by Anna Sheftel I'm writing this as my grandmother is sleeping. Green blanket, blue nightgown, white pillow. She showed me her bruises. I can't take my eyes off the cardiogram. I start panicking at the slightest irregularity. No one else does.   The doctor wakes her to ask about her medication. I notice that she sleeps with her fists clenched. Sleep feels more dire in a hospital. Her skin is covered in tubes and medical tape, and I can't figure out where they all go. The room feels like static. Outside there is movement; doctors and nurses conversing lightly, not feeling stifled like I do. They don't seem to notice the lack of oxygen, because they're busy making weekend plans. I do not feel like I can stay here.   She only moves to breathe. The tubes and wires move with her. I wait.   Later, an elderly man in a yellow bathrobe walks through the hall, stops at a nurse and says something in Spanish. "Si?" the nurse responds.   Her co-worker asks her what he said. "The war is over in Yugoslavia," she tells her.   "Really?" the second nurse asks.   "Yes. Who wants a war?" the old man says, smiling.   He trudges off and I watch him struggle with his footing. Although he can barely walk, this has made him so happy. My grandmother is still sleeping. Her pulse is 62, and her heart is beating steadily, I learn from the cardiogram.   For a moment, everything is quiet. I listen to her breathe.