Chapter 10 Danae #2
I hear the words like they’re being spoken underwater.
This shouldn’t rattle me. It’s not uncommon for someone with Parkinson’s, but alarming for me because he isn’t a patient, he’s my Papa.
As hard as it is to watch the once strong, fearless man slowly lose functions and eventually his ability to even walk or feed himself, I can’t imagine a day without him.
Every day we wake up is another day closer to death.
I’ve always lived by that motto since I encounter losses regularly at work.
Dying is unavoidable. We all face it. Logically, I know his time is coming, he’s ninety for goodness sake.
It doesn’t make it any easier that this may very well be the time he can’t beat back the pneumonia.
Even though we have gone through this very diagnosis more than once, it never seems to ease up the anxiety and fears that live inside me at the thought of losing him.
He is quickly admitted. IV antibiotics. Monitoring. Possible complications.
I nod. I answer questions. I sign forms. And then, when they finally leave me alone in the room with him, I sit down hard in the chair and fold forward, my forehead resting against the edge of the bed needing to be close to him. “I’m here,” I whisper, because it’s the only thing I know how to say.
He doesn’t reply. The silence, while expected, still hits me hard.
He’s asleep, sedated enough to let his body rest. The machines hum softly around us, steady and relentless. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Miles.
Normally, I would have text him or talked to him by now. Everything happens so fast, though, I didn’t think to reach out. I stare at the screen for a long moment before answering.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call or text. He’s in the hospital,” I ramble the second I hear his voice greet me. I don’t bother trying to keep it together. “My grandpa. Pneumonia.”
“I’m coming,” he states immediately.
“No,” I respond, panic flaring. “You can’t just—”
“I’m coming,” he repeats, firmer. “You’re not doing this alone.”
I don’t argue again. I don’t have the strength. But we aren’t a we, are we? How can he drop everything and rush here to sit with me and a man he barely knows?
By the time visiting hours end that night, Josie has already called twice, her voice tight with worry. By morning, she tells me they’re loading up the kids and driving.
All of them.
I cry in the hospital bathroom when I hear that—not the quiet tears I’m used to shedding, but the ugly, shoulder-shaking kind that leave me dizzy.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed support until it was already on the way.
Sometimes it’s hard to admit going it alone is a struggle.
And these people who care about me, didn’t make me have to ask, they jumped in feet first to come support me.
It means more than I can put into words.
Knowing Josie is coming I find a renewed energy to get through this.
The next few days blur together. Grandpa’s condition is serious but stable. The doctors are cautiously optimistic, which I cling to like a life raft. I sleep in the chair beside his bed, waking at every beep and shift of his breathing.
When Josie walks into the room for the first time, baby carrier strapped to her chest, Justice glued to Raff’s side, I completely lose it. She wraps me up carefully, mindful of the baby, and I sob into her shoulder like I’m eight years old again.
“I’m here,” she murmurs. “We’re all here. Not just for Papa, for you too.”
Raff brings coffee. Justice brings drawings. Journey sleeps through it all, blissfully unaware of how much her tiny presence steadies me.
And Miles—he stands back at first, giving me space, his presence solid and quiet.
When he finally steps forward, he doesn’t say anything.
He just opens his arms. Unable to deny the pull, I walk straight into them.
He holds me like he’s not afraid of breaking me.
Like he understands that his quiet strength soothes the fragility inside me.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into my hair.
For the first time since the ambulance ride, I believe it. The days stretch on, long and exhausting. We rotate shifts so I can go home and shower, eat something that isn’t from a vending machine, sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.
Having them here changes everything.
Raff handles logistics without being asked making sure the kids are cared for without feeling too much shift in their routines being away from home.
Josie keeps me fed and grounded, reminding me gently when I need to sit down.
Justice brings his loud, earnest energy into the hospital room, telling a sleeping grandpa about school and his baby sister like it’s the most important thing in the world.
He lightens up all of our days with every visit.
I’m sure Papa will eat this up when he’s awake and more alert again.
Miles stays with me at night. Not always in the hospital room—sometimes just sitting in the waiting area, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing because I need to breath air not stifled by the weight of watching my grandfather seem so frail.
Sometimes we sat with him holding my hand when the fear creeps in during the quiet hours.
By day five, Papa is bouncing back. When he wakes up for the morning he seems aware and with us. His eyes find me immediately. “There you are,” he says, voice raspy but clear.
Relief hits me so hard my knees go weak. “I’m here,” I say, laughing and crying at the same time. “I didn’t go anywhere.”
He studies my face, then glances around the room, confusion flickering briefly before settling. “Did I miss my birthday?” he asks confusion in his gaze.
Josie steps forward first, smiling warmly. “Hey Papa. It’s Josie. Been too long since I’ve been home. Missed you, Papa.”
He squints at her, then nods like his brain is catching up. Recognition comes through and he smiles showing off the few teeth he has left. “Pretty baby. Looks like your Nanny.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, eyes shining. Raff introduces himself next, steady and respectful. Justice climbs onto the bed carefully, chattering about his sister until Grandpa chuckles weakly.
Then it’s Miles’s turn. I hesitate for half a heartbeat before taking his hand and leading him forward. “And this is Miles,” I say softly.
Grandpa looks at him for a long moment. Longer than is comfortable. His gaze sharpens in a way I haven’t seen in years.
“Well,” he says finally. “You don’t look like trouble.”
Miles smiles faintly. “I try not to be, sir.” I stifle back the laugh inside watching this badass biker make sure and be polite to my southern rooted grandfather.
Grandpa huffs. Then he looks at me.
And smiles. A real smile. Full and peaceful.
“I can die in peace now,” he whispers calmly to know one in particular, “knowing someone will take care of my girls.”
My breath catches painfully in my chest. “Papa,” I gasp feeling the weight of his words hit me like a punch to the gut.
“I’m not dying today,” he adds, waving a hand weakly. “Don’t get dramatic.”
Everyone laughs, tension breaking like a snapped string. But later, when it’s just the two of us, his hand curled around mine, his voice soft and lucid, he says it again, but differently. “I worried about you,” he admits. “About what would happen when I’m gone.”
My throat tightens. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He squeezes my fingers. “I know. But someday. Danae, we all gotta a day we leave this world. And I needed to know you’d be okay.”
I swallow hard. “I’m okay, Papa. I have you.”
“I see that, but I’m an old man,” he states. “You gotta build something. For yourself. That man, I can see it.”
Tears slide down my cheeks unchecked. “I didn’t plan it.”
He smiles gently. “The best things never are.” We sit together quietly until he falls back asleep, his aging body resting and healing from another bout of pneumonia.
A few days later, he comes home. We set him up in his bed, oxygen tank humming softly beside him now, the house filled with voices and movement and life. It feels fuller than it has since I was a child.
Later in the night, when everyone is finally asleep, Miles sits beside me on the couch, my head resting against his shoulder.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say quietly.
He looks down at me. “I know.” But he doesn’t move. For the first time in a long time, I let myself imagine a future that isn’t just survival.
And it doesn’t scare me.
In fact, it sort of feels like hope.