Squeeze my hand, Dad.

The lights were dim and the blinds were closed, casting a grey pallor on my already gray father, lying still under a graying white sheet with a faded “Holy Name Hospital” printed on it in pale green. An impossible number of wires and tubes ran from his nose, mouth, skull, abdomen. A machine wheezed, forcing air into his lungs, and then hissed marking an exhale. Another machine beeped, a green glow signaling a heart beat. I studied the monitors, hoping for a clue, any reassurance that he was improving, but they held their secrets. A shadow passed in front of the door, paused briefly, then moved on. I held Dad’s hand, gently rubbing the paper thin skin and the familiar freckles, and whispered encouraging mantras more for myself than for him. “You’re gonna be fine, Dad. Just squeeze my hand to let me know you can hear me, “ I begged. When I was a little girl, Dad had always squeezed my hand extra hard at the Sign of Peace in Church to try to make me giggle. Today, he didn’t squeeze at all. In fact, the longest 11 days of my life passed before there was any response.