We began reading Leif Enger's Peace Like A River a couple weeks ago. We're currently on chapter four. The nine-year-old girl in the story is a fan of westerns who writes a poem about a showdown between Sundown and Valdez. Mom likes the poems. We're also reading a collection of love poems I had on my shelf. So far, her favorite is So Well I Love Thee by Michael Drayton. When I read it to her for the first time a couple weeks ago, we pause at the end of this stanza:
The corn, that in the ground is sown, first dies,
And of one seed do many ears arise;
Love, this world's corn, by dying multiplies.
Mom pointed and said to me, "That is so scriptural."
The number of profound and lucid moments are declining. Mom's personality is still all there, but her grip on reality is slowly slipping. The constant is her love for us and ours for her.
Mom has allowed the little ones to help care for her. For a long time she was resistant and would scold Olivia and Cameron for offering to help her with eating or holding one of her stuffed animals. But she is more comfortable with it now, and the kids can now forge their own special place in Grandma's life. Olivia lays her head on Grandma's chest every night before bedtime and Grandma kisses her head.
A few days ago Mom was eating ravioli for lunch and thought she saw people outside the door. I told her there was no one really there. Evan asked her if she wanted more ravioli. Mom replied, "No, it makes me see things."
More Rosisms over the last couple of weeks:
(Placed Olivia's lime green stuffed poodle on Mom's lap)
Mom: Oh. I forgot to name it.
Pat: What do you think would be a good name?
Mom (after long pause): Jewel...
Pat: Jewel?
Mom: Why, I was just thinking that!
Pat: Yes, you just said it out loud, and I repeated it.
Mom: You're a genious!
Mom: I have an idea...sweet pickles!
Pat: Sweet pickles for everyone!
Mom: For everyone...on me!
(During bath)
Pat: Does that feel better?
Mom: Yes, except for that man on the wall over there.
Pat: Oh, there's not really a man over there. The morphine is playing tricks with your eyes. It's just you and me.
Mom: And Satan.
I made potato soup for the family on Saturday, and Mom was so excited about it that she sang.
"Oooh, oooh, aay....
Oh...my...soup!"
I told Mom no one had ever sung for my soup before.
Last weekend I brought Mom one of those videos of a fire place so she could have something warm and soothing to watch as an alternative to the game show network and Animal Planet. She loved it. A couple times she was confused by it, but never scared.
(Calmly) "The neighbor's house is on fire."
"Don't fall in the fire. I'll have to do a mullikabump."
Mullikabump is one of several new words Mom has fashioned lately. Among the others:
Covortz
Retro-Rinse (Evan's definition: where the spin cycle of yesterday meets the technology of today)
Tom box
Davenportase
Mom brings a lot of joy to the Wise's house. Paul was in the hospital for four days last week, and Mom was so happy to see him come home. Most visits to Mom's room result in a resounding welcome and bright smile. I've never felt so welcome anywhere as I do when I walk in her door on Thursday nights. Sometimes she forgets I'm Patty, but she never forgets she loves me. That's everything.
