I received the phone call from my mother to come over to my grandparents’ house and help her on a dark, brisk November evening. At the time, the only people at home were my younger sister and myself; my father was out working, and wasn’t able to come help my mother. I was thirteen years old then, and fit from three years of competitive swimming, so my mother figured that I was mature and strong enough to help her.

Minutes later, I was running across the street with a heart pounding like a train and macabre images swirling around in my mind. My initial reaction after bursting through my grandparents’ front door and seeing my grandfather sprawled in the metal frame of his broken glass coffee table giggling and smiling was disbelief. The man before me was no longer the strong, self-reliant grandfather I had known growing up. However, when I saw his big goofy grin, I couldn’t help but relax a little and crack a smile myself.

My grandparents moved to the house across the street from my family’s five years ago in order to be closer to us as they grew older and required more care. As a result, my life and relationship with them transformed drastically: I went from going out to the movies and talking about books with my grandmother to bringing her dinner every night because she couldn’t cook for herself anymore due to arthritis in her shoulder. Instead of whistling and improvising on the piano with my grandfather, I was helping him in and out of wheelchairs and tables. 

During the time he was my neighbor, my grandfather’s mental health drastically declined. He quickly lost his sense of reason and became very dependent on my mother and grandmother. His behavior was wild and unpredictable. When he became wheelchair bound, he could no longer make his regular walks to Dollar General and the bank; so, when my grandmother wasn't looking my grandfather opened the front door, managed to get himself and his wheelchair down the front steps, and rolled halfway down the street until I spotted him talking to our neighbor and watched my mother chase him down with the sensation that my stomach was being twisted into a knot.

The night my grandfather fell through the glass table was the first time I felt the responsibility adulthood entails. My mother asked me to help her with something she would normally ask my father to do; however, he couldn’t come and I was the next best option. In the course of half an hour, I came to realize that adulthood did not only mean freedom and independence; adulthood also came with daunting responsibilities and practicing stoicism for the sake of my loved ones, something that I continue to do for my grandmother today.

I returned home before my mother did that night- she had stayed later to make sure that my grandparents were settled for the rest of the night. As I walked across the dark street alone, I realized that I had just been thrown into the world of adulthood. For the first time in my life, my mother let me see an unpleasant and upsetting scene. I fully understood the severity of my grandfather’s dementia, and knew that his mental stability would only grow worse. Even so, I felt warm pride in my heart: not many girls my age could say that they pulled their grandparents from the frames of broken glass tables.