68 The Meadow straight through me—if she can see anything at all. “Grandma, you’re at the hospital,” I whisper, reaching for her dying hand. The skin is tight, and her knuckles are more prominent than ever. Could she feel the erratic pounding of my heart through those thin, arthritic bones? “We are taking her to the bigger hospital, the one downtown.” The other orderly speaks. I glance at him; lost in the moment, I forgot they were there. “She’s going in for surgery.” I feel like I could choke on the silence in my chest. Another surgery. “Your grandfather is upstairs in her room,” the same orderly adds. I nod, it makes sense that my sweet grandfather would be here at this time of night, he never leaves her side. “Oh”—I gulp—“thank you.” I reel over the implications of what another surgery could mean, both good and bad. At this stage, it can only be bad. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Grandma. I promise.” My voice shakes. I reach over the railing to pet the thin, wild hair down—the only thing I can do to let her know I am there—that this is real. I watch the orderlies, in their pressed blue scrubs, wheel away the strongest woman I know. I can’t follow. I am forced to watch the gurney with its pressed white sheets disappear down the hallway. I know what will happen if I go upstairs: I will veer off the elevator towards her room and stop halfway, finding my grandfather on a couch in a small waiting room, looking disheveled and lost, wearing two different shoes and rubbing his shaking hands together. His Parkinson’s is getting worse. He will be staring at the wall, not the vending machines, or magazines, or the flat-screen TV in the corner. I want to move, to run back to my car and follow the ambulance. I want to be waiting by her bedside when she gets out of the operating room. Something holds me in place like I stepped in glue, or gum, or cement, or something wicked and cruel that
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