Thursday, May 10, 2007

Blinking Green Light

I must have been pretty young. We were in Grandma and Grandfather's apartment, and I knew that something had happened to Grandma, and that it was called "heart attack", and that it was bad, but everyone said she was okay. Elizabeth and I were sitting on the floor of the living room when I overheard the grownups planning a trip to see her at the hospital. Someone was on the phone, to ask about the visiting rules.

"Only children and husbands can visit," I heard some grown-up say to another. I scooted over to Elizabeth.

"We're going to visit Grandma!" I told her. "Our dads can take us." After all, we were children, and our dads were husbands.

It was several minutes later when someone finally explained it to us. It meant her children, her husband. I watched, crying, as my dad, her mom, our uncle, and our grandfather prepared to go out.



Weeks, or months, later, we were sitting around the living room at home. The conversation had turned, for some reason, to machines present at hospitals. "You know," my mom said casually, "remember that machine in Grandma's room at the hospital, the one with the blinking green light?"

"No..." I said, a sob bubbling up from my chest.

"Oh!" My mom remembered. "Oh, right, I'm sorry..."

I cried and cried for several minutes.