I woke up one early school morning, my phone buzzed with commotion. My mom explained to me that my grandma had a severe reaction to the booster shot that she received and was rushed to the ICU. I had just seen her the other day and she was completely fine, and now she was close to death. I left school that day because I couldn’t hold back tears in my classes. I went home and layed in bed for what felt like forever.

The next day I visited, she didn't look like herself. She was stuffed with tubes and surrounded by loud machines. During the time I was there, a person in the room next to us passed. Their loved ones ran out of the ICU screaming and crying. This place was anything but happy. After leaving the hospital I thought of ways that I could make her feel better, or at least make the environment around her a little less solemn. 

I thought about the things she loved the most. Her dog Dalai, and me, her granddaughter. I ignored all of my school assignments and got to work. I painted and painted, slept, got back up and continued. I wanted every little thing to be perfect. I finished painting a portrait of her dog. I printed pictures of us together. I filled the room with things that would make her happy. I filled the room with hope. 

I like to believe that my efforts expedited her recovery. She was up and moving within a week. During my visits with her she would joke, laugh, and tell me stories, just like she used to. Everything was back to normal again.