This story is part of Love For Our Elders’ celebration of National Share-A-Story Month. We encourage you to share your story with us this month by clicking here.

As a military brat with family in both the Midwest and Northeast, seeing my grandmas was saved for the holidays. One winter, when I was about 10-years-old, we took a road trip from Tennessee to Pittsburgh to see Eleanor, my father's mother. We always called her "Grandma with the Hair Up" because she was ornate. She loved her pink and her posh jewelry, and her hair would always be in place.

The car ride was long with my little sister bugging me the entire 15-hour trip. We passed the landmarks I used to associate with "Gram's place" and my excitement kicked in. As we pulled up to Gram's home covered in snow and sparkling lights, I immediately opened my door and ran in to give her the biggest hug. My family slowly came in carrying all the luggage and presents. Our Saint Bernard Elvis trailed in and Gram adored him. The smell of her famous spare rib-infused spaghetti sauce filled the house.

Off the kitchen was a bathroom and laundry room, and for some reason, my hang out area. I would sit on the edge of the tub and play with the dog as if it were my secret playhouse. Elvis followed me into the bathroom, and I assumed the position of my tub seat, snacking on a donut.

My mother and Gram talked in the kitchen as they fixed up the spaghetti, and suddenly, Elvis wanted a taste of my donut. I lost my balance and flew all the way back into the tub, hitting my head on the porcelain siding. My loud thud and immediate screams put my mother and Gram in panic mode. Gram knocked the pot of sauce off the stove.

I ruined Christmas Eve for my family and extended family by eating a donut. I was rushed to the hospital and spent the next seven hours in the emergency room. My Gram had to scrub the splattered red sauce off her beige walls and carpet. I always think fondly of that time because it was intense, loud and perfectly us.

Sarah is 34-years-old and from Pittsburgh.