Don't tell me I've nothing to do

Left brain, balance, strength, conversation, speech, comprehension. Motor, sensory, connectivity. Important part of her brain. The stroke was large. The bright spot on the film is in the worst spot for her brain. Narrowing arteries, nothing we can do. But we suggest you try this. Therapy might work. Twice a week for speech. Three times a week for physical.

These are the words of the day.

I stand beside her, over her. I have no other purpose but to protect her, love her, understand her. I stand above her, and listen. She needs help, and I think I need help. But who am I to think so? I want the doctor to speak in words more gentle. Less clinical, somehow. This is my mother, after all. But the language is for me.

I am guardian, protector. I am daughter. I wheel her out of the building. Away from the words and into hope.

She gives me her confused, angry eyes, wonders why she is here. She wants to be treated, not assessed. In fact, she's angry that the doctor speaks to me, not her. She manages to tell me her disappointment in me on the way home.

Her disappointment in me.

I suffer the accusation. It's what you do. Slip of the tongue... It's what I do.

The nurse is home when we arrive. Mom pushes against her.

Together, we change her mind from anger to her hunger. We give her dinner; she demands a Scotch.

We wheel her to her room, undress and dress her. She falls into bed. I tremble but watch her drift to sleep. Exhausted. I watch her chest rise and fall, slowly. It's hard to tell she is alive. I put my ear on her breast to be sure. She breathes. I kiss her cheek.

She mumbles what I think is "Good night." Gggnaaabbb.

I turn out the light, stop halfway up the stairs, look out over the rooms of my mother's house.

Am I losing her? Or is she fading?

And isn't that one in the same?