What was this, the fourth or fifth time we came here; the place my Grandpa, T's Great Grandpa, affectionately refers to as 'The Wrinkle Village' thinking it may be the last, the final time we see our ailing Grandma, and say goodbye?
Another round of long needles shoved into her lung, another patch of narcotics to her chest, another visit, another gulp of Sprite.
There was also an erratic transfer that left her shoulder dislocated, a flurry of activity in subsequent transfers that left her crying in pain.
Those around her winced almost in unision; wishing, tearful, and fearful, and yet not having a clue what could be done differently, better.
They left her there at that hospital for a few days, drugged up silly, until she was hallucinating so bad in all her proper ways, she finally called a nurse a big bitch. I secretly hope she wasn't hallucinating, that she finally just said, in her own way, "enough."
At least to one person.
I was ready for goodbye, in whatever clumsy and wayward way one chooses words for that...good bye.
Except when I saw her chest rising, falling in rhythm with that machine, vitals improving, eyes closed in restful sleep, somehow hope floated up.
My mother winced.
My child giggled.
"I think someone needs to!"
We sat there like that awhile, short conversations between her cat naps. Each time she awoke, she seemed happy to find us there, almost like she just woke up and there we were, all over again.
One foot full of sores and swollen beyond measure, covered in socks, the other a sock, but then a Croc, hanging off her foot.
Great Grandma, Grandma, Me, My child.
Great Grandma's labored breaths, in and out, her chest falling peacefully.
Another breath, another hour, another day.
Four generations there together, not quite ready for goodbye.