It was one of those days. Life comes at you fast, and things you thought you knew get reassessed. How much time is really left? What’s actually going to happen when the day comes? A creeping sensation—anxiety, fear.
I was walking past Grandma’s place. I saw my mother inside with the nurse and waved hello from a distance. She called me in, trying not to sound worried, but I could sense it in her tone. As if she were letting go of the steering wheel, she looked at me and asked, “Is Grandma OK? Do we need to go to the hospital?”
A quick glance at my grandmother’s hand was all it took. Her skin, now as thin as paper, had split open from the inside of her palm toward the back, about three inches long. Grandma looked at me, smiled, called me a name she made up on the spot, and invited me to sit at the table. She wasn’t even aware of what had happened. Her hand hurt, but she was happy to see me.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We can’t wait.” I rushed to get the car, but just as I pulled up, I saw my aunt driving off, already taking Grandma to the hospital. My sweet mother doesn’t drive, so she had needed one of us to take the helm.
At the hospital, Grandma was still in a good mood. A child who had fallen from a second story was rushed in, so Grandma had to wait. But she wasn’t angry, nor bored. She smiled, laughed, and pointed at things as if she were recognizing familiar faces in the walls.
She got her stitches, as we knew she would. The doctor explained that her skin was too delicate, and that we’d have to keep a close watch on her. Later, as she lay in bed, my wife and I sat at her feet to comfort her. She smiled again, happy to see us. A children’s film played on the TV, and both Grandma and my four-year-old niece were very entertained.
My mother then explained to us that Grandma’s foot didn’t look right. I lifted the blanket to check, and Grandma laughed as if we were playing a game. But when I removed her socks, I saw her right foot swollen. I touched it gently—she was still laughing—but for a second she twitched. It hurt.
None of us know how it happened, and we certainly weren’t going to find out from Grandma.
The whole day felt like cold water splashed on a cold morning. We thought—we told ourselves—that we’d already accepted what was happening. That we were ready for the next step, the one we know is coming. Yet today we saw a glimpse of her fragility in a way we hadn’t before, and I felt scared. Scared for my mom, my aunt, and yes, for Grandma too. She can’t even tell us she’s in pain anymore.
As the song says... How fragile we are.
—MenO
