My grandpa got sick this week. Really sick, really fast. They took him in for surgery this afternoon, so I left in the middle of the afternoon and drove to Lincoln to be there.
This life can be so hard. And so hard to watch helplessly sometimes.
This photo was on my way in to Lincoln. But the real photo today is one I didn’t take. It’s of my grandpa, laying in bed with bandages around his face and neck, a tree of at least eight iv bags all hooked to their own tubes which are all hooked to him. And an enormous dialysis machine pumping away next to the bed.
And my dad, sitting on a stool holding his dad’s hand, talking to him and telling him what’s going on. About how he made it through surgery. About who has come to visit. About the weather. And what time it is, so he doesn’t lose track of time.
My dad is so good at this. This standing beside people stuff. I’m not sure if he knows how good he is. When my first daughter was born and I was reeling from the intensity of becoming a mom, waiting in the recovery room for them to bring my new baby girl to me after they made sure her lungs were ok, my dad stayed with me the whole time.
I’m not always as brave as he is. It’s hard to go up to your grandfather on a ventilator and talk to him like everything is ok when it doesn’t look ok. I want to be brave. But sometimes I’m not.
But I watch my dad and I hope he knows, I would be brave if I had to. If it were him in that bed, I’d never even think twice about brave or not brave. I’d hold his hand and I’d tell him about the weather and the visitors and the latest information. I’d tell him that we were all ok, because I know he would hate to see us worry. I’d do everything I could to help him not be scared. To remind him of all the times when he was brave and I wasn’t.