I believe that miracles do happen.

My grandmother is my heart and soul, she is the one who sings Christmas songs in her off pitch tune with me, and who dances to show tunes from her time, and the one who never fails to put a smile on my face with each dull morning by saying, “Carpe diem.” I am probably the most grateful girl on the planet to have my grandmother; not only does she put pep in my step, but also teaches me everything I know, from table manners to how to strengthen my Catholic faith.

It was an early September morning, everyone proceeded as normal to go along with their everyday activities; my grandfather in his prized garden, my mom hustling off to the city, I went to school, and my grandmother took the train to work. I grabbed the crispy hot waffle from the toaster and my grandmother gave me a fuschia pink kiss on my cheek. Little did we know, the event that occurred that morning would change the lives of our family. My grandmother collapsed in the Penn Station bathroom, there, as she recalls, were two women who were like her guardian angles watching over her safely, until she was in the hands of the emergency medical crew for the NYC ambulance.

At St. Vincent’s hospital my grandmother was in the care of the finest doctors in NYC for her type of emergency. She had a pancreatic attack, which is very rare for a woman like herself, because statistics show that these types of incidents only occur in people who heavily drink or smoke. My grandmother does neither. She lost 15 pounds because she was not allowed to eat or drink. The doctors did everything they could, but it seemed there was nothing left they could do.

For a long time while my grandmother was in the hospital my mom tried as much as possible to shield me from the utter truth I would soon learn. The real answer came from my grandfather, who told the scared little 5th grader the details of her condition. I remember swelling tears, stinging my eyes, slowly rolling down my face. There was no stopping them. At that moment my life was instantly drained from my core, as if a giant vacuum cleaner sucked out everything in me, everything that made me who I am, only leaving a dull whimpering shell. I prayed for weeks, which seemed like months, in the way my grandmother had taught me. Every night I would sit in my bed and clutch the medal of Mary she had given me and pray that she would pull through. Constant prayers, visits to church, and antidotes of medicine given to my grandmother seemed endless, we almost gave up hope.

We received the call that by some chance a medical miracle happened, that could not be explained. My grandmother came through the struggle and battle she had been fighting. When she came home the embracive hugs were never ending. I was given a kiss on the cheek, and although it wasn’t fuschia pink, she was back in my arms, and suddenly I felt my heart beat, in what seemed like the first time, as if I was born again. I knew I was hugging a miracle, my grandmother.