When Papa Steve was alive, he lived with me. I cherished every moment with him, because I couldn't know how many I had. I held him in my arms as he died, with his friend and my mother by our side. He was not alone, and he knew he was cherished.

My PapaK lived in Missouri, 8 hours away. I saw him every few years and I loved to speak Japanese with him, especially because my mom didn't believe I could until he and I had a whole conversation (he was stationed in Japan during vietnam), and after losing papa steve, I desperately wanted to spend time with PapaK so I had set aside a week to go spend the week with him. I had reserved a hotel room, planned everything out. The week before he had a massive heart attack. The doctors said he was in critical heart failure and that he was going to have a quadruple bypass the next week which was his only hope of saving him. We went up the week he had his heart attack. I sat by his side, trying hard. He was stable and joking and I was having severe anxiety and a panic attack, so my father took me to a museum where we had fun instead of sitting in the hospital room having flashbacks of holding papa Steve as he died, terrified, only four months earlier. I was still having night terrors and flashbacks anyway. It was too much to sit there and watch my other grandpa go through the same. He died the next week, before his surgery, on the day I was originally going to visit him, alone in the dark. I regret so much of my time with him. I regret the tines I was more interested in doing my own thing, I regret being so traumatized from losing papa Steve that I couldn't look at papa k. I regret going to the museum when I should have faced my trauma head on and showed my papak how much I truly do love him.

Then my dog died. I had her for 16 years. She was the smartest and sweetest dog you'd ever find. Amazing therapy dog without ever being trained. Ol Nefertiti, there will be no one like her.

I saw Uncle Shorty about as often as papak, but, and I feel guilty admitting this, I was closer to him. He'd taught me archery, gave me my first bow. He taught me proper gun care and how to shoot. No matter what I did or how naughty I was, uncle shorty spoiled me with his love. I could do no wrong in his eyes (except when I lost 4 of his 20 dollar arrows) he taught me how to cook rabbit and squirrel, and he was always very fun to talk to. He always reminded me of the 'red-green' show (a latenight program with a scruffy suspendered hillbilly showing you simple woodsy stuff you could make. Like bob Ross for rednecks) and I always wanted to spend more time with him.

Last month he was supposed to come visit, but we didn't have the money to go get him (8 hour drive with a rickety farm truck isn't his prerogative, so we always got him) so we told him next time. I kept thinking I should go visit him, and took time off the first week of next month to take my brother and go visit everyone back home.

Papa Steve's death is still the hardest by far, but I have the least regrets with him.

I guess my little moral of the story is that for those you really really love, you should always make time, because in the end, no matter how much you've had, it's not enough. And...it's just better to make it count and always cherish it. I lost four of my most important loved ones in a span of 2.7 years. It really puts into perspective how much you need to make sure you don't take your time for granted.