Approximation of a Conversation

            With a worried look, Mom asks, “Do I go over to John’s in the evening?”

            “You used to,” I say, eyes never leaving my book.

            “When did I stop doing that?”

            “In December.”

            “Why?”

            “First, he was really sick for a few weeks; then, there was the snowstorm; and now you haven’t been feeling well.”

            “You’ll have to keep track of that for me.  I should start going over there again.”

            That approximation of a conversation starts at 7:15—I abandon my book at 7:30--and continues until 9:00.   Sitting in the living room with Mom, I browse through the latest Smithsonian and fiddle around on the Internet (favorite current subject:  living room furniture) while the sequence repeats itself every couple minutes. 

            At 9:20, Mom takes herself off to bed, but I know better than to pick up my book yet.  It is now 9:36 p.m.  She has come back out to the living room twice.  Her questions precede her:  “I want something to suck on.  What do I usually bring to bed?”

“A square of chocolate.”  (Really, it’s true, a habit she established long before I arrived on the scene three and a half years ago.)

“Where is it?”

“On the top shelf there next to the pantry.” 

She fumbles around, groping in the cupboard, and asks, “Is it round?”

“Here, let me help you find it,” I say, getting up.  I hand her a milk chocolate

square broken off the big bar, and she plods back toward her bedroom to finish changing into her pajamas.

            A few minutes later, I hear her voice down the hallway.  “I need a Kleenex.  Where do I have a Kleenex?”

            Oops.  I need to put a new box of tissues in her room.  “Out here next to your chair,” I say.  I direct her to the Kleenex box, and she takes one, saying, “I don’t know why I need this.”

            She heads back to bed.

            It is now 9:50 p.m.  I hear her cough.  I’m pretty sure the next foray down the hall will be in search for her favorite cold beverage:  tonic water.

            Mom’s repeated trips down the hallway are, actually, a good sign:  this is the most and best I’ve seen her walk in days.  It’s probably because she ate some supper:  a tablespoon of yogurt with fresh pear, a couple small bites of salad, a few noodles, and half a meatball.  And I gave her an ice cream bar sometime between 7:30 and 9 p.m.

            But I think I will deliver the tonic water to her bedside before I turn in.  It is 10:06, and I am getting sleepy.  My book will have to wait.