Understatement can speak volumes

When my Grandma got sick, and I used to call her to talk to her, we had a sort of ritual. She had leukemia, and thankfully had almost no pain, except for the yucky tests they had to put her through.

But she would get really tired if her white blood corpuscle count was particularly low, and often she would need blood transfusions to help her. My grandmother was possibly one of the most energetic people on earth, and hearing her sounding weak and tired made me feel as though the sun had petulantly decided not to rise.
We would talk about all sorts of things. Mostly the kids. At a time in my life when Grandma and I were in danger of running out of common ground, I started having kids. And from then on there was no shortage of things to talk about. It's nice to have someone who could hear you tell stories about your kids ad infinitum, without getting sick of it. My parents and grandparents can always be counted on for this.

But we would talk. I told her about my knitting, and quilting, since she was an avid sewer and knitter. And she of course expressed alarm about my plans to move to India.

And then, always, when we talked about her sickness, I would always say, "I really don't like this Grandma. I just don't like it."

And she would say, "I know you don't, dear. I know."