PUTTING MY MOTHER TO BED

I've just put my mother to bed. We stayed up late, me wrapping a few packages, her going through cards that she couldn't see. We talked a lot, both of us repeating ourselves, she can't hear and neither can I. Laughing at ourselves is our way of coping. She worries about the gifts she is giving her friends, I took her shopping, I assure her everything she has will be fine. She has chosen things that she thinks they will like, no just throwing things in a bag. I mailed two packages for her yesterday, she was grateful they were on their way. It stresses her that I do so many things for her, tells me I am killing myself, that I shouldn't have to spend my time doing for her. I tell her it is fine, there is nothing I can't do. It is the truth. Well, on the other hand, there are those teeth.

I was ready for bed before her, usually she goes first, she has been feeling bad and has been going to bed by 8 or so. I told her I thought it was time we called it a night. I helped her get her things in the baskets by her chair, her emery boards, tweezers, cough drops, glasses, kleenex, her pen, cards, her bag of snacks from Jane, her hat. She thinks she should go to the bathroom. She has trouble getting out of the chair, telling me not to pull on her, that I will hurt my back. She is so very feeble, I tell her to stand up a bit straighter and get closer to the walker, we head across the floor. I help her along, steering her clear of obstacles and we get to the bathroom. She catches the leg of the walker on the door facing but we get turned and head for the toilet. She always gets ready before I get ready, wants to sit too soon, as she does in her chair or the car, but I get her settled. The feel of her skin and the smell of her shock me, as they always do. Dry, thin skin, so easily bruised, ginger lotion I keep on her elbows and arms. I have her change her clothes, she tells me she is fine, but I change her anyway. I can't stand the thought of her being uncomfortable.

We go to the bedroom which is really the book room. She can barely make it, she can't see where she is going, I get in front of her and pull her along. It takes a few tries to get settled in the bed but she gets herself fixed and I straighten her covers. She wants her water, trash can, and kleenex. Ready for sleep now. I don't put her rails up anymore, I know she can't get out of bed by herself.

I sleep in the room with her, we are surrounded by books. Stanley and Livingstone are within reach, I can go to the source of the Nile, read about tents, long for Jerusalem, dream of going to Petra, fight the Civil War, walk side by side with Vine. Books are my comfort, my Hindman family linger on the shelves, finally I can rest.

But just as I turn off the light, after reading, I hear her. She is fitful, talking in her sleep, although I can't catch what she is saying. She coughs, groans, sounds congested, I worry I will go to sleep and not hear her if she calls me, although I always hear her.

Now I am wide awake, it's after 1 am, December 19. How have I come to this point in my life. What do I do now.