I didn’t expect to be there all day. I had only brought my grandma in for some routine tests. We figured we’d be out by lunchtime. But the lab was running behind, and her blood pressure dipped slightly. Before I knew it, we had spent five hours in the waiting room.
She got cold, even though the room wasn’t chilly. I wrapped my jacket around her legs and offered to get her some water. She didn’t respond—just leaned into me, the same way she used to when I was little and scared during thunderstorms.
“She’s lucky to have you,” a nurse said kindly in passing.
I nodded but stayed quiet. Because what I hadn’t told anyone—not even my sister—was that lately, Grandma didn’t always remember who I was.
That morning, she had called me “Teddy”—my grandfather, who passed away many years ago. And when we arrived at the clinic, she referred to me as “Coach.” I’ve never played sports a day in my life.
But sitting beside me in that chair, under the soft hum of overhead lights and next to a blinking Christmas tree, she wrapped her arms around me and whispered, “Don’t leave me again.”
I held her tighter. I didn’t correct her.
For the first time in days, she looked peaceful. Like she felt safe.
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