“What’s thyroid cancer, Mommy? Will it hurt him?” my sister asked, roughly five years ago. “It’s cancer in his neck, baby. Don’t be scared, he’ll be alright.” Mom responded, the words gently fell from her lips. I quietly folded myself into the corner on the sofa, eyes concentrated on the carpet, as I tried to focus on anything but our current conversation; my feelings were delicate- especially when people spoke about my grandfather- and at that moment it felt as if my emotions and I were skating on thin ice, and my heart was about to break for Tha Tha once more. 
Uncomfortable silence hovered over my family for the entire flight to Georgia; even my five year old sister resisted the urge to ask questions about our Tha Tha’s sickness. He was previously diagnosed with thyroid cancer when I was born, and it has lingered in his body ever since. So whenever my family, my aunt’s family, and my uncle’s family simultaneously arranged a visit to Georgia, there were no questions. Only assumptions and realizations, for everyone knew why we took the earliest flight into Atlanta. Everyone knew why we met on the third floor, left wing, of Emory Hospital. Everyone knew why we brought balloons and cards, the ones that were not for birthdays or celebrations. Everyone, that was, except for me.
At a young age, I did not fully comprehend the meaning of the word ‘cancer,’ but I still refused to accept the fact that my Tha Tha’s health was in poor conditions. I greatly enjoyed his company; whether it was reading books and baking sweets or painting nails and braiding hair, Tha Tha easily kept me entertained and we always enjoyed our time together. This visit, however, was different. The comfortable living room we usually played in morphed into an unbearably small hospital room, and the couch began to resemble a hospital bed. His usual khakis and collared shirts disintegrated into faded hospital gowns. I recalled seeing Tha Tha in that horrific state before, with the IVs in his arms and bottled medication that lined the back wall, as the memories re-entered my mind. Unlike our last visit, I stood in front of the hospital room’s window, carefully observing the content of the room on the other side of where I stood. My stomach tightened with pain and my legs suddenly stiffened, for I did not want to see my sick, frail Tha Tha. Once inside, however, I allowed my lips to unfold into a beaming ear-to-ear grin, for the only words that manage to escape through my smile were murmured under my breath, “Tha Tha…”
The fact that I saw my Tha Tha again was an unbelievably incredible gift for me. It was the moment I leaped onto his lap, the instant I ran my chubby little fingers along the scruffy sides of his face, the second I saw the broad grin displayed across his face, that I knew he would be okay. I knew we would play dolls in his living room again; he would still cook delicious Indian food for us and read his beautiful stories. Even though I was only eight years old, no one told me how lucky I was or how thankful I should be to still have my Tha Tha- I already knew that. There was something different about this visit; something one cannot touch, only feel. The feeling crept inside my heart that day, as it reassured me that my Tha Tha would begin a healthier lifestyle that would, hopefully, control his cancer. This experience changed me as a person, for I now value my life and my family differently; I am thankful for my Tha Tha’s stable health and the journey we are living together.