I'm sitting in a hospital room that my grandpa is sharing with another patient, whom I haven't met because he's drawn his curtain to shield himself from the ear-blasting volume Gramps is 'watching' Dr. Phil at. I use quotation marks because my grandfather is asleep, breathing deeply, his bottom dentures slowly sliding down his chin. I'm waiting for them to fall onto the floor with a clack.
He woke up a few minutes ago and said, 'I have to go to the bathroom. Get my sweatpants from the cedar chest, will you honey?'
I only argued for a few seconds before just agreeing 'ok,' and leaving the room for five seconds. When I walked back in, he was sleeping again. He is, of course, fully rigged to eliminate any and all waste from the comfort of his hospital bed.
(He just woke up again and said, 'I'm so tired!' I told him that was ok and he should take a nap.)
My grandfather was expected to die on Sunday night. His cardiologist says as much. He was read his final rights or whatever it is you Catholics do (that is not meant to be derogatory).
But on Monday morning, he woke up and ate breakfast. By the time I arrived around lunchtime, he was eating steak and mashed potatoes. Last night he talked a blue streak for hours on end, telling my mother and grandmother all of his oft-repeated stories.
It's a bit of a miracle. He's not fully recovered and likely won't be, perhaps ever, given the heart attack and the fact that he's 90 years old.
Thanks to everyone for your thoughtfulness even though I know many of you are dealing with your own crises. I am thinking of you now, too.