I lost my grandson Joe-E on December 11, 2016. I received a phone call from my son’s cell phone at 2:10 a.m. My daughter-in-law, Tammy, was obviously trying to stay calm, telling me that Joey was shot and they were on their way to the hospital. Shot, Joey? How, what? I was in shock: We live in a small, relatively low-crime city; how could this be?
I told my husband and quickly got dressed. He was staying with our two younger grandsons, who were spending the night. I would call him once I found out what Joey’s injuries were.
The ride took less than 15 minutes, but it felt like hours. Outside the hospital, I noticed a group of young people. One was yelling, “You didn’t care for him when he needed you.” Tammy, who was almost on the floor, looked at me and started to cry, “Joey is dead, my baby boy is dead.” I wanted to scream, but I had to keep it together. This was Tammy’s baby, and I knew at that point none of us would ever be the same again. Our world as we knew it had ended forever.