As early as this morning a phone call from my grandpa hurried to me, telling urgently that my grandma had just knocked her head against a pointed angle somewhere in the house, her blood running out with abandon. I was astonished at the call, without brushing teeth and socks on my feet giving myself to the hospital.

My grandpa was saying he had never seen so much blood, which I did see some stained on his sleeves. But grandma was from the beginning by and large conscious, better than the usual time when grandpa tended to say that she was dull. Grandpa found his wife accidentally having more flexible legs and more regular lying position. He said, not everything should be bad.

We, including my mother, accompanied grandma with a number of examinations, pushing and pulling the sickbed with wheels from one building to another. I was terribly guilty, because out of my physical condition I have little strength to lend a hand; and being a man of thirty, I was incapable to take place of my mother and handle the messy procedures. What I did was just standing with my eyes on them.

In the afternoon grandpa stepped out, leaving me with grandma who, during transfusion, closed and opened her eyes, and asked "Where's my old man?" She kept asking when her old man would be back, or how long it would be. She was not asking for anyone else. Before long her husband finally came back. We employed an experienced nursing worker, but he still remained by the bed reluctant to part.

For what I know, grandma has gone through tumor removal for not only once, as well as damages of her waist. At the same time, she has been far from hospital for not a few years. She is aged, more than eighty, but still persists with a hopeful life. These all should be owed to her firmest backbone.