Grandma knows.

She sits still at the end of her cream leather couch, legs wrapped in a Green Bay Packers blanket, eyes tuned to the television screen. A plethora of pills and pastries cover the snack table at her feet. The smell of spring flowers lingers across the living room. Each bouquet, along with accompanying cards and photos, reminds Grandma of the litany of loved ones who have visited in recent weeks. One of my favorite mementos is the St. Patrick’s Day balloon still floating in the corner more than a month after the feast. It is a fitting symbol of my Irish grandma’s own resilience.

In mid-February the color in Grandma’s face looked off. Doctors soon discovered cancer coursing through her body. All signs pointed to a fast death—maybe days, or a few weeks if we were lucky. Family members quickly secured airline tickets and packed up cars. It was time to say our final goodbyes.

Yet here we sit on a Sunday morning, exactly two months out from her diagnosis. Her petite frame thins by the day, but remarkably she is in no pain. As soon as the big wooden clock strikes 9, Grandma lifts her right hand to her forehead and starts to pray:

In the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.