ONE

I do not know what day it is.

I barely know what time it is, as we changed time zones when we came here. True, we only changed by an hour, but even that simple ONE is difficult to add (or subtract) when your head is fuzzy with dread and fatigue.

And I do not look at that clock without doing the math because I want to remember what time it is at home.

Home. Where my children are. Where a touch of normalcy awaits me. Where I might for brief moments escape the oppressive waiting and dread that come with imminent death.

I have developed a fear of the telephone. The phone that rang at 5:45 yesterday morning to bring me more bad news. My mind still fuzzy from 3 hours of sleep; I somehow knew enough to feel fear. The phone never rings at 5:45 unless it is to bring bad news. Or news of a baby. And our newest baby arrived 3 weeks ago, so there was no hope in the way this phone rang.

No hope?

Another call to 911. More bleeding. Stay there. We'll let you know.

Why? Why, did we bring him home? Why didn't we keep him in the hospital where trained professionals could treat him?

Because he wants to be at home. And he told the paramedics just that when they stopped the bleeding and stabilized his vitals. I'M. STAYING. HOME

And so it continues. This hopscotch game of waiting on death. Jumping from "what if?" to "should have," from hope to dread; from fatigue to deeper fatigue; from "please let it be soon" to "Not yet."

PLEASE. NOT. YET.

And still there is that phone. That phone that haunted my four hours of sleep last night. That phone that rang in my dreams over and over and over again, only for me to force myself awake to hear that the hotel room was silent. That phone that I have so often in the last few days handed to my husband, my ONE, and said "Please carry this for me." And he knew by that I meant answer it, answer the questions, intercept the bad news, carry this load.

And he has. He has carried that cell phone and flipped it open when that obnoxious ring sounds and taken care of things, small and large. And in carrying the bright pink razor, he has carried me.

And I am so unbelievably thankful that he is my ONE.

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We are staying in a hotel. Why, when my father is dying, did we choose a hotel? Because there are four of us, with spouses, coming in and out. Plus, my dad's siblings and mother. The house gets crowded and chaotic. Sometimes a good chaotic, sometimes not.

The hotel room is good. It allows me to escape the sadness; and through all of this so far, I have made a selfish vow that I WILL take care of myself to some extent.

Because my children are at home waiting for me. My children, the top layer of this generational sandwich. And I WILL be in good shape for them. At least as much as circumstances allow.

They are, after all, my other two ONES.