Changes

So many changes in the last few months; changes that are difficult to write about.  When I put the words down, the changes don't seem so severe, but they have stolen so much more of Mother that the words stick in my throat.

Mother speaks very little.  Sometimes she doesn't differentiate us from her care givers at the home.  At other times, she grabs us and hangs on.  She tries to kiss my hand, but often that kiss begins as an attempt to bite me.  "Kiss, kiss," I say and her mouth hangs open.  She thinks about it, tries to bite and then puckers up and kisses my hand.  I kiss her hand.  We both smile.  But those times are becoming more rare.

Mother doesn't walk anymore.  She sits in a reclining wheel chair, and even then she can't sit up straight for very long.  She leans to one side and slowly slides down.  We prop her up with a pillow.  She slides down.  She sits on a special sticky pad.  She slides down, her left arm and hand clenched from the stoke two years ago.

Mother can no longer eat regular meat.  Chicken, pork and beef all choke her, so her meat must be pureed or mechanically chopped into very small bits.  She doesn't seem to mind the texture, so she eats.  Nevertheless, she has lost weight and looks more like a small bird curled up in her chair.

The list goes on, but the thing that weighs on me, the thing that hurts my heart is that more and more of Mother is gone.  She sits and stares and chews her clothes or the corner of her blanket.  This beautiful, smart woman is being reduced to a hollow shell.  This is not that way any life should end.