As I look at my mother, feeble and weak, I do not see the person she was, the person she would want to be remembered as, or the memory she would want to represent her, in her last days. I see a kind, gentle, elderly person with infant like qualities. She is mesmerised by the TV, has the reflexes one is born with, and looks at everything presented to her, with the fascination that a child has when seeing something for the first time. She does not realize that she is married to the man who sits at her side everyday for hours. She does not know that the others that frequent her bedside are her children. She does not distinguish between family, and nurses or doctors. She has no recollection that she was once an avid reader, a swimmer, a daily church goer, or a loved grandmother. Unable to move her own tiny body to sit up, she relies on a Hoyer lift to move her from the bed to a chair. Her accomplishments now, are comprised of, sitting in a chair for a few hours a day, opening her eyes to look at visitors for a few briefs moments, moving her right arm an eighth of an inch, and raising her left arm to feel the concavity that exists where her skull once was. She will never again, walk, talk, comprehend, or understand communication as we know it. While we talk about all the fantastic foods she used to prepare, she has no interest, and quite possibly, no understanding of a solid substance. She has not been able to eat or drink anything, whatsoever, for seven weeks, not even a sip of water, and yet she appears to still know what it is like, to experience thirst. She no longer has the ability to swallow, yet she can still smell what we are unable to give her. She can no longer eat. All she knows in her new state, is the feeding tube that pumps liquid sustenance into her body. Her hard working hands will never again make the wonderful foods, she was so well known for. She will never again, play the piano, take a walk, talk on the phone, stand up, hold a conversation or say the rosary. She does not even know how many children she has. She has no idea that she was a class valedictorian when she graduated from high school. She is now diminished to a small remnant of the magnanimous person she was. She does not remember her life...she has no recollection of all that she has done, what is important to her, or what she believes in. She is no longer the person she was, but she is alive. She can open her eyes and smile with parts of her mouth. She can laugh, she does know what is comfortable and what is painful. She does not have the moisture in her body to produce tears, yet she feels the impulses that draw tears. She feels frustration and anger toward her predicament, yet can not find or form the words to tell us what she wants. She is the equivalent of a comma in a sentence. At times she makes sense, but stand alone, without structure, and she is just a symbol that exists. A small mark that signifies a break in thought...and that is what her existence is comprised of, broken thoughts.
