Friday, February 20, 2004
I just checked on my mother.
She's frowning, in REM, but in no other way agitated. Her pillow's bunched and held with her left arm beneath her head. Although her lips aren't ruddy they aren't pale, either. Her skin continues to luxuriate in that peach undertone. She's pulled the covers back from her upper torso and legs. She's wearing three pairs of paper underwear. It isn't uncomfortable (believe me, she'd tell me if it was; in addition, I ask) but it's a challenge to dress for maximum protection. Despite this I'm sure she's begun to leak through because the cats avoided jumping on her bed. But it's not yet apparent.
Yesterday, sitting at the dining room table, easily forgetting her bleary-minded losses at Sorry despite my prodigious coaching [although I don't let her get away with flubbed moves, misunderstood card instructions or clumsy board ettiquette like MPS does. I tease her into compliance with accusations of 'cheating'.], she stared out into our magnificent view from our snug, sunny, peachy keen home and said, "You can't beat the winters, here, can you."
I didn't judiciously probe to see if she thought she was in Mesa rather than Prescott. She exhibited a dangerous level of enjoyment the two hours we were in what I've begun to refer to as our auto-house in Mesa on Tuesday. I shudder to think what she's going to be feeling as we incorporate frequent day trips there to fertilize the trees, get stuff out of there, look at our possibilities for sale, etc. I have to continually remind myself that, for the most part, my mother is a creature of her immediate environment and can always find something to appreciate above any other place (yes, she makes these comparisons) where ever she finds herself.
We're working up to rain, today. Looks like it's going to settle in for a good 24 hours, beginning mid evening with the bulk expected Saturday during the day, tapering off Sunday and Monday, a clear, cold day Tuesday then two days of mixed rain/snow showers. Yesterday she mentioned that she likes "the variety here, like the snow."
"You mean the Christmas card snows we've had."
"Yes. You don't get that in Mesa." So. She knows where she is or at least she knows she's not in Mesa. Good, good, good.
"And, here when it rains we can see it," I add.
She shudders. "Yes. You like that, don't you. So did your father."
I know.
"So did one of my uncles...not Uncle J____," Her uncle J____, my Great Uncle J____. I also have an Uncle J____, her brother, well, her dead brother. "Especially storms."
Sometimes this person is her Uncle J____, sometimes it's one of her grandfathers.
"He'd stand outside and watch the storm approach then weather it out there as long as he could."
She could have been talking about either my father or great uncle or great grandfather. I've heard this short-short story multiples of 10s of times. Still, I can't resist an automatic internal, "Righteous!"
"Good sleeping weather."
That, too, if it doesn't get too exciting. Typically, sleep doesn't work for me during "bad' weather, not even at night, which works for both my mother and me. I leave her alone to sleep, she leaves me alone to "do whatever it is you do on your own."
Righteous.
I do get nervous when she sleeps what I determine to be 'too much.' I can't tell you exactly how I judge this. A certain heaviness to the way her body is laying on the bed, her posture sometimes approaching a fetal position. A shallowness of breath that tells me her lungs need to be exercised for clearance. I err on the side of caution and I know this irritates her. I always tell her, "If we make sure you can always get up, you'll always be able to go back to bed."
This makes sense to her although I'm not sure it makes sense to me.
I never get nervous when she sleeps too little. She always makes it up within 24 hours.
I recall my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Nesbitt, telling us that you can never "make-up" missed sleep. She didn't know my mother.
Later.
Yesterday, sitting at the dining room table, easily forgetting her bleary-minded losses at Sorry despite my prodigious coaching [although I don't let her get away with flubbed moves, misunderstood card instructions or clumsy board ettiquette like MPS does. I tease her into compliance with accusations of 'cheating'.], she stared out into our magnificent view from our snug, sunny, peachy keen home and said, "You can't beat the winters, here, can you."
I didn't judiciously probe to see if she thought she was in Mesa rather than Prescott. She exhibited a dangerous level of enjoyment the two hours we were in what I've begun to refer to as our auto-house in Mesa on Tuesday. I shudder to think what she's going to be feeling as we incorporate frequent day trips there to fertilize the trees, get stuff out of there, look at our possibilities for sale, etc. I have to continually remind myself that, for the most part, my mother is a creature of her immediate environment and can always find something to appreciate above any other place (yes, she makes these comparisons) where ever she finds herself.
We're working up to rain, today. Looks like it's going to settle in for a good 24 hours, beginning mid evening with the bulk expected Saturday during the day, tapering off Sunday and Monday, a clear, cold day Tuesday then two days of mixed rain/snow showers. Yesterday she mentioned that she likes "the variety here, like the snow."
"You mean the Christmas card snows we've had."
"Yes. You don't get that in Mesa." So. She knows where she is or at least she knows she's not in Mesa. Good, good, good.
"And, here when it rains we can see it," I add.
She shudders. "Yes. You like that, don't you. So did your father."
I know.
"So did one of my uncles...not Uncle J____," Her uncle J____, my Great Uncle J____. I also have an Uncle J____, her brother, well, her dead brother. "Especially storms."
Sometimes this person is her Uncle J____, sometimes it's one of her grandfathers.
"He'd stand outside and watch the storm approach then weather it out there as long as he could."
She could have been talking about either my father or great uncle or great grandfather. I've heard this short-short story multiples of 10s of times. Still, I can't resist an automatic internal, "Righteous!"
"Good sleeping weather."
That, too, if it doesn't get too exciting. Typically, sleep doesn't work for me during "bad' weather, not even at night, which works for both my mother and me. I leave her alone to sleep, she leaves me alone to "do whatever it is you do on your own."
Righteous.
I do get nervous when she sleeps what I determine to be 'too much.' I can't tell you exactly how I judge this. A certain heaviness to the way her body is laying on the bed, her posture sometimes approaching a fetal position. A shallowness of breath that tells me her lungs need to be exercised for clearance. I err on the side of caution and I know this irritates her. I always tell her, "If we make sure you can always get up, you'll always be able to go back to bed."
This makes sense to her although I'm not sure it makes sense to me.
I never get nervous when she sleeps too little. She always makes it up within 24 hours.
I recall my fourth grade teacher, Ms. Nesbitt, telling us that you can never "make-up" missed sleep. She didn't know my mother.
Later.
