Tangled

Tangled.  That is Mother's mind.  Like a thin, gold chain, some days the knots and twists in her mind are impossible to get beyond. Just when you think you have identified all the twists, another wraps itself around the chain and pulls tightly. Tangled.  And the chain will not give in to even the gentlest probing; the knots only tighten and become unyielding.

Now the tangles are taking Mother's speech.  On good days, she can say a word or short phrase understandably and loudly enough to be heard.  On bad days, she only blinks her eyes, or nods her head or points with her chin;  there are no words.  But the worst days are when she whispers.  She hisses and slurs words so softly I can't make them out.  She becomes frustrated because I can't understand. I become helpless before the tangle of sounds unable to respond to her requests, only guessing what she might be trying to say.

The tangles in her mind and the small stroke from a year ago are  taking her body.  The clenched and contracted hand no longer responds to therapy.  Her shoulder and arm are beginning to contract. On some days her legs work, and she can shuffle along, but now she occasionally must use a wheelchair.  The tangles might be in her brain, but they have long tentacles that reach to all of her body slowly wrapping it up in their tight bundles.  And I have no tool to untangle the knots in her mind and body.  I can only sit and hold her hand and watch.