This morning. Coffee in a proper cup. Patio sitting, chatter and traffic sounds in the background but still, quiet (no littles asking questions or climbing on me). Words.
My grandfather isn't doing well. The doctor throws around words like blood clot, dementia, pneumonia, sepsis, agitated, sedation. Of course he's agitated; he isn't always sure where he is, how he got there, who his loved ones are. He's lost the use of both legs. He's now blind.
What I want to say to the doctors is this: You see a problem to manage, a diagnosis. You don't see him, who he might have been. You don't know the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes would sparkle when I'd sing along to DL Menard with him as we drove down the highway to go crabbing, or how he'll always be my favorite Cajun Jitterbug partner. Despite everything you'll never know about your patient, my grandfather, know this—he's as good as they come, the star I've navigated by, my home port.
Friends, hug your people.