Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Every day we wake up is another day closer to death. I’ve always lived by that motto since I encounter losses regularly at work. Dying is unavoidable. We all face it. Logically, I know his time is coming, he’s ninety for goodness sake. It doesn’t make it any easier that this may very well be the time he can’t beat back the pneumonia.
Even though we have gone through this very diagnosis more than once, it never seems to ease up the anxiety and fears that live inside me at the thought of losing him.
He is quickly admitted. IV antibiotics. Monitoring. Possible complications.
I nod. I answer questions. I sign forms. And then, when they finally leave me alone in the room with him, I sit down hard in the chair and fold forward, my forehead resting against the edge of the bed needing to be close to him. “I’m here,” I whisper, because it’s the only thing I know how to say.
He doesn’t reply. The silence, while expected, still hits me hard.
He’s asleep, sedated enough to let his body rest. The machines hum softly around us, steady and relentless. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Miles.
Normally, I would have text him or talked to him by now. Everything happens so fast, though, I didn’t think to reach out. I stare at the screen for a long moment before answering.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call or text. He’s in the hospital,” I ramble the second I hear his voice greet me. I don’t bother trying to keep it together. “My grandpa. Pneumonia.”
“I’m coming,” he states immediately.
“No,” I respond, panic flaring. “You can’t just—”
“I’m coming,” he repeats, firmer. “You’re not doing this alone.”
I don’t argue again. I don’t have the strength. But we aren’t a we, are we? How can he drop everything and rush here to sit with me and a man he barely knows?
By the time visiting hours end that night, Josie has already called twice, her voice tight with worry. By morning, she tells me they’re loading up the kids and driving.
All of them.
I cry in the hospital bathroom when I hear that—not the quiet tears I’m used to shedding, but the ugly, shoulder-shaking kind that leave me dizzy. I didn’t realize how badly I needed support until it was already on the way. Sometimes it’s hard to admit going it alone is a struggle. And these people who care about me, didn’t make me have to ask, they jumped in feet first to come support me. It means more than I can put into words. Knowing Josie is coming I find a renewed energy to get through this.
The next few days blur together. Grandpa’s condition is serious but stable. The doctors are cautiously optimistic, which I cling to like a life raft. I sleep in the chair beside his bed, waking at every beep and shift of his breathing.
When Josie walks into the room for the first time, baby carrier strapped to her chest, Justice glued to Raff’s side, I completely lose it. She wraps me up carefully, mindful of the baby, and I sob into her shoulder like I’m eight years old again.
“I’m here,” she murmurs. “We’re all here. Not just for Papa, for you too.”
Raff brings coffee. Justice brings drawings. Journey sleeps through it all, blissfully unaware of how much her tiny presence steadies me.
And Miles—he stands back at first, giving me space, his presence solid and quiet. When he finally steps forward, he doesn’t say anything. He just opens his arms. Unable to deny the pull, I walk straight into them. He holds me like he’s not afraid of breaking me. Like he understands that his quiet strength soothes the fragility inside me.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into my hair.
For the first time since the ambulance ride, I believe it. The days stretch on, long and exhausting. We rotate shifts so I can go home and shower, eat something that isn’t from a vending machine, sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.
Having them here changes everything.
Raff handles logistics without being asked making sure the kids are cared for without feeling too much shift in their routines being away from home. Josie keeps me fed and grounded, reminding me gently when I need to sit down. Justice brings his loud, earnest energy into the hospital room, telling a sleeping grandpa about school and his baby sister like it’s the most important thing in the world. He lightens up all of our days with every visit. I’m sure Papa will eat this up when he’s awake and more alert again.
Miles stays with me at night. Not always in the hospital room—sometimes just sitting in the waiting area, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing because I need to breath air not stifled by the weight of watching my grandfather seem so frail. Sometimes we sat with him holding my hand when the fear creeps in during the quiet hours.