In January, I visited my grandmother in the hospital right after she was admitted for the flu. She’s 80 and has multiple sclerosis. A doctor came in and asked her if she were to flatline, would she like to be resuscitated? I already knew the answer, which was no.

I understood why it was no and all the reasoning behind it. But when the question isn’t asked in front of you, or you haven’t heard the answer with your own ears, then there can always be a part of you that can believe it’s possible for the opposite answer to be true. It was scary when she said, “No.” I expected to see my own life flash before my eyes; they say that’s what happens when you’re scared, when you think you’re about to die.

Instead, I saw all my moments with my grandmother and how much our lives are each other.

A couple of years ago, my grandmother wanted to go to the zoo on a random spring day. We took a taxi all the way there from Marin. We were trying to get away from COVID, her in her wheelchair and me playing hooky from Zoom school. We ate ice cream and candy and saw the flamingos and the red panda. We were free, even if the ice cream wasn’t good. I didn’t realize then that it would be the last time we would ever go to the zoo together.

I call my grandmother “Nonna” because she lived in Italy for a long time, and I went to Italian school when I was little. I had been to Italy with my mother, and my mother had been to Italy with Nonna, but a few years ago, Nonna decided she wanted to go to Italy one last time. She said that she wanted to see me in Italy.

The first time I went to Italy, she told me I would be able to speak Italian the minute I got off the plane, which didn’t happen, even though I believed her. She believed that she was going to speak it the minute we got there. That didn’t happen either. She can only move in a wheelchair; how would she manage a 13-hour flight? What about the cobblestones on the narrow streets with no sidewalks? She wanted to go so much it was like those problems didn’t exist, like they would vanish the minute she got on the plane.

Of course, the cobblestones were so bumpy that the electric wheelchair didn’t work right. My mom and I had to push Nonna through the streets of Rome, one of us holding the top of the wheelchair, the other the bottom, like she was a queen. One day, my mom went to see a church and left us home alone. We were staying near a taxi stand, so I pushed Nonna down to a car, got her inside and took her to the Spanish Steps and then to a restaurant she remembered. She wanted to order beef cheeks, but I told her it was too hot. We had pasta and gelato instead. It was both the first and last time we went to lunch together in Rome, just the two of us.

The first time I ever had ice cream was in the backseat of my grandmother’s car. My mother was driving while Nonna sat next to me, sneaking me bites of soft serve. The last time Nonna ever drove that car was to get me to summer camp. At the time, her legs barely worked, and the drive freaked me out. But she’s brave and determined like that. Nonna likes ice cream in the winter, Cape Cod, car rides, the water and traveling, even if she can’t do it anymore.

Someday in the future, these last times will be “the last time.” But my love for her has no first time and no last time: it’s forever, always within me.

Jasper Roblee is a Larkspur resident. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.