I never thought that I understood her. She always seemed so far away from me. I loved her, of course. We shared mutual love from the day I was born. I came into this world with a bashed head and deformed features because of the hard labor my mother had gone through. Family members and friends wrinkled their noses at the disfigured baby I was. They all commented on how much I looked like a beat-up football player. But no, not her. Nana thought I was beautiful. Her eyes twinkled with splendor and happiness at the ugly baby in her arms. Her first granddaughter. Beautiful, she said.

Before final exams in my junior year of high school, she died. Seven years ago, her doctors diagnosed Nana with Alzheimer's disease. Seven years ago, our family became experts on this disease as, slowly, we lost her.

She always spoke in fragmented sentences. As the years passed, the words she spoke became fewer and fewer, until finally she said nothing at all. We were lucky to get one occasional word out of her. It was then our family knew she was near the end.

About a week or so before she died, she lost the abilities for her body to function at all, and the doctors decided to move her to a hospice. A hospice. Where those who entered would never come out.

I told my parents I wanted to see her. I had to see her. My uncontrollable curiosity had taken a step above my gut-wrenching fear.

My mother brought me to the hospice two days after my request. My grandfather and two of my aunts were there as well, but all hung back in the hallway as I entered Nana's room. She was sitting in a big, fluffy chair next to her bed, slouched over, eyes shut, mouth numbly hanging open. The morphine was keeping her asleep. My eyes darted around the room at the windows, the flowers, and the way Nana looked. I was struggling very hard to take it all in, knowing that this would be the last time I ever saw her alive.