It Really Is Raining Today

I awoke this morning around 7am to the sound of rain crashing into the side of our house. It was a terrible and beautiful sound. The powerful crackle of thunder and the torrential downpour were a welcome sound this morning. My last thoughts last night had been of my grandmother and of the need to wake early and water my garden. One of my great aunts had mumbled something yesterday about watering in the morning rather than in the evening and my plan was to heed her wisdom. So, the thought of God watering the grass and the vegetables for me was a welcomed "Good morning."

These last few weeks have been full and wonderful and terrible. Despite any of the daily successes in our little lives the looming knowledge that my grandmother is still with us yet mostly gone and certainly going has been the dark cloud on the horizon, the looming knowledge that our party could be rained out at any moment.

Last week was especially like this. My aunt and my grandmother on my mom's side came down from Indiana to spend the week with us. A few days before their arrival my grandmother here took a turn for the worse. Sunday a week ago we thought we were going to lose her. The family gathered and she pulled through. She is bed-ridden now, on oxygen and mostly non-responsive. Each day since then has been progressively worse. While my aunt and grandmother were visiting we tried to focus on the celebrations we had planned -- a surprise 50th party for my aunt, my own birthday, 4th of July and seeing Kara off to spend a week in Indiana with them--her own private summer vacation. All the while, the knowledge of my grandmother's worsening condition loomed heavy on everyone's hearts.

On Monday of the this week the hospice nurse came. She performed all of the requisite medical tasks and concluded that my grandmother has maybe a day or two left. That was Monday. This is Wednesday. Her breathing is shallow. Her body is jaundiced. She sleeps, a lot. The family gathered yesterday and will likely gather again today. It is uncomfortable and quiet. The sound of the oxygen machine. The look of the living room with the hospital bed where the couch used to be. Everyone watching and listening comfortable with the deep, congested snoring, nervous when she skips a breath. Cousins. Aunts. Uncles. Great aunts. Women gathering around her bedside holding her hand. Men silently supporting their wives on lounge chairs in front of the TV and on lawn chairs in the garage. The sons sitting with their mother and assuring her that she has raised them well. The family vigil, a cultural phenomenon. Intended as comfort, yet uncomfortable at best.

Today is Wednesday. It's been two days since the nurse said it would be two days and it's raining this morning.