Prologue:
When I was fifteen my grandmother decided i was overweight. I was 5'3 and 170 pounds. You can't really go wrong with that. Now I am almost twenty four and my grandmother is a living corpse, which means that the blood clot in her heart didn't nearly hit her hard enough to discern the light. She is an "almost seen the light except my mother is too damn stubborn to let the poor feeble half corpse woman she calls her mother go." It's been six months and my grandmother has no chance whatsoever of waking up. She calls herself a fighter. She says she won’t give up. She wouldn't sign the damn DNR after the doctors told her even after her successful heart transplant surgery that there is an obnoxiously fair chance that there will be a stroke. My grandmother is prone to blood clots. But she was a fighter, but she was prone to blood clots. But she still had hope. She prayed to her savior every day for that whole week. She read the bible nonstop and then she cursed at me for forgetting to add an extra sugar in her tea. Now here she is, seventy four years of her life about to end any day. Me most likely having to be the one to decide whether to pull the plug or not, breaking my mother’s heart at least three times a week, and all I can really think about is how I can possibly make it home in time before my roommate Harry finishes the last piece of cheesecake sitting in the fridge.
