I don't know how to deal with waiting, so I write.

I watch the IV drip.  Her face still looks so beautiful.  My dad stands and shifts in the doorway, not in the room, not out of the room, while my mom slides her finger across her phone screen. 

I can tell by my dad's eyes that he's desperate.  There's nothing he can do to fix things.  There's nothing he can do to be well-prepared; we don't know anything yet.
 I zero in on her bifocal glasses, lying on the beside table, and in them I can see distorted lights and tubes.  I think about what a good photo this would make.  I don't know how to deal with waiting.  None of us do.

Finally, a nurse comes in that my dad can grill for information.  He proceeds to question her about magnesium and blood sugar, testing her knowledge and adequacy.

I wish Stephanie was here.


I've never seen her so weak.  Just Sunday, we were all eating homemade fried chicken and mashed potatoes together at her house in Worthington.  Aunts and uncles from the new england states were in town, so we did it up right, the Jackson family way: eat tons of food, talk about politics, and then everyone falls asleep on couches.
My dad is deploying to Iraq after this summer, so my aunt insisted on taking pictures of my dad with his three brothers.
 Grandma was feeling a little weak that day so she didn't go outside to join them.  I stood on the porch with her and put my hand on her fragile shoulder as we watched the four middle-aged men goof off in front of the camera like rambunctious 12-year-olds.
"You raised some pretty good boys, Grandma."
Her mouth quivered a little bit before she spoke, "Yeah," she paused.  "None of them have ever ended up in jail. 'Least that I know of."
I smirked and chuckled under my breath.

She's a breast cancer survivor, and an amazing cook.  She's obsessed with Elvis, and she doesn't know what the internet is.

She is now a list of numbers on a white board. 73. 128/43. 18. I don't understand what they mean.

Will I ever be able to enter a hospital without "What Sarah Said" playing in the background like a Scrubs episode?  I half-expect Carla or J.D. to walk down the hall.

Her face still looks so beautiful.  She's not just a person, she's the glue that keeps the whole family together.  In her own, quiet, dry-humored way, she's the heart that connects us all; the central hub we all return to.

For some reason, it doesn't feel right to pray for everything to instantly be good again.  It doesn't feel right to ask for this all to poof away.  The only prayer I can pray honestly is,
"God, fill up her room.  Be there with her, and hold her hand.  Hold us too, cause we don't know what's happening."