Homecoming
now is a car in front of the door, the car of my grandfather, who is in hospital and the doctors keep trying to get from the artificial coma. He should breathe even. He refuses.
The smell of the intensive care unit I can not get really out of his nose. We went to mint-green gown, she tied the other leg in the neck and disinfected our hands, then the old man with bare torso over, hanging on the ropes. There are few visitors. Here are only those that have just been operated on and come to him, or those who do not make it right over the mountain.
I like all the devices that serve to hygiene, all the clean bottles and towels. There are no germs, I thought only of the patent intensity of a sometimes flies out and eaten right from the surrounding infertility. We
touch his body jerks and trembles, his eyes he pinched regularly in pain. When my mother calls him Papa, go to his eyes and the whites come to light. He is still quite far out. In our Visit varies his heart rhythm. If he is too wild, the apparatus suggests alarm.
On the return trip with my mother we dare, as the grandmother is not here, we envision how it goes on. We know roughly what to do it and that it is something different than what we want it. This is bitter. Finally, we are silent.
The trip to Berlin was full of sweat and close to tears. I'm not a good returnees.
