There is one call I have always dreaded. When my dad sounds stressed on the phone, I hope the cause isn’t her. When I call and no one answers, I want to race over to the house and make sure everything is all right. It’s been this way for a long time, but I still hoped nothing bad would ever happen. But one night in July, I called my dad and he sounded terrible. My elderly grandmother, had just had a stroke.

My grandma will turn 87 in November. She was born in the Roaring ‘20s, lived though Dust Bowl Kansas during the Great Depression, married a soldier after World War II and raised a family on a farm in Kansas. It was hard to believe that someone who had lived through all that could be sidelined by a couple tiny blood cells.

When I was younger, my grandparents lived 30 minutes away in Baldwin City. I was the grandchild they indulged, the grandchild who was given a dollhouse for Christmas, the grandchild who was taken to the playground whenever she so desired. In 1998, my grandfather suffered a hemorrhagic stroke and died a few months later from an infection. But my grandma didn’t let her life break down. Instead, she became an important role model to me. Just a year after my grandpa died, my parents divorced.

Grandma became a best friend. She would take me to see my friends, let me stay at her house when things got rough, and she even drove me to get my braces removed. She listened to me talk about boys, school, family, friends, whatever. We would giggle together, gossip together, shop together and relax together. When I moved away to attend high school in Salina, she moved as well to be closer to the family.

Whenever I didn’t feel like seeing friends or doing homework, I would go spend the afternoon with Grandma. I would gas up her car, take her to the dentist and watch movies and TV with her. I got her hooked on “Law and Order” and even introduced her to the “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” She just giggled at that one.

Then I moved back to Lawrence for college. The night before leaving, I burst into tears. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving one of my best friends. It was especially unbearable because Grandma wasn’t moving around as well as she used to. She was getting old, and I knew it. To allay my feelings, I called her every Thursday on my walk to art history in the Spencer Museum of Art. It became a weekly ritual that we both looked forward to.

When school was finished, I moved home for the summer to work in a restaurant. I resumed my visits, but they were sparse because of my work schedule. One week I visited her less than usual, intending to get through everything I had to do and then spend a couple days with her. The night before my visit, the dreaded call came.

I was returning a call to my dad at 6 p.m. He said, “We have a situation,” and proceeded to tell me my grandmother had suffered a stroke and was being transported to the hospital. He then told me not to worry and hung up. Even while writing this months later, I can still feel the shock that call brought. I couldn’t even cry because I could not process what he had just said. She had a stroke. She was going to the emergency room. She couldn’t speak. Don’t come, wait until we see what happened. Then the sobbing started. I shook with grief and couldn’t breathe because I was choking on my tears. My boyfriend took me by the hand, put me in his truck and said we were going to the hospital.

On the way, I called my dad again. He said that doctors were evaluating her and he didn’t know how she was doing. He said not to worry and not to come to the hospital. By that point, we were sitting in the parking lot. I struggled over whether or not to go in the building. My dad wanted me to relax, but I couldn’t live with myself if the doctors had a prognosis and I wasn’t there to hear it. I got out of the truck and staggered into the waiting room, leaving my boyfriend out in the car.

My dad was sitting with my stepmother in the lobby. I broke into tears when I saw him, and it baffled me to see him with a tear-free face. I was losing it, but he kept it together.

After about 20 minutes, a nurse said we could go through the massive double doors to see my grandma. The desk attendant pushed a button to open them, and it felt like they opened to a new desolate dimension. Grandma was in room six directly to the left.

I felt like I was seeing my grandfather in the hospital all over again. There she was — lying helplessly in a hospital gown, away from home, unable to communicate. She was not the grandmother I knew. To see such a strong woman reduced by nature was humbling and enraging at the same time.

Her eyes lit up when we walked into the room. She could hardly say anything coherently, but at least there wasn’t any noticeable physical damage. She was mixing up consonants and vowels and could only utter a few full words. I sat by her for hours, talking to her, trying to understand what happened. Even at such a horrible time, she still made me smile; she could still utter curse words.

The doctor eventually reported what happened: She had fallen, suffered a stroke and dragged herself to her bed until my dad went by her house. The prognosis? He had no idea. He couldn’t tell at that point. A doctor with a medical degree and all that fancy technology could not tell me if she would recover. I walked half-heartedly back to her room with my father. We would have to work through it together, and a lot of things would be changing in everyone’s lives. My dad would have to work less to take care of her. She would probably have to move to an assisted living facility, for which the family would have to split the costs. She would have to endure speech therapy. After awhile, I had to leave the hospital. I couldn’t see her in that state any longer.

I visited my grandmother in the hospital every single day until I moved back to Lawrence. She moved hospital rooms twice and then moved to rehab. I would sit with her, get her blankets, help her eat, watch her favorite shows with her and talk to her. It was easier for me to understand her than it was for most people, especially the nurses. I could often tell just from the tone of her voice what she was trying to say, and I wouldn’t talk down to her like they would. She was eventually diagnosed with aphasia, the inability to speak properly. Luckily, other than that disorder, the rest of her brain was functioning normally. My grandma was still in there, just not coming out as clearly as usual.

I didn’t want to leave her to go back to school. As much as I wanted to see all my friends and move into my new apartment, my grandmother was just as important. I had to come back for my campus job, so I had to leave despite my fears of not seeing her for months at a time. Since I have been back in town, I have called her every two or three days and told her about my new cat, my new apartment, my classes and everything else I can think of that would be interesting to her. She has since moved back into her house. Her speech has improved, but I’m not sure it will ever be perfect again. She will never drive again. She will never be able to be completely on her own, which will be the most difficult change for all of us.

Grandma has always been very open with the concept of her own death. Seeing her reduced to anything less than the strongest woman I knew was a humbling experience. My grandma has always taken care of me, and after her stroke I helped take care of her. As devastating as the stroke was, I felt like I was finally giving back to her. I know now that every time I see her is precious and every conversation we have is special. But I still dread the call. When it comes, I know she will be in a better place, but I will be left without one of my closest friends and my dearest grandmother.