I once had an amazing grandmother who practically raised me but, like all great things, she had to go. When I was young, I spent every day at her house, but, as I got older, my visits became few and far between. I spent my time with friends and sports so I thought of that as an excuse not to visit. When I did have to go down to her house, I would wish I was doing something else; I had no idea how much I would regret that. Sometimes, we learn best by experiencing tragedy first hand, and by regretting our actions. Through my seventh and eighth grade years, she was in and out of the hospital constantly, but she always pulled through, so every time she would get sick I would not worry. At the end of eighth grade year, on a Saturday night, my sister decided to spend the night with her. The next morning she ran up to the house telling my father something was wrong with our grandmother. He told my mother to watch the kids while he ran down to check on my grandmother; still, I didn’t suspect a thing. About 20 minutes later,