Gerty

There's a 95 year old woman dying in the intensive care unit in a community hospital about 20 miles from here.  Her body is a withered shell, a mere 60-70 lbs of bones and loose, bruised skin. Her mind, however, is vibrant, joyous, and sharp. When I walk in the room each morning and ask "how are you doing?" she invariably responds "I'm feeling better," even as she hacks up increasing amounts of thick phlegm. Equally invariably, she turns to me and squeaks out, "how are you this morning?" She says it with all the sincerity she can muster. She reaches out her feeble, skeleton-like hand while I talk to her about her ailment. Each morning, I take her hand in mine and she clasps her hand tightly, as if clinging to life itself. I lean in close to her--as her 95 year old ears don't hear as well as they used to-- and there we sit, chatting about her sons and her lifelong passion for football. I don't have the heart to tell her that I don't care much for the sport. Her mouth is dry and cracked, so each morning I swab her lips with a moistened sponge on a stick, and my mind drifts to the vinegar held to Jesus' lips in his last moments. After the sponge, I dab her lips gently with a tube of moisturizer, and I think how much more pleasant the cross would have been with some lip balm. Yesterday I was watching her breathe during her sleep, noting how her entire body seemed to gasp for air. She awoke, opened her eyes slightly, and turned in my direction. "Am I going to make it?" she asked. Suddenly my chest was in a vice, and the vice was squeezing me so hard that my eyes welled clear and full. I answered feebly, something about doing our best. Her hand squeezed my own. We smiled at each other, and she went back to sleep.