The hospital hums, whines with the hidden machinery that run it, like a spaceship, and more and more when I am here I feel a disconnect with the world outside, now far away. The hospital has its own time and inner reason, the rules for which are opaque to the uninitiated. Equipment surrounds my grandma. It makes noise, fluids go in and out, oxygen moves. The equipment hums. The reasons and the means are mysterious, and so when something unexpectedly beeps or worse, ceases to make its noise, I feel suddenly helpless.

My grandmother's situation is this: her doctor suspects an aneurism formed in the descending aorta, which caused an abnormal fibrulation in her heart, which in turn dislodged a clot, which travelled from her heart into her brain, causing a stroke. This was two days ago.

Today, although she is still not completely conscious, she has shown signs of recovery. Most importantly, she was able to swallow. I also heard her singing this morning, so we sang a few songs for her, missing papasan's voice, his tenor now silent.

I believe she will recover from the stroke.

The next issue is that of her heart. Her doctor is "70 to 80 percent" certain it is an aneurism, and if that is the case it is both inoperable and fatal. Testing is being done in Missoula to refine the diagnosis. In the meantime we wait. We hold her hands and comb her hair. Make jokes, sing songs, and wait.