Thoughts from my uncle's bedside

Last week, my great-uncle Bill, who has always treated me as a granddaughter, had a series of strokes that left him in a coma. I can't fully explain the range of emotions that I've dealt with over the last week or so in regards to his condition: confusion, uncertainty, despair, and anguish only begin to describe what in reality is a very deep, felt pain and fear. Seven years ago, I watched my great-grandmother, Uncle Bill's mother, suffer a stroke and recover slightly, only to have her state slowly degrade over the next nine months until her body ceased to function entirely. This memory is, I think, at the forefront of my family's mind right now.

As I stood by my uncle's hospital bed, I talked to him, saw his eyes open a few times, had him squeeze my hand. In reality, though, it stings me that there's nothing tangible I can do for him or to express this pain. Nothing, that is, except write.


If I were the type to vomit, I would have done. So much pain, anxiety, and fear goes through me, and I just want it all to come out in some tangible form, to see the emotion break out. But I don't throw up. I'm in so much shock that I can't even cry. And so, the pain, the worry, and the fear all teem and fester inside of me.

As I drive home, I notice a cluster of windmills on a hill not far off. They barely move. The wind, the trees, the mills, they all remain stagnant.

I need rain. I need rain and wind to wake me up and shake me out of this. Instead, nothing stirs. A gray, oppressive evening settles on the world, a perfect reflection of the place from which I cannot escape.