Right now I think my grandma, instead of being aware that she's stuffed with tubes, bloods, medicines, and breath, is enjoying a leisurely picnic with my mom, my aunt, and my grandfather. My childhood dog Bandit is there as well as all of my great aunts and my even one of my cousins who dided in infancy.
In the heaven picnic there aren't onions in the potato salad, and there aren't onions in anything becuase she hates onions. It's the perfect temperature and the ants that are there are traveling in a single file line to crumbs that have been left for them instead of smuggling through all the fresh foods and trampling along the picnic blanket.
On the third floor of St. John's, my grandma has tweny-two medications pumping into her veins to help her breathe, help her kidney functions, and help her do everything else she was doing this time last week. This time last week when I talked with her for a few minutes about how she was and what she was doing. Before she had Tastee Freeze for dinner on Tuesday. Before she was diagnosed with congestive heart failure on Friday.
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