When I first heard that your oxygen level was low, I didn’t think much of it — you had been in and out of hospital because of that.

But I didn’t realise how tightly Death had fastened his callous grip around your neck. How your oxygen levels had plummeted to 35%. How you had been found in the morning foaming at the mouth, eyes wide open, struggling to breathe.

If they had found you a few minutes later, you could have been dead.

Now, standing in your hospital room, watching your oxygen mask fog up with each breath, the myriad of colourful tubes snaking out from under your blanket, seeing your wide, fearful eyes like a deer in headlights, the truth of your deteriorating condition hits me like a truck.

I can’t help but feel the tears building up as I think about how terrified you must have felt in the morning as you gasped for each breath but was unable to speak; how alien this bright, white place so far away from home must feel to you; how scary these unfamiliar beeping sounds are; how helpless you must feel being strapped to your bed, tied down by all these cords.

So many thoughts are swirling around in my head and yet, I can only offer a weak smile and whisper, ‘Hi Grandma. It’s me.’

(credit: featured image)