He made a digital slide show for her of the people who have fed into her life — from her grandparents riding in a haywagon in Poland to her great grandson toddling in Massachusetts. He thought it might help to ground her after several days of episodes that seem awfully like mini-strokes. She has been adamant about not going to the hospital — no tests, no prodding, no surgeries. Whatever will happen will happen.
So, we take turns staying with her as she goes through bouts of crying and panting and starting mumbled sentences that she never finishes. Sometimes she seems to rally, tells us she loves us, repeats “I’ve been a good mother, haven’t I?”
We tell her yes, she has, and we love her too.
“Where are you going?” she asks, afraid she will be abandoned. We’re not going anywhere, we say. We’re staying here with you.
Here I am, ensconed on a pull-out bed in the next room so that I can hear her if she wakes up and needs help. I balance my laptop on my lap while my cat warms my feet.
This will be my holiday — lying with my laptop and my cat, listening for noises from the next room.
It’s a little too much deja vu for us. Our Dad died on the day after Christmas 25 years ago.