There she was, so fragile sitting in that hospital bed. Her hair gray except for the very tips which were washed out brittle red. Her skin was pale with all the pink tones now gone. She was like a ghost resting there among the sheets and blankets. She tells of a good life. For ninety two years she has enjoyed her health, her family, her home. And now here she is with us. Pneumonia and congestive heart failure have finally brought her low. Her fluids are restricted and we tell her what to do. Keep that oxygen in your nose. Stay in bed. No you can't have anymore water. On and on for days she listens. Each time I come into the room she begs in a birdlike voice. Water,
that's it just one simple word, water. As I lean in close to explain once again, no you can't have any water. You have to much fluid and it stresses your heart even farther. In her 92 years of wisdom and knowledge she looks deep into my eyes and with a crystal clear sureness she says to me. When I get to heaven I will have all the water I want. I will look for you and we will drink tall glasses of cold wet clear water. Well! what can you say to that. I went straight to the bedside table and poured her some water in one of those little pink cups which are standard for any hospital visit. As I lifted it to her parched lips she sighs and says once again in that little bird voice
Aah! Water.
