The Long Goodbye

I haven't written in awhile. I guess when you spend all day in front of a computer, the last thing you want to do is sit there again. Today, however, I'm in a bit more of a comfortable position, so here I am.

We've had a long week. Josh's Gramma Lupe has been in the hospital since Monday, and today she is going home, to hospice, to her family, to the quiet yellow house she has called home for over 50 years. She is not going to get well; while the end has been a long time in coming, its beginning has finally begun.

And it is hard. It is hard to see the sadness in everyone's eyes when they gather around her bedside. It is hard to hear them remember stories, to laugh a laugh that is joy mixed with hurt and anticipation. It is hard to hear her voice, to try to make a memory of its sound and its roll and its mix of Spanish and English. It is hard to see the helpless look on my husband's face, and it is hard to hear his mother lean over and tell stories to Lupe, trying to offer her comfort. It is hard to watch my father-in-law, a proud, quiet man, kiss his mother's cheek and step back with red eyes. It is hard to watch his grandfather reach for Lupe's hand and to hear him say, "You'll go home with me, Lupe. We'll go home," knowing that going home means precious few moments together. It is hard, because there are no right words, no ways to comfort, and only being there with nothing else to offer seems so inadequate in the face of such love and such pain.

I don't know how to be there, I don't know what to do, and I don't know what to say. But I will be there, no matter what.