I grab the key ring beside me and lift her tiny body to mine as I stand and make my way to the back door. I cradle her into my chest, and she gives no indication of waking. I fumble through the lock and carry her to her bedroom, flinging her flip-flops in the corner as I go. I lay her on top of the covers and grab an orange crocheted blanket off the bottom of the bed. I lay it gently on top of her as she sighs sleepily into her pillow. I kneel on the floor beside her, trailing my thumb down her wet cheek before cradling her chin.

“I’m gonna teach you to live again, Tink. Just you watch,” I whisper, knowing she doesn’t hear a word I’m saying.

And just like that, my life clicks into focus. I’ve found my new purpose.

“Strip Me” by Natasha Bedingfield

The Past

“ONLY FIVE MORE steps, Eleanor, you can do it,” Janey, the physical therapist, cheers as Grams ambles between the two walking poles.

Grams steps forward on her right foot with no trouble, pushing closer to her goal. The left foot slowly trudges forward to follow suit. I see the wheels turning in her brain. Nothing is fluid, every single movement carefully planned. Compensation is the name of the game. Simple movements that used to be automatic and effortless take extreme thought. Grams is giving it her all, and I’m so damn proud of her.

I see a man approach me from the side, and I turn to greet him. He looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties at most, and has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Celia?” he asks expectantly, and I nod at him. “I’m Harold, and I’ll be the nurse taking care of your grandmother when she returns home. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Hey Harold. It’s great to meet you, too.” I release a sigh of relief and smile at him. “I have to be honest with you, I’m so glad to see you. The thought of Grams coming home and me being responsible for her care? It’s all a bit overwhelming. I can’t believe how fast everything is happening.”

He smiles and squeezes my shoulder in reassurance. “That’s the way it happens these days. The doctors want the patients up and moving as soon as possible after a stroke. It’s what’s best for their recovery. Between the nurse’s aides and me, someone will be staying with Grams almost full-time when she returns home, and then we’ll slowly decrease the hours as she improves.”

“Okay,” I whisper, trying to absorb the new information, getting used to my new normal.

His hand reaches for mine. “And Celia,” he says, squeezing gently. “She’s doing great. Your Grams is a fighter, I can tell. She’s my favorite kind of patient.”

I release a quick sigh. “That’s good to hear, because she’s my favorite kind of grandmother.”

He winks at me as he walks farther into the room, clapping and cheering Grams’s progress. I can tell he’s a “take no prisoners” type of nurse, much like all of her caretakers. That’s been the attitude ever since her recovery began, and she’s flourished. There’s no time for crying and feeling sorry for herself—there’s far too much work to be done for that kind of foolishness. Grams wouldn’t have it any other way.

After beating back the burning in my nose and blocking the tears I refuse to let fall, I meet her at the finish line with a beaming smile.

“That’s fantastic, Grams! You’ll be running races in no time.”

She beams right back at me, then lowers her head in concentration. “Proud … me?”

“Am I proud of you?” She nods. “Of course I am. I can’t believe how far you’ve come in just a few short weeks.”

“We’re all very proud of your grandmother, Celia. She has more determination in her pinky than some of my clients have in their whole body. That’s what makes the difference. That’s why she’s going home,” Janey explains while she assists Grams in transferring to her walker. The hot pink tennis balls lodged onto the walker’s feet glide across the floor before we move out of the way. If she had to get a walker, Grams insisted on hot pink tennis balls—no way would she sport those generic yellow ones.

“Hold on, Speedy Gonzales, where do you think you’re going?” Harold asks, laughter laced through his voice.

Grams stops moving, and her eyebrows furrow. “Time. It’s time,” she says, looking from the clock on the wall to the door. “Stefano.”

I let out a whoop of laughter. “Of course, she can’t miss Days of Our Lives. No wonder she raced to the finish line today. Like sands through the hourglass…”

Grams raps her hand on the walker handle, signaling me to follow. I relish in her bossiness. Hell, I’m even grateful for it. I walk closely by her side as she leaves the gym.

“Later, Janey and Harold. Stefano waits for no one,” I call out over my shoulder as I follow Grams to her room.

“I’ll come see you in her room later, Celia. We need to get our ducks in a row for discharge later this week,” Harold calls out.

I give Harold a thumbs-up, and laugh to myself when I see Grams doing the exact same thing.

“Do you want the chocolate or strawberry?” I ask, making Vanna White gestures at each of the saran-covered plates. “They’re both sugar free, so no fooling around.”

“Cake, yes,” Grams replies after several moments. “Choc…”

I wait for her to complete the word, but it doesn’t come. After removing the saran wrap, I place the chocolate cake and spoon on the table in front of her.

“I prefer strawberry, anyway.” I scoop up a bite of cake and chew slowly, focusing on the television.

I see Grams struggling with her spoon out of the corner of my eye, but avert my eyes and resist the urge to help. While she fumbles a bit with utensils and fine motor movements in general, she manages well enough. The nurses and therapists are sticklers for independence around here. If Grams doesn’t ask for help, I don’t dare offer it. Even if she asks, rather than just doing it for her, the workers help her to find a new solution.

Communication is probably the most challenging thing for us to get used to. Grams has never been short on opinions, and she’s always doled them out liberally. It hurts me to watch her struggle to find the words. She understands me when I speak to her, and she desperately wants to respond. It’s just not that easy anymore. I usually get the gist of what she’s trying to tell me, but it requires immeasurable patience on both of our parts.

I know the rules—the speech therapist drills them into my brain every time I speak to her. Keep eye contact with Grams and show her I’m interested in what she’s saying. Speak slowly and give her a chance to process my words. Don’t finish her sentences. Be patient and allow her the time to complete her thought, whether it be by words, pointing, or hand gestures. The most important thing is getting her point across, no matter how she goes about doing it. There’s a saying—“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” Well, that man is now front and center for everyone to see, and it breaks my heart for Grams.

But every small step is a glimmer of hope, and when you add them all together, the glimmer becomes a beam. She renews my waning faith.

I wish I could say the same about my Lucas. As one light in my life gets stronger and brighter, the other one slowly turns into fading embers.

“I need to ask you something, Grams. I need your advice,” I say, guilt circling my gut as I prepare to do the unthinkable. Am I really going to place this burden on her?