When I entered Mom’s room on New Year’s Day, she was still in bed asleep, though it was almost noon. I could tell by how she was curled up in the fetal position and the grimace on her face that she was in pain. The staff mentioned that she had been in pain all night, in and out of sleep, and had fallen when she tried to get out of bed that morning. I bent over her and kissed her forehead and she groaned. I stroked her hair and she wailed. Anywhere I touched her she cried out in pain. I asked the staff to please administer the morphine dose that was to be used as needed. It didn’t seem to help, Mom continued to cry as I held her. I cried as well, quietly at first, and then not so quietly. She looked down at my head on her chest and clearly said, “What is wrong with you?” The iciness of the words let me know that part of her was still in there; she had used that phrase often as I was growing up, particularly when she wasn’t happy with my actions. Those were the only words she said clearly that day.

A hospital bed was wheeled into her room later that day (she had been sleeping in her own bed up to that point). We transferred her to the hospital bed and I sat beside her and continued to hold her hand, telling her it would be okay. 

Since New Year’s Day, she’s stopped eating food, seemingly forgetting how to chew, and not interested in purees. She can’t seem to work out how to use a straw, and simply curls her mouth around it. I give her liquids with a syringe or with a sippy cup (often spilling the juice down her gown or shirt and apologizing profusely while dabbing at the errant drops). She lays in bed staring with glassy eyes at something I can’t see. Occasionally she’ll try to talk, but the words come out as garbled sounds, as though her mouth is full of pebbles. 

Today we transferred her to a wheelchair. I asked her if she’d like to go for a ride and she nodded and mumbled, “Oh, yes.” I wheeled her chair up and down the hallway; the same hallway we had shuffled down just last week. She yawned and I asked if she was tired, and she stared at me then after a long pause in which I started to think she hadn’t heard me, said, “Yes.” We transferred her back to her bed, and immediately heard her snores. I sat beside her, holding her hand as she slept. At one point her eyes flew open, and she yelled, “Jerry!” I told her Dad was with her, and silently asked Dad to help her with this transition, so that she’s not in pain. And also said a moment of thanks that I still have these moments with her. Even though we’re not speaking, this time is so precious. I hold her hand, whisper all the things I’ve told her before, and all that I haven’t, and am grateful for one more day together.