Monday, May 20, 2013
We sit by her bed, one at a time, a seemingly endless vigil that we don't really want to end. She snaps her good eye open to peer at whoever happens to be there, then rolls over and goes back to sleep. Every noise seems to irritate her, hence the one at a time rule. When Holly and I whisper, the eye whips open and glares at us. At other times, though, she softly whispers something that we usually have to ask her to repeat: an "I love you," which means so much right now. A funny statement that must have to do with whatever she's dreaming: "Plaid. I think the plaid one." Or sometimes, my favorite: a purse of the lips and a kiss noise. Mom seems so soft and fragile. Her face is worry-free and, unless the morphine is wearing off, she seems okay. She says repeatedly that she thinks she'll die tonight, whatever night it happens to be, and I feel bad that just because you want something to happen doesn't mean it will. She is certainly deteriorating, though, and it really could be any moment, I guess. Her color is good and her heart sounds strong, but her breathing is deep and very slow. I can't imagine what it'll be like without her here.