It’s dark. My keyboard is barely visible but for the harsh light
of my computer screen. The duct pushes clean air through a sterile vent at a droning
and steady pace. Other dim light reflects off of all the shiny surfaces
including the dry-erase board in front of me whose only word I can currently
see is Aphasia. The reflection is that of a television set on the opposite wall
which is cycling through some loop of advertisement or propaganda. The curtain
is only half drawn so I can hear the bustle in the hallway just past, but I
cannot see what is actually happening. Infrequently there is a buzz or a beep,
but none of that concerns me because none of those noises are coming from
within this room. Off to my right there is a shallow rumbling. It’s melodic and
somehow brings me a comfort I don’t fully understand: It’s the light sound of
snoring.
I’m in a hospital.
The snoring is coming from my grandmother who suffered a
stroke just over 24 hours ago. I get security knowing that while she is
sleeping, she is finding happiness that somehow makes sense to her fragile
mind. She has suffered stroke aphasia which affects a person’s ability to
express and understand written and spoken language, and during the last day I
have seen that repeat itself too many times as she was tested every two hours
with little to no success. When I say success I mean that she cannot say to us
what she sees in something as simple as an illustration. She cannot read out loud.
She cannot say my name.
I am not saying that she is dying. I am not saying that she
can no longer function in any capacity. I am saying it is likely she will never
be the person she was when she woke up yesterday.
Today is the day.
Every day is the day you should be grateful for everything and everybody you
have in life. I have much gratitude that I was able to spend the last two years
getting to know my grandmother again. I can never get back the decade that I
lost to my addiction (the second time) but I will always have the memories I
have created since I came back.
Much of today was spent as it should have been, surrounded
by family. We laughed, we cried, and we showed her the love she needed to feel.
I didn’t like how the medical staff talked about her like she wasn’t there, but
found that it was actually easier to communicate about her than with her. At
this moment she is talking in her sleep and even these words are jumbled. I
want to fix it somehow but I know I can’t.
There’s a feeling of helplessness that I’m sure she feels. I
see her trying so hard to say things but that part of her brain won’t work. I
want the doctors to give her a pill or a shot that will make it all function
properly again, but those do not exist. Everybody is stranded in this situation.
I feel frail. I am powerless. All we can do is continue to unite as a family
and show love and support.
I need to be in the moment here, but I needed to get that
out. Please send your thoughts and prayers her way.
