Return home.

An emergency call finds me hurtling down the highway, after dropping everything and just going. An unexpected ten hour drive home, not sure if the phone call will bring bad news. It feels like we're racing death itself.

A timid first step into the hospital that held everything a year and a half ago--I knew one day I'd have to be back here. But why so soon? Why another loved one? The smell whisks memories back. That stale air that held so many tears and hopes. That elevator with its ride of eternity, dread, doors that opened up to a floor of so much pain. A waiting room with stiff couches and tired faces. This place really existed. It really wasn't a dream.

There you lie, Grandpa. Tubes and beeping noises and the rise and fall of a chest. I want to breath for you. I want you to open your eyes. I want you to feel no pain. I want you to know that we are holding your hand and saying, "I love you." These are all too familiar and I feel overwhelmed.

A week later, and we are still waiting for you to wake up. I am reminding myself that this hospital is not just a place of death--I was born here almost 20 years ago, a new life. Somewhere there must be hope. We are holding on to it and waiting anxiously to hear your laugh again.