It's about 1:30 AM. I have been here since 10:30 PM and shall stay until about 9:30 AM. I'm sitting on a hospital bed parallel to my grandfather. He is perpetually moaning and twitching in his sleep. Each time the nurse comes in to check on him or give him more medication, I have to gently wake him. It sucks. His eyes are bleary and red and don't completely grasp all the information their gaze captures. I try to ignore the random beeps and coughs that echo down the hall. I've become well aware of the constant ticking clock on the wall above me, indicating each second that goes by. I watch as my grandfather's hands, hands that have always been hard working and loving, now spell and sign out words in hallucinated conversations. Throughout his erratic movements he manages to slump against the plastic rail of the bed. I get up and gently move his head, adjusting his pillow so he has more cushion and a bit more comfort. He wakes up and smiles. I repeatedly ask him if he wants me to move the bed for more comfort. After a few failed attempts he grasps my message and nods. He finds a comfortable position and smiles, holds my hand, and doses back off into his drug induced unknown, leaving me to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. It's so hard to watch one of the strongest men of my life thrashing under the rule of medication and physical pain.
....
....
How much longer does he have, God? How much longer?
No comments:
Post a Comment