I have no real news. She could remain in this condition for days. I only want share some of the things we went through yesterday.


On the phone yesterday:
Hubbie: "I'm taking the first plane back to the Netherlands. I'll be in the hospital by nine. Will you be there?"
Overwhelmed by feelings, I was silent.
Hubbie: "Please say it."
Me: "I really don't want to travel an hour to a hospital to watch your mother die. Every bone in my body says no."
Hubbie: "I need you."
Me: "That's all the reason I need to hear. I'll be on my way."

A monitor beside the bed shows steady squiggly lines. None of us know what they mean, but the fact that they're steady, and the monitor isn't making alarmy sounds to signal a nurse, is reassuring. It's the only reassuring thing in the room. Her dentures have been removed. There are tubes going down her nose and throat, tubes stuck into her purple bruised forearms and hands, and more tubes snaking under the blanket. We push Dad up towards her in a wheelchair. He looks ashen; he hasn't slept at all. He puts his hand next to hers and she squeezes it. It's the only way to communicate. Looking into her eyes will only make us cry, and no one in the room wants that.

"You look good," Dad says, poking her in the shoulder with his free hand.
She writhes in the bed and coughs in the tubes. All the squiggly lines form a sort of speedbump shape. And for a moment, I can see what he means. She looks infinitely better than the unconscious, wounded thing that was in this hospital bed a few hours ago.

I nudge Hubbie. "Go hug your dad."
The resemblance in those two men is still striking. Those eyes, those shoulders that are usually so strong but they're hanging down now, the devotion to their wives. It brings thoughts of the future to mind, and tears to my eyes. I exchange a look with Hubbie's sister, who knows all too well what I'm thinking.