Eight to Eight

In bed at eight, up at eight, and probably little sleeping in between:  Mom wakes up this morning not feeling well, wondering why, and asking what she has been doing of late.  It’s a familiar refrain now:  “What am I supposed to do?”

“You were going to go sit in the living room and drink your coffee.  But first let’s get your robe on so you are warm enough.”

She inches her way to her recliner as I heat her high-calorie coffee drink in the microwave.  I bring it to her along with her former favorite breakfast treat:  a mini cinnamon roll.  She does not want the roll.

Three hours later, she goes back to her room to get dressed.  I hear her singing an old song that she and her college friends made up as a parody to the sentimental and hugely popular tune of the late 1940s, “White Wings.”   (“White wings, they never grow weary. / They carry me cheerily over the sea; / Night comes, I long for my dearie, / I’ll spread out my White Wings, and sail home to thee.”)  I rather enjoy Mom’s parody better:  “Black socks, they never grow dirty. / The longer you wear them, the stronger they get; / Sometimes I dream of the laundry, / But something inside me says, ‘Don’t do them yet.’”

And now I will fix lunch.  Maybe Mom will eat a bite or two of yogurt with fresh fruit.  Then she will retreat to her recliner to nap and listen to classical music.  Later this afternoon I will take her for a ride in the car, her favorite entertainment.  This evening I will make another meal that she will not eat.

That is the sum of her eight to eight day.  I’m glad she can still sing about her black socks.