I try to get her to mix with the others. Sometimes she does, then a blank look appears on her face.
Who are all the lovely people sitting at her table? Why is that one woman telling us we got her table? Does she know them?
Then, once again, it’s off to a world most of us cannot comprehend
Just as quickly, sometimes in the evening, clarity and maturity return in a sentence.
My mom’s not really controversial. She’s not high maintenance, nor difficult for nurses. She’s always been the giver, the one who sacrifices for others; a bright woman, a sociable woman, one who loves to throw parties with punch and cookies in her home.
She’s a durable, gentle, woman. Probably a lot like yours.
She’s different now, too.
My sister, mom’s almost exclusive caretaker, died out of turn. It’s the second time that’s happened to our family. My own daughter died at age 31 in 1996 of a brain aneurysm.
Nothing gets people more upset at God than having a loved one die out of turn. In time, if she doesn’t wear herself out, Mom will, I hope, realize — as I did — that God doesn’t kill people.
He didn’t kill her daughter any more than he killed my daughter back in ’96.
People kill people, mostly through fear and ignorance, prejudice and demagoguery, man’s unwillingness to push the boundaries of science for the cures that are presently ripping loved ones from our grasp.
Before Leta made the decision to leave her job with an Austin insurance company and become the caretaker of not only my mom, but mom’s second husband, she seemed content to enjoy the city life and visit her mom on weekends.
Just before the painful years, Mom was driving to The Community Church, exercising with other women her age at 6 a.m., the only light in the room being the exit sign.