I’m 24, and my grandma raised me. She was the most important person in my life. Since I moved out at 19, I visited her every week, helped her as much as I could, took her out for walks, spent time with her, even when she was being a little difficult - you know, like many older people can be.

A while ago, she started complaining about stomach pain. I begged her to go to the doctor, and it turned out to be a hernia that needed surgery. After the surgery, she was still in pain. I’d visit, hug her, try to comfort her, tell her it’ll get better soon, that maybe it’s just recovery stuff. She’d call me saying she’s starving but couldn’t eat because of constant nausea.

One evening after work, I drove around to different restaurants and bought her everything - sushi, pizza, soup, a milkshake from McDonald’s, anything I thought might help. She was shocked, said I was crazy for spending so much money, but eventually ate a little. That’s how it was - me doing whatever I could just to see her eat or smile for a second.

I had a New Year’s trip planned - a tour around Europe - and we spoke on the phone every day. I’d show her the cities, tell her stories. One day during the trip, she started crying on the phone saying the pain was unbearable. I felt like the worst person in the world, being somewhere beautiful while she was suffering. I tried to comfort her, but inside, I felt helpless.

When I came back, I immediately started looking for hospitals and specialists. One doctor finally referred us to a hospital that seemed promising, but there were no beds. I pulled every string I had, even called the chief doctor through a friend. He said, “We can take her,” then asked me quietly, “Do you know what kind of hospital this is?” I said no. He said, “It’s a hospice.”

I had no idea. No one told us anything. Even the referral just said “hospice,” but no one in my family knew what that meant. When I told my mom, she broke down crying. That’s when we realized my grandma had stage 4 cervical cancer. Nobody had said the word “cancer.” Nobody told us it was terminal.

We decided not to tell her. We said it was just a regular hospital to help manage her pain. And honestly, she felt a bit better there. I visited her three times in those three weeks. She always smiled when I came. Then on March 7th, she called me and said, “Please take me home. I just want to be home.” I went that day and brought her back.

They gave us nausea meds and morphine. She barely ate. On March 8th, I brought her flowers for Women’s Day. She wasn’t herself anymore, but I helped her wash up and she went to sleep. She started sleeping a lot.

We spoke on the phone every day. She’d say her whole body hurt, that she felt weak. I did what I could to comfort her. On March 15th, I had to leave for a work trip to another city. I visited her before I left - she was quiet and fragile. She told me about a nightmare she had, and I hugged her before going. It was hard leaving, but I didn’t know it would be the last time I saw her.

That night, my boyfriend broke up with me - the whole reason I was even considering moving to that city. I cried all night, canceled everything, and decided to drive back first thing in the morning. I’d only just left the city when my mom called - she said grandma had fallen out of bed and couldn’t get up. I told her to help her immediately. Five minutes later, she called again. Grandma had passed.

I still don’t remember the drive. I was shaking, crying, throwing up, chain-smoking. It was the worst day of my life.

And now, weeks later, I keep asking myself if I’m the asshole. For not being there. For not realizing sooner. For going on that trip. For thinking I was doing enough when maybe I wasn’t. I feel like I failed her. So… AITAH for not being with her when she died? For not seeing the signs? For not doing more?