Nine months after I was born, my grandmother killed herself. Others may argue that it was the tobacco companies. Or perhaps it was the natives who first began to grow the crop and smoke it. All I know is that in the year 2002, my grandmother died of lung cancer with a pack of cigarettes still in her purse.

My grandmother, whom my family has always referred to as Nanny, was a very stubborn woman from what I have heard. She was born in New York to a young man named Tony and a woman named Della, whom I’ve had the misfortune of meeting several times. Nanny’s mother was strict and cruel, and stories of burning scalps with water and pushing others out windows have surfaced. Della’s firm parenting style was passed down to her daughter, who eventually became a mother of three, though she ruled her household with humor and care rather than physical harm.

My family often compares me to Nanny, always saying that I am “just like her.” I wear this like a badge of honor, for my grandmother was an excellent woman—she was brave, standing up to her mother when she wanted to become a teacher and was courageous as she sought the career she believed in; she was smart, and, from what I have gathered, always had a witty comeback to whatever anyone said; and most important, she way loving. Nanny raised three wonderful children, teaching them to be honorable and respectful to their surroundings, and all the while cared for her husband.

Yet, when people tell me that I remind them of her, I also feel afraid. This woman—for all of her strength and wit—let her own stubbornness lead her to her death. She took good care of herself, though she began to smoke, and even after being diagnosed with lung cancer, she continued to suck down the chemicals, even after seeing what they were doing to her, she continued to light cigarette after cigarette. In the end, she hurt those who loved her the most, those who offered to help her quit and those who promised to help her through all of this, choosing tobacco over those who cared for her so much, and I fear that one day my own stubbornness could lead me to do something similar, to hurt the ones I love. Nanny’s death was painful for the rest of my family due to her refusal for help, and I don’t want my own to be the same.

Seven years later, my grandfather, Nanny’s husband, passed away. I remember bawling throughout the entire funeral—out of both confusion and fear—for a man, whom, I regret to say, I never took the time to know. I don’t believe that the tears I shed that day were out of sadness—they were more likely my coping mechanism as I grappled with the concept of death—but if I had any tears to spare today, I would give them to him. The love and wisdom one receives from their grandparent is paralleled only by that which one receives from their parent. I don’t think that second-grade me ever realized what a loss it was to have forfeited two so quickly.

I wonder now, if I had more time to spend with my grandparents, if I never had to suffer through their passing, how well would I know them today? Would I still feel this sense of dread, knowing my possible fate? Nonetheless, I am just a child. My future is not yet set, and I have the power to create my own path. Therefore, I vow to learn from my mistakes and from those of the people around me from here on out. I try to get to know people better now, out of fear or grieving for another stranger, because if and when I must mourn a loved one, I want to do so wholeheartedly.