All houses make sounds. To those who live there, the sounds become rhythmic and soothing. A small change, and the balance is disturbed.
There’s a new sound in my house. It is mechanical but subtle. I’m getting used to it. I can hear it and it changes from room to room.
It’s oxygen for Grace cleverly stuffed into the bathroom with the tube winding around to her nose. It’s interesting that she doesn’t swipe at it. Months ago, I guarantee that would have been yanked out.
She is so passive and peaceful slipping from wake to sleep with ease. When awake, she is sweet and loving. Give her a kiss on the forehead and she smiles. Show her the sign for “I love you” and her hands start to sign back.
I thought I was all cried out. She has been leaving me a little bit at a time. I thought that would make me adjust. I am learning that I compensated for the little slides. I didn’t adjust. It didn’t soften the blow. My mother is in there trying to get out.
I always wondered which would take her. Would it be the Alzheimer’s or her body? She is in there. She still loves. She still is comforted by a touch. She still loves to hear that she is loved. She still tells me that I am loved.