Right before I was set to move away (from CT to TX) my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. He was my first hero, and had helped my parents raise me (as did my grandmother), we lived with them until I was two, and they would drive an hour and fifteen minutes multiple times a week to take care of us kids without as much as a single complaint. All that to say, I felt like I was abandoning someone who had done so much for me just when his life was starting to get difficult. But my mom told me good news at the time, it wasn't bad, and he would have a good seven more years before they would have to really worry about his health. Fast forward about 6 months, I get a call, the cancer has metastasized into his brain and I need to hop on a plane as soon as I possibly can because he doesn't have much time left. So as soon as I landed, my parents and siblings and I drove up to their house. What I saw nearly killed me inside, and I remember the visual vividly. This man who had always been strong and quick witted, a sergeant in the army during WWII was now bedridden, and could hardly even speak. I took one look, went into the bathroom and broke down for about 15 minutes. Because of work and school I could only stay for a few days, I visited him the last day I was in CT and said my goodbyes. It didn't really hit me until I received a call 4 days after I was back in TX, he had passed away. I felt a part of my soul leave my body, but I couldn't mourn at that moment because I was at work. But as soon as I got home, for the first time that I remember, I cried myself to sleep. I still cry whenever I see him in that bed. Sorry for the wall of text, this went a little deeper than I was expecting it to.