Saturday, August 13, 2005
"Little by little, light after light..."
...those lines are from one of my favorite James Taylor songs, "Letter in the Mail," about the death of a midwestern town. I couldn't get them out of my head, yesterday.
After we've bathed and partially dressed Mom I leave her in the bathroom to lotion her arms, put on her glasses, watch, her bra and shirt. When she doesn't emerge within a few minutes I check on her. Usually she's lagging because she's having a bowel movement or she's "feeling slow" and daydreaming while she finishes dressing. Yesterday, when I opened the door, she was sitting on the closed toilet dangling her bra in the air by the clasp part and staring at it.
"Does it have a spider on it?" I guessed.
"A spider? Where?"
"No, I mean your bra. Are you waiting for a spider to drop off it before you put it on?"
"Oh, this," she said, giving the bra a shake. "I can't figure out what to do with this."
I was startled but didn't let on. "Well, Mom, it's your bra."
She stared me down. "Well, I know that," she declared, although I wasn't at all sure she did know it. "I just can't figure out what to do with it."
I reached for the bra to examine it, thinking, maybe there's a hole in it or the hook is missing. "Well, it's looks fine to me. What are you referring to?"
"Am I supposed to wear this?"
Whoa. It's not uncommon for her to have mechanical problems putting on a bra but this was not a mechanical problem. "Here, I'll help you. It's a 'thing holder'," I joked, a phrase we use for bras that delights Mom, "remember? It's for holding these things," I pointed to her breasts, "so you don't attract too much paying attention around here. We just don't have enough change to handle the business, you know." I displayed it in front of her. "Put your arms through here. I'll latch it in the back."
She laughed and, suddenly, a glimmer of sense lit her eyes. The identification and purpose of the garment were coming back to her. She slipped her arms through the straps as she has every day for decades, fitted the front to her "things" and I latched the back.
"There. Do you need help with your shirt?"
Once again, that look that told me I was overstepping my concern. "Why would I need help with that?!?"
"Well, I don't know. You seem a little slow, this morning, awfully tired."
She shook her head. "I am. I don't know why. I may not be up very long, today."
I could feel tears welling in my eyes. I forced them back. "Well, it's been raining since I got up. It looks like it's settling in for the day. I don't blame you. I'll turn the heater on in your room. Seems like a good day to sleep, if you ask me."
"Oh ho! I see you have plans!"
"Well, not for sleeping. You know I love this weather."
She shook her head. "I don't know where you get that. Must be your father."
I leered. "I'm the Devil's spawn, Mom."
"I don't think even the Devil likes rain as much as you do."
We both laughed.
Sure enough, after a late rising, she was back in bed by 1400 and slept until I forced her awake at 1700. By that time, although foggy and obviously in for a slow evening, she seemed fine. I couldn't resist, though. "Mom," I said, "you know what a bra is don't you?"
Again. That look. "Why? Don't you?"
"Yeah, but this morning you weren't sure what your bra was and couldn't figure out what to do with it."
"Really." She seemed only mildly concerned. "Did you remind me?"
"Yeah."
"Well, good. I'm glad you're around."
"Yeah, so am I. Otherwise, you might be wearing your bra around your head."
"Or not wearing one at all."
"That might be an enterprising move."
We both laughed.
The line that follows the two lines quoted in the title, above, is, "...that's how it dies."
After we've bathed and partially dressed Mom I leave her in the bathroom to lotion her arms, put on her glasses, watch, her bra and shirt. When she doesn't emerge within a few minutes I check on her. Usually she's lagging because she's having a bowel movement or she's "feeling slow" and daydreaming while she finishes dressing. Yesterday, when I opened the door, she was sitting on the closed toilet dangling her bra in the air by the clasp part and staring at it.
"Does it have a spider on it?" I guessed.
"A spider? Where?"
"No, I mean your bra. Are you waiting for a spider to drop off it before you put it on?"
"Oh, this," she said, giving the bra a shake. "I can't figure out what to do with this."
I was startled but didn't let on. "Well, Mom, it's your bra."
She stared me down. "Well, I know that," she declared, although I wasn't at all sure she did know it. "I just can't figure out what to do with it."
I reached for the bra to examine it, thinking, maybe there's a hole in it or the hook is missing. "Well, it's looks fine to me. What are you referring to?"
"Am I supposed to wear this?"
Whoa. It's not uncommon for her to have mechanical problems putting on a bra but this was not a mechanical problem. "Here, I'll help you. It's a 'thing holder'," I joked, a phrase we use for bras that delights Mom, "remember? It's for holding these things," I pointed to her breasts, "so you don't attract too much paying attention around here. We just don't have enough change to handle the business, you know." I displayed it in front of her. "Put your arms through here. I'll latch it in the back."
She laughed and, suddenly, a glimmer of sense lit her eyes. The identification and purpose of the garment were coming back to her. She slipped her arms through the straps as she has every day for decades, fitted the front to her "things" and I latched the back.
"There. Do you need help with your shirt?"
Once again, that look that told me I was overstepping my concern. "Why would I need help with that?!?"
"Well, I don't know. You seem a little slow, this morning, awfully tired."
She shook her head. "I am. I don't know why. I may not be up very long, today."
I could feel tears welling in my eyes. I forced them back. "Well, it's been raining since I got up. It looks like it's settling in for the day. I don't blame you. I'll turn the heater on in your room. Seems like a good day to sleep, if you ask me."
"Oh ho! I see you have plans!"
"Well, not for sleeping. You know I love this weather."
She shook her head. "I don't know where you get that. Must be your father."
I leered. "I'm the Devil's spawn, Mom."
"I don't think even the Devil likes rain as much as you do."
We both laughed.
Sure enough, after a late rising, she was back in bed by 1400 and slept until I forced her awake at 1700. By that time, although foggy and obviously in for a slow evening, she seemed fine. I couldn't resist, though. "Mom," I said, "you know what a bra is don't you?"
Again. That look. "Why? Don't you?"
"Yeah, but this morning you weren't sure what your bra was and couldn't figure out what to do with it."
"Really." She seemed only mildly concerned. "Did you remind me?"
"Yeah."
"Well, good. I'm glad you're around."
"Yeah, so am I. Otherwise, you might be wearing your bra around your head."
"Or not wearing one at all."
"That might be an enterprising move."
We both laughed.
The line that follows the two lines quoted in the title, above, is, "...that's how it dies."
