Like a Child

Mother lay in her bed half asleep, her chin tucked against her chest.  The heating unit hummed away blasting tropical temperatures into the room despite the ice and snow outside the window.  Mother stirred as we entered and reached out her hand to me.  So like a little child wanting to be picked up and cared for.

I sat on the bed beside her, and my husband sat in the chair beside the bed.  Today was a quite day.  Only one or two words formed slowly on Mother's lips, and even her smile was slow in coming.  But the iron grip of her good hand was as strong as ever.  She grabbed my hand and tucked it under her chin.  If I moved at all, she grabbed again and held my hand tight against her as if she needed the security of our presence.

So, we sang to her.  We sang Joy to the World, Jingle Bells, White Christmas, Hark the Harold Angels Sing in uneven harmony, and then she began to sing in a growling whisper, "We three kings...."  That was all she could manage, so we took up the song for her.  Her lips would form a word now and then, and she would look at us with the fascination of a child keeping her eyes on our lips and trying to figure out what would come next.  Then she closed her eyes, still gripping my hand, and there it was.  The faint half crooked smile like a baby just falling asleep.  She was happy and content.  Music, touch and a room the temperature of the tropics.  Merry Christmas, Mother.

Into the Dark Future

I have found it  difficult to write about Mother this fall.  Her decline is more profound and pronounced, and there are days when she sleeps so soundly that she never knows I have been to visit her.  I sit by her and hold her hand, but she doesn't stir.

I spoke with her physician, and there is nothing to do but keep her happy and clean and comfortable.  The disease has stolen so much of her, yet when she is awake, her smile is still there.  But the disease has stolen her speech; she has lost her words. Occasionally she speaks a word or two.  I ramble on in a monologue telling of the events of our daily lives.  She smiles and occasionally raises her eyebrows in response, but I am not sure she understands anything I say.  The sound of my voice, the idea of conversation is something she can connect with at some level.

Perhaps this is the most heart wrenching.  I can't tell how much of her is still with us.  I can't tell how much she understands and how much is just a reaction.  She is more and more like a very small child.  A piece of chocolate, a soft drink, a silly song- these give her joy. But more and more she is beginning to stare into space.  No reaction.  No facial expression. No Mother.

I want to hold her close and keep her from going.  At the same time,I want to be able to let her go.  We are caught in a limbo world that could go on for years.  We are moving through the foggy places of the dark future where we can't see what is to come, and there is no defense for what is to come. We can only hold hands and travel together.