i sit, all day, between 9-6, listening to her breathe, to her muttered comments as she finds some odd dreamscape to dwell in, to the movements of the nurses tending to bags and tubes and medicines.
i knit. i read. i have my coffee. and i listen.
she's a bit better now, sitting up for longer periods, unhooked from a number of the bags, finally able to eat again. she's still attached to a machine to feed her drugs to numb the pain, although even that's being weened away.
there is something missing, though. this fighter i'd always known is gone. she's old and weak and scared. she sees her mother coming to take her, and cries. she lives inside the television shows she's watching, and is querrelous. she's not my mother, she's some stranger in my mother's wrinkled skin.
it's difficult dealing and caring for one you respected and loved... it's another game altogether to do the same for someone you are not close to, not attached to, not wishing to have to be in this spot.
i put a cool cloth on her head, hold the drink, answer her silly questions. i leave, hurry home to the cats, then over to ruby's to spend the night, listening with half an ear for her to get up and wander around, possibly setting off the alarms...again.
i'm scheduled to go to new york for two weeks, to help a friend there... i leave on the 2nd. neither of them are happy with my decision, however, i have to go, or i shall sink into a deep well of sadness.
it's difficult. a difficult task, a difficult schedule, a difficult time.
it'll pass. it always does.