I’m on the bus home from my basketball game when my cell rings. I check the number — my brother. Why’s he calling?

I answer and he says, “Grandy had a reaction.”

So what? Grandy has a lot of reactions. Then he says, “Call Dad.” And I know: This one is different. I hang up and my heart sinks. I wonder, why call, Dad? Why is this one different? Then, my dad calls me. “I’m picking you up. I’ll be right there.” “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

* * *

A month earlier.

Somehow in my deep sleep, I hear a mumble coming from the baby monitor. I jump up to my feet and race down stairs to find Grandy in a reaction. I know what I need to do. Grab the glucose. The orange juice. The cinnamon toast. I plead with her – Grandy, sit up. You need to drink this. Listen to me.”

I hate pleading.

* * *

I’m coming undone. The unknown is eating my insides. My heart is unraveling, peeling apart like an onion. I open the car door and toss my gym bag in the backseat. Finally, I’m with my dad.

“Kalli,” he says, very gently. “Grandy has had a stroke.”

“Oh, no, Dad,” I say. “Oh, God. Please, no.” I slump in my seat, cover my face with my hands, and the tears begin to flow. I had prayed it was another diabetic reaction, but I knew this one is worse than that. But a stroke? Oh, jeez. It’s too much to hold, too much to bear. Dad and I drive the hospital. We don’t say a word.

* * *

My mom stands in the waiting room as we walk up, family and friends all around.

The pain…

I’m sick for my mom. I ache for her. We hug each other, hug each other so hard I almost can’t breathe.

I hug my brothers, too, in a way no one else could, in a way I never have before.

Then the phone rings.

* * *

Two hours later.

The time comes to visit Grandy. The hallway to her room is like one of those dreams: you keep running and running, and you never reach the end.

My feet don’t want to run anyway. I don’t want to know what’s in that room at the end of the hallway. But somehow I end up there in front of her door.

I pull the curtain back, push open the door, and there she is, lying on a cold, white hospital bed, her eyes closed and her mouth gaped open. A tube snakes down her throat, pushing air into her lungs, keeping her alive because she doesn’t have the strength to.

I’m crying so hard I can barely see, so hard I can barely catch my breath.

I reach out and take her hand, and I hold it, never wanting to let go. I sit there, pouring all of my love into her, encasing her with it as best I can. Every few minutes, I ring out the washcloth, run it under cool water and place it back on her forehead.

My mother lies, half awake, on a pull-out bed. She hasn’t slept at all. We wait, wait for my uncle. Wait for him to fly in from Maryland.

And we all wonder if he’ll arrive in time.

He does. He rushes into the room, exhausted, wrung out emotionally. My mom wraps her arms around his waist. She’s tall. He’s huge. They cling to one another, knowing that whatever has to be done, they’ll do it together.

We surround Grandy’s bed, and a hospital chaplain leads us in prayer. We all hold hands, feeling each other’s love. I’m still holding my Grandy’s hand, and I’m hoping she’s feeling the love in the room, the love of my mom and my brothers, of friends, of my Godparents, of everyone.

After the prayer, the doctor says, “I’ve never seen more love in a room than I did just now.”

And then, it’s time for the kids to leave. I release Grandy’s hand, kiss her forehead, take a deep breath, turn and walk out of the room. It’s the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Then, I’m back in that never-ending hall way.