2004-06-30 - 4:43 p.m.
There, But Not There
The woman in my mother’s bed is no longer my mother. We can see traces of my mother in the woman’s bony face. Her eyes are hollow, yellowed from jaundice, and not very full of life. Her spindly arms and skinny fingers can still hold a cup up to the dry mouth from which her teeth jut. Today, like yesterday, she is incoherent. When she recovered a bit last time, she said it was the creepiest feeling. She knew what she wanted to say, but the words came out wrong. She said it felt hazy.
Her speech has gone from soft to slow and is now barely audible and stammered. I had to put my ear to her mouth to hear what she had to say, and, even then, sometimes I couldn’t understand. I’d just shake my head “yes” or “no” or give an uneasy laugh in case she’d made a joke.
She’d been in bed so long that she developed a bed sore. She was in a wheelchair to break the monotony of being in that bed. Now, from what my father said, she is in and out of consciousness again.
A month ago she was walking around by herself. And now, she can’t even leave her bed.
