Slipping Away

I never imagined that having a bout of flu could change Mother so drastically.  In my naivete, I thought she would get well and everything would be the same.  It is not.  I thought she would still talk, as silly as her talk can be.  She does not.  I thought she would still roam the halls stealing snacks and drinking out of any cup she saw.  She stays in bed.

Seeing Mother everyday, I am aware of the changes that come over her.  Those changes have come subtly for me, but I see them.  Mother's recovery from the flu has effected profound changes.  They have shocked me, and I thought I was beyond shock.

For over a week Mother has spoken very little.  I can stay for a few minutes or an hour.  It doesn't matter.  She is mostly silent speaking only with her eyes and her facial expressions.

"Would you like tea or lemonade?"
Nothing.  She just stares.
"Would you like tea?"
A frown.
"Would you like lemonade?"
A big smile with lips pressed tightly together and stretched into a Cheshire cat grin.

No nodding.  No turning of head.  Mother stares at me closely.  Her eyes widen in pleasure as she sips the lemonade.

I sit next to Mother on her bed, and we thumb through the seed catalogs together.  I keep up a monologue about sweet peas and zinnias, sweet corn and tomatoes.  I ask which one she likes and her gnarled finger stabs the page.

"Should I plant sweet peas this year?"
Mother smiles.
"What color?"
"Red." she whispers.
"I thought maybe white ones."
Mother snarels and squints.

Mother is still with me.  She is following the conversation.  She has an opinion.  But I'm guessing about what she wants.  Trying to read her face and her eyes, I'm guessing about what she is trying to say.

Perhaps this change in coincidental to the flu, but it is still devastating.  Now Mother is locked further away.  I hug her tight, but I feel her slipping further away from me and nothing I can do will stop it.