Sitting in the Sun

Mom took a few of her pills this morning. As she cups several in her hand, she lifts her hand to her mouth, but falls short, and as she tilts her hand, the pills tumble.

I pick them up to try again. I put them in her hand, but she looks at her hand, unsure of what she is supposed to do.

"That's OK," I tell her. "Let's just skip the hand. I'll put them in your mouth for you."

She has trouble swallowing them now; it's hard for her to suck water from the straw, like she forgets how straws work.

She remembers for a moment and takes a long draw, then breathes out into the straw, and tiny particles of the pills that had been disintegrating in her mouth cloud the clear water in the glass. 20 minutes and a spilled glass of water later, she took fewer than half of her morning pills and was ready for a break.

I said, "That's fine, mom, but it's going to cost you a hug."

She smiled, and slowly wrapped one arm around my shoulder, then the other, giving me a strong squeeze.

"I can always do that," she said. 

She walked to the chair, a bright, warm spot next to the windows. Owen came in and sat with me on the ottoman next to mom. He watched her quietly for a moment, them climbed over me and hid behind the chair, one eye peeking out.

He's not bothered to be near her, but is hesitant to touch the splotched, sagging skin on her forearm. He climbs around and moves to the other side of mom's chair. She opens her eyes to watch him for a moment. She smiles and closes her eyes again, saying something about his energy.

Owen left with dad to run some errands, and while they were gone, Lori, the Hospice nurse arrives. Mom hasn't met her yet, so I take her in and introduce her and leave them to talk for a few minutes. Dad and Owen return, and dad goes in to talk mom and the nurse.

Owen's curious and wants to meet the nurse, so we go and sit on the far side of the bed for a moment, then he's back to playing Legos with his brother.