Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Some internal monitor is telling me, tonight...
...that it is close to time; that we both need her to be released from the facility soon. I know they take good care of their patients, I know that the work she is doing there is important and I know, tonight, that it is almost time for her to be released.
Her skin needs to heal from the necessities of a facility, which don't allow for daily baths and interim washings, for changes of underwear as often as I see to it that she changes, for slatherings of lotion whenever and where ever she needs it rather than when someone can get around to it.
Her mind needs to be allowed to sit with mine again during the day, in the evening, exchanging thoughts, glancing knowingly at each other when we both notice something, relaxing in the comfort of assured love rather than paid cheerfulness; which is not to say that paid cheerfulness isn't genuine, but, well, it isn't what my mother and I have together.
It's time for us to test our ability to motivate her at home within the well-being of our familiarity with one another; to return, with a slight skew of the eye caused by our separation, to our disagreements, to discover where and how we'll now travel with one another.
It's time for us to be together again, I can feel this flowing between her and me and I know it is time. I don't want to short circuit any good that the rehabilitation is doing but I don't want to short circuit the part of her spirit and the part of mine that depend on one another and keep us firmly dedicated to living separately and together.
We've spent enough nights apart, enough days apart. It's time to focus this rehabilitation on a successful end.
I'll speak to people at the facility tomorrow. Time to assess her progress and direct her back to our home. I don't expect that she'll be released tomorrow or even Friday but I'm hoping soon, early next week, perhaps, although I don't know, maybe the weekend. We'll see what the people at the facility say.
Later.
Her skin needs to heal from the necessities of a facility, which don't allow for daily baths and interim washings, for changes of underwear as often as I see to it that she changes, for slatherings of lotion whenever and where ever she needs it rather than when someone can get around to it.
Her mind needs to be allowed to sit with mine again during the day, in the evening, exchanging thoughts, glancing knowingly at each other when we both notice something, relaxing in the comfort of assured love rather than paid cheerfulness; which is not to say that paid cheerfulness isn't genuine, but, well, it isn't what my mother and I have together.
It's time for us to test our ability to motivate her at home within the well-being of our familiarity with one another; to return, with a slight skew of the eye caused by our separation, to our disagreements, to discover where and how we'll now travel with one another.
It's time for us to be together again, I can feel this flowing between her and me and I know it is time. I don't want to short circuit any good that the rehabilitation is doing but I don't want to short circuit the part of her spirit and the part of mine that depend on one another and keep us firmly dedicated to living separately and together.
We've spent enough nights apart, enough days apart. It's time to focus this rehabilitation on a successful end.
I'll speak to people at the facility tomorrow. Time to assess her progress and direct her back to our home. I don't expect that she'll be released tomorrow or even Friday but I'm hoping soon, early next week, perhaps, although I don't know, maybe the weekend. We'll see what the people at the facility say.
Later.
