There are five stages of grief. When I was 11, I experienced all of them. I was in a car accident with my grandmother. I was not hurt, but she wasn’t wearing her seat belt and wasn’t so fortunate.

My grandmother and I were always close. She was like my best friend every time she came to visit, which was whenever she got the chance. My grandmother was a special ed teacher who liked to sew and swim. She also loved to cook. That’s probably why she always smelled slightly like burnt apple pie. She never missed my birthday, and never forgot to call on holidays. I always looked forward to her calls and letters. I loved taking her picture because I loved watching her smile. When she was around, my whole world lit up. Every time she came to visit she brought presents, and we always went on adventures. When she came to Maine what would be the last time, I was so excited. I thought about all the adventures we were going to have, all the places we would explore. I was so happy. If only I had known what was to come.

A week into her visit, we decided to go out for ice cream. I always got Oreo and she always got cookie dough. I remember we were listening to Katy Perry on the radio and had the windows down because it was a nice day. We were laughing about nothing when out of nowhere a red truck appeared. Everything happened so fast. I remember the truck and then CRASH!

I passed out for a minute before I woke up screaming. I tasted blood and looked over at my grandmother and realized she wasn’t in her seat. She had crashed through the windshield and was covered in blood. The air smelled of burnt rubber.

The doctors said she hadn’t stood a chance. Her neck broke when she went through the windshield. They emphasized that although she should have been wearing a seat belt, the crash was not her fault. That didn’t make me feel better. My grandmother was still gone, and I was still traumatized.

Stage one: Denial.

Every morning for two weeks I woke up thinking my grandmother was downstairs making breakfast – French toast, her specialty. She wasn’t. I went into her room thinking she would be there. She wasn’t. Everybody else cried. I didn’t.

Stage two: Guilt.

I heard the doctors say, over and over, that it wasn’t our fault, but that’s not how I saw it. Every time I thought about the crash, I told myself that if I hadn’t said I wanted ice cream my grandmother would still be here. I wondered if I had told her to put on her seat belt whether she would have woken up the next morning. Every time somebody told me, “I’m sorry,” I heard, “I’m sorry you killed your grandmother.”

Stage three: Anger.

When I went back to school everything pissed me off. If someone bumped me, I’d scream. If I got a C, I left class. When somebody yelled at me, I cried. But the worst was when people told me they were sorry or they were there for me; I lashed out at them. I got so tired of hearing the same thing, so tired of people bringing her up, that I hurt the people who were trying to help me.

Stage four: Depression.

Everybody said that they were worried about me, but I didn’t want to be worried about. I just wanted to be left alone. Was that so hard to understand? I stopped hurting and just felt numb for a while. I lay in bed a lot, listening to music and looking at pictures of me with my grandma. I tried to act less sad than I was, but eventually I gave up and just stopped. I stopped talking to friends. I stopped doing school work. I stopped going outside. I stopped being happy.

Stage five: Acceptance.

I looked around. She wasn’t here. I looked in the mirror. I was here. I made it clear to myself that no matter how much I love my grandmother, she’s gone. I remembered all of our adventures and happy memories. Loss is unbearable, and everyone copes differently. Some cry; others smile because they believe they’ll see that person again one day. At my grandmother’s funeral I cried, but then I smiled.