Thursday, August 25, 2005
She still isn't moving much, but we're both very relaxed.
That's what counts. Although the weather channel predicts that today is supposed to be "sunny and warm" I can feel the humidity in the air and the sun is blocked by grey clouds so, who knows. If it dries I'll consider having her do some exercises or, we've got to go to the grocery, not Costco (although we'll probably do that this weekend), maybe she'll be interested in tripping out with me.
I let her sleep her fill yesterday. I awakened her at 1030 and she asked me to "leave" her "alone". I did. Still, she awoke at 1230, which isn't out of her schedule. She went to bed very late, almost at 0100 this morning. When she settled into her blue sun/moon printed sheets, the sheets MPS and her daughter picked out "special" for her because they are perfect for both day (sun) and night (moon) sleep, she asked, again, that I let her sleep "as long as I want" this morning. I agreed.
We had a very interesting evening, though. I don't know why I've never done this before but, last night, at the end of yet another day long web page rampage (this time I redesigned and redirected the 2000 Histories), it occurred to me that she might want to see our site on the computer. I placed the iBook on her table and began navigating through the sites, stopping here and there to explain what she was seeing. The print was too small for her to read so she insisted I read her selections that had interesting titles:
"Well, I'm amazed," she said. "So this is what you're doing when you're on that computer. I had no idea."
"Yep," I replied, "lately, that's about all I do on the computer."
She sat for a minute. "You know," she continued, "what you're doing, this is terrific. It's very important."
"I'm glad you think that," I said. "I think it's important, too, even if it's not being read much."
"It will be," she assured me.
"You know, Mom, it's not just me who's 'doing it'. I couldn't do this without you. You are who makes these journals important. They revolve around our life together. Do you mind that I'm so detailed and upfront?"
She fixed me with a serious stare. "Not at all. I doubt that anyone else is doing it to this extent. I feel good that you're doing this. Someone need to be doing it and I'm pleased that I'm a part of it."
Although I've talked about the journals before, teased her when we have a strange or bad patch that it'll end up on the web for millions of people to access, I guess she never understood the extent to which I meant it. When I showed her the journals last night I didn't expect her to be upset by them but I also didn't expect that she'd be as pleased as she is about what I'm doing with our life, nor did it occur to me that she would take pride in her part in this and consider the effort "important".
You just never know, do you?
I let her sleep her fill yesterday. I awakened her at 1030 and she asked me to "leave" her "alone". I did. Still, she awoke at 1230, which isn't out of her schedule. She went to bed very late, almost at 0100 this morning. When she settled into her blue sun/moon printed sheets, the sheets MPS and her daughter picked out "special" for her because they are perfect for both day (sun) and night (moon) sleep, she asked, again, that I let her sleep "as long as I want" this morning. I agreed.
We had a very interesting evening, though. I don't know why I've never done this before but, last night, at the end of yet another day long web page rampage (this time I redesigned and redirected the 2000 Histories), it occurred to me that she might want to see our site on the computer. I placed the iBook on her table and began navigating through the sites, stopping here and there to explain what she was seeing. The print was too small for her to read so she insisted I read her selections that had interesting titles:
- I read her the first journal entry I published which was about her confusion regarding our geographical status in relation to Mechanicsville, Iowa.
- I read her the most recent post containing the conversation we had about selling the house and moving to New Zealand.
She was amazed. "You really put everything in there, don't you?" - I often kid her, when I'm expecting her to have a bowel movement and asking her every time she goes to the bathroom if she thinks she might have one, that "the world awaits notification of your next bowel movement." I showed her the Mom's Daily Tests and Meds journal and, sure enough, she saw the BM notations in the daily titles and had me read a few of those reports.
She laughed. "Goodness," she said. "I wonder how many people read those?!?"
"Not many," I told her, "maybe 10 people a week, but they're available to about a billion people who are online throughout the world."
"Well, goodness, I wonder if anyone finds them helpful."
"I do," I replied.
She laughed. "Yes, I know you do!" - Although I usually read her each essay I post at the time of posting (I've been reading her most of my writing since I was a kid), she's never connected them with the web site so I showed her that journal. She noticed that the one "up" was the companion I wrote previous to the letter to SND that I published on the web after sending it to him (and reading it to her prior to sending it). She asked me to read the prologue essay to her and nodded vigorously throughout.
- "Read me some more," she said.
I scanned all the journals for notable posts and read them. I prefaced this by reminding her that, "I report everything, Mom, the stuff we say and the stuff I think or I think you might be thinking, so don't be surprised at some of the comments."
"Child," she said, "you never fail to surprise me!"
I couldn't help it. I grinned. - I clicked into the Mother Poems site and refreshed her memory regarding the poem I'd written years ago for her, then read her a few of the others, not missing the "8 x 8 - 5 (33)" poem I'd written involving my impression of her during her sister's funeral rites.
"That's exactly how I felt," she said.
"Well, I'm amazed," she said. "So this is what you're doing when you're on that computer. I had no idea."
"Yep," I replied, "lately, that's about all I do on the computer."
She sat for a minute. "You know," she continued, "what you're doing, this is terrific. It's very important."
"I'm glad you think that," I said. "I think it's important, too, even if it's not being read much."
"It will be," she assured me.
"You know, Mom, it's not just me who's 'doing it'. I couldn't do this without you. You are who makes these journals important. They revolve around our life together. Do you mind that I'm so detailed and upfront?"
She fixed me with a serious stare. "Not at all. I doubt that anyone else is doing it to this extent. I feel good that you're doing this. Someone need to be doing it and I'm pleased that I'm a part of it."
Although I've talked about the journals before, teased her when we have a strange or bad patch that it'll end up on the web for millions of people to access, I guess she never understood the extent to which I meant it. When I showed her the journals last night I didn't expect her to be upset by them but I also didn't expect that she'd be as pleased as she is about what I'm doing with our life, nor did it occur to me that she would take pride in her part in this and consider the effort "important".
You just never know, do you?
