My Dad is in the hospital again. Mom took him into the emergency room yesterday. He's very sick, which is what happens with end-stage COPD and congestive heart failure.
So now we're waiting. Waiting to hear if he's going to get better. Waiting to find out if he's going to come home. Waiting until we can go to see him. We're not naive. We know he's not going to get better as in he's not going to be back painting the house or mowing the lawn. It's smaller now. Will he get well enough to come home again for a little while? Will he be mobile and independent when he comes home?
In our house, we're pretending that things are not as bad as they are. The girls know Grampa is in the hospital. They must sense how really sick he is. The blond twin said, "Is Grampa going to die this time?" I held my breath for a minute so I didn't start crying. I hold my breath a lot and try to keep the tears from falling. They know how sick Grampa is, but they don't really know what it means when he dies. I do and it hurts a lot to realize we're headed there sooner rather than later.
We're going along so the girls days stay as normal as possible for as long as possible. Yesterday we went ice skating in the drizzle. It was a strange way to end a tense day, but ice skating in the drizzle made them laugh. It was worth it to see them so happy. Soon enough they will be overwhelmed with tears and sadness. For now we're still pretending -- if only for their sakes.