Monday, March 6

Mom awoke late in the day. We moved her to the potty, gave her something to drink—she took two sips—and now she is back in bed, propped up with pillows and taking oxygen. We kiss mom on the forehead, allow her to rest without interruption, but Rob and I both feel as though we are not doing enough. Should we be waking her to give her something to eat, something else to drink?

The answer, of course, is no. She is winding down, and it’s tough to watch. Mom has so little energy that when she sits on the toilet, she begs to be put back in bed. If I take too long to clean her, she complains, “That’s enough. Put me back. Put me over there, Rob, please.” She tells Rob she loves him, and she is off to sleep again.

We listen to the sound of the oxygen machine, at least until she pulls the tubes off her nose. Then we get some quiet.

We are waiting and it’s tough. The inevitable is too sad to ponder, even though mom has so little left. I look at photos of her a year ago, just a few months ago in fact, and she is a profoundly different woman. Even Valentino is aware of the change. As noted before, he sometimes sleeps alongside her bed and always alerts me to her calls.

We all remain tired. There is little real rest. I wonder what we will do when we find her gone, but then I remind myself that she is still here—in a manner of speaking. Mom is really between two worlds. People remind us that we were lucky to have her so long. But I wonder. How many of those years were good years. Fortunately, there is a higher power in charge, and her lingering here is of greater moment than I will ever reckon on my own.