. And on November 9, 2023, she left. The grief that followed was unlike anything I had ever known. She wasn’t just my grandmother—she was my caretaker, my safe place, the constant in my life since childhood. While my parents worked, she raised me, her love shaping the person I had become. I still wake up expecting to hear her voice, to feel her presence in the small moments of everyday life. The emptiness she left behind is immeasurable. I remember everything—the warmth of her hands, the way she scolded me with love, the care in her voice whenever she called my name. I miss the way she looked after me, the way she made me feel like I was never alone. The pain of losing her is unbearable, but I take solace in one thing: she fought. And though she lost the battle, she left this world knowing she was deeply loved. I long for the day I will see her again. In the resurrection morning, when sorrow will no longer exist, when pain and suffering will be no more. Until then, I hold on to the memories, the love, and the promise that this is not the end. Lola, thank you for everything. Rest now. You fought a good fight. I will see you when God permits.
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