Once inside, I head straight for the elevators and push the button to take me up to the 4th floor. The smell of this place is nothing to get excited about and is definitely not where I was hoping to spend my 26th birthday. But, he is my family and we have celebrated all of my birthdays together. We can't miss this one on the fault that he slipped on the stairs.
The elevator doors open. Inside, there is a woman about my mother’s age holding an elderly man’s hand. He is tiny and frail. His clothes hang off of his shoulders and are barely held up over his hips with navy blue suspenders. They both look at me and smile as I walk in the elevator. I smile shyly at them, but quickly look straight ahead. The man looks very tired. Even though he put in the effort to smile, it's easy to see he is exhausted. Exhausted from life or simply standing up, his smile screams for a chair to sit in. My mind drifts to the chair my grandfather sits in. His favorite chair. The one that, just recently, he has been sitting in a lot. If he was the man in the elevator, how would he look? Would he look exhausted? Tired of living? He certainly has never looked this way to me, although, like the woman holding the man's hand, I'm sure he doesn't look tired to her. We never see it. Especially when it's right in front of us.
I am his first granddaughter. The first female in this family in 50 years, or so I've been told. I am his pride and joy. He is my rock. The one I could always count on for bear hugs and stories about real life. He was the one I trusted to tell me the truth. The one I could honestly ask questions and get straight answers. The one who taught me how to make people laugh and smile. His jokes never get old.
Getting old. Could my rock be getting old? Too old? I suppose 82 years old is considered old. But he's different. He is old, but his mind is so sharp that I’ve never really thought about whether he looked old, or rather thought about that he might feel old.
Right now, he'll look old. I think of him, lying in the hospital bed, IV attached, pillows holding him up. Nothing but a hospital gown sitting over his shoulders, showing the brown spots that are on his arms and neck. Old. He is old. I can see it now. Until now, I’ve been ignoring the fact that my grandfather, who once stood at 6 feet tall, was now so hunched over and had lost so much weight that he was practically eye to eye with me now. Old. I had been ignoring the fact that when I hugged him, I subconsciously lightened my touch because his body felt so fragile. Old.
I continue to ride the elevator with the woman and elderly man to the fourth floor. All the while, an ache starts to turn about in my belly.
As the ache grows tighter, the elevator makes a 'ding' sound and brings me back to life. Just here for a visit. Nothing more. Birthday celebrations. A time to smile.
A number 4 lights up above the doors and a moment of déjà vu flies over me, reminding me that I've done this many times before. Hospitals are not new to him. We've done this before and everything was fine. He is fine. He just slipped on the stairs. Rountine visit. He'll be back home before I know it.
I step out of the elevator and turn down the hall to see my sister and parents waiting for me with a cake. I can see my grandfather's feet at the end of the bed, under the sheet, poking out as I get closer. They are still. He is laying down and there are no pillows holding him up. There is not much laughter going on in the room, either. My eyes meet my mother's as I walk up to the door and suddenly everything about this day changes. Suddenly, it all starts to piece together in my mind. His continued visits to the hospital. His constant need for new medications. His weakening body and quiet moments in his chair. The ache in my belly. Not a routine visit. My rock has fallen apart.
