Why I dislike holidays

You guys really don’t have to read this. It’s just sort of some stuff I need to get off my chest. If you do read it, well, then okay. I’m not really posting it so people can see it. Like I said, I just need to get some stuff off my chest.
My grandma passed away five years and seven days ago. She was the matron of the family. She was the one that collected us all together during holidays and, somehow, kept us from fighting with each other and stopped the bad feelings from occurring. She was the kind of person to start cooking the night before, get only a couple hours of sleep, then get right back up to keep on cooking, and still barely have everything done by the time dinner starts. Every single family member that lived in town, and even some that didn’t, were always at the house, laughing and talking and having an amazing time. She made everything from scratch, no matter the holiday, and it was always perfect. We had a huge table that seated at least fifteen people and we always had it full of food, and then more food on the counters.
Thanksgiving was always the best holiday. There was always more food and all the family from around the country was always there. The house was always full. We’d have people at the table, people sitting on the couches in the living room, and people out in the backyard and the front sitting, eating, talking, and laughing. I always loved holidays with my grandmother so much. Anytime it’d start to get close to a holiday I’d get so excited because I’d get to help her out in the kitchen and be her little taste tester.
A little over five years ago she was diagnosed with stomach cancer. After seeing a few specialist, my grandmother found a doctor who said, “I will not let you die, Lenora. We will beat this.” She always said that, if she ever did get diagnosed with cancer, she would never go through chemotherapy. However, the doctor convinced her to go through it anyways, and told her there was hope. She started out a woman full of life with meat on her bones and fire in her spirit. After two months, she was barely more than a skeleton who was racked with pain every time she moved.
Near the end of her chemo, my aunt went with her to one of her sessions. My aunt pulled the doctor aside and asked how the cancer was reacting to the treatments. The doctor looked at her seriously and said, “Unfortunately, I knew from the beginning that we had just caught it too late.” So, instead of allowing my grandma about a year of relatively pain free life, he thought that he could just charge her a bunch of money so he could pump her full of radio-active toxins. My grandma died on November 18th, 2005.
She was put into a hospice a few days before her death, so that her last few days would at least be pain free. I was told by me grandpa that, after her first night there, she said, “It’s the first time in months that I’ve woken up and not cried because the pain was so bad.”
The last time I saw my grandmother, was on November 18th, just before she died. My mom picked me up from school and took me to the opening of the new Harry Potter movie. I was in the eighth grade and, at that time, had no idea she was in a hospice, or just how bad things were. After the movie, my mom told me she had been taken to a hospice, and asked if I knew what that was. About a week before, our health teacher had told us that a hospice was a place people were taken to so that their last days of life are comfortable. I instantly became quiet and nodded.
So, she took me to the hospice where I got to see my grandmother. It was a horrible place. It had the sterile smell of hospitals, but also had a heaviness in the air of death, and from the moment I stepped in I wanted to cry and run away. Instead, I walked into my grandmother’s room with my head held high, refusing to let the tears come. The last time I got to see my grandmother, I didn’t even get to hear her voice. She was so heavily sedated because the pain was so great that she was unconscious. She had been awake not an hour before, according to my uncle who had been there the entire day.
So, instead of getting to talk to my grandmother one last time, my mom decided to take me to a movie. I know she couldn’t have known, but I still blame her…
I can’t even remember what her voice sounds like anymore… I can barely remember her face most days. She was my rock in life, and that night, when my mom woke me up in the middle of the night, before she even said anything, I started sobbing and crying. I knew, without having to be told, that the woman who practically raised me, the woman who I loved more than anything in life, was dead.
Since then, holidays haven’t been the same. Without fail, I always get depressed every time the holidays come around. I can’t stand decorating for Christmas or Halloween, I don’t like getting together for family dinners or gatherings, and I hate thanksgiving. My family just thinks that I hate them all, which, admittedly, I don’t like the majority of them. However, that isn’t the reason why I’m always quiet or confined in my room during the holidays. It’s because, without her, holidays don’t exist for me. They’re just another day, and seeing people happy and laughing and celebrating just makes me feel like I’m the only one who remembers and misses her. Right now, I’m sitting in my room while the family is out in the dinning room, laughing and eating and having a great time. I have tears on my face while they sit there laughing.
I will always miss you Grandma, and I hope that one day, if God does exist and there is a heaven, that he takes a little bit of mercy on me and allows me to see you and hug you just one last time, even if that’s not where I’m meant to be. I can deal with hell, as long as I get to see you one last time.