Casual Writing

We're at the beach house. There is an abundance of rain and uncomfortable furniture. Also I've painted a watercolor picture that I'm rather proud of, and I am in the middle of a good book... I guess I can't complain too much.

But then my friend, who's house-sitting for us, called in a worried tone to inform me that my grandmother's nursing home/recuperation facility called and left a message, to which we needed to reply immediately.

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The rain's needle feet tread heavily the windowpanes and patter on the roof. The room around me is dark, empty, and it feels small. The pattering turns to pounding, which changes to tinny thundering. I am not cold, but it feels as though I should be, typing alone on my keyboard. The insistent sounds of rain close in around me, and I am an island of quiet, buffeted by a wet world of invisible, frenzied motion.

-

Dad called the nursing home. It took four tries before someone finally answered. Apparently my grandmother had insisted that the staff bring her an ambulance, for she complained of a sore throat. She then demanded that they check her out of their care entirely, to which some ridiculously unthinking, dim-witted nurse handed her the forms to sign, freeing the home of all responsibility and authority. Then my grandmother wheeled herself outside in her wheelchair and proceeded to tip herself over on her way down a hill, which sent nurses scurrying to help her back up again, though my grandmother refused to re-enter the home.

-

The rain has quieted now. The only sound is the dripping from the broken rain gutter outside. The others have already gone to bed, and the presence of the dog at my side is reassuring. The dim yellow light above me gives a homely cast to the dark room, but the windows remain black vacuums of the night.

-

An ambulance eventually came to bring my grandmother to the hospital, where she now remains. My father is decided that his mother is completely out of her mind, totally irrational, and incapable of making decisions for herself, as this episode has shown. We all tend to agree with him; though, this does not tell us what we do now, six hours away from her side. He finally decided to go to bed, and I agreed, for I was - am - exhausted. But I can't sleep. Not just now. In a moment.

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The dishwasher in the kitchen cools, quietly clicking along with the ticking of the cat clock. The dog is curled on the floor beside me, content to sleep where I am not. The dripping of the gutter is monotonous, soothing. I blink often, and my thoughts are slow in coming, but I feel I must share them anyway.

-

I don't know what to think. It all happened so suddenly, and yet it didn't. We knew she wasn't stable, and we knew she was taking anxiety medication in order to cope with her surroundings in the home. I suppose we just thought that those meds would continue to work. The only thing I can allow myself to hope for now is safety, for her, and the continuance of a peaceful vacation for us... we really can't do anything for her, even if we weren't six hours away.

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The rain has stopped. Not even dripping sounds mark its sudden retreat. The darkness reigns supreme, once again silent in its contemplation but for the ticking of the cat clock. I must go to bed. I can't continue with these heavy eyelids for much longer.