Three Months

Mom woke up apologetic every morning for being "late." I would remind her she has nothing pressing and if she did, I would wake her up in time. She would come sit at our kitchen island, take the pills I set out for her and wait for coffee and breakfast. While she waited she would look out the window and say,"Not a breath of air out there. It's very different than Indiana. Is Oregon always this beautiful?" I would tease her and say "I sure hope there is a breath of air out there, we are in trouble if there isn't." And she would giggle and say, "You know what I mean." 

Every morning. Mom's dementia meant repetition. Repeated conversations, repeated schedules. Our best conversations were over breakfast. She would ask how old our cat was, how long we had lived in this home, if she had thanked me properly for coffee and breakfast. And then she would stop, look at me and say, "I know what you and Dan are doing for me. I hope you know how grateful I am." 

"I know mom. I hope you know how grateful we are that you are here with us. We love having you here." 

And we did. She would then proceed to ask about our plans for the day and then greet my husband and children as they came down the stairs. "Good morning handsome." "Good morning beautiful." 

Some mornings we would talk about dad, how much we miss him and how happy we are that he is in heaven. Every time we got to the part about dad crossing over from death into life, she would hug herself, rub her arms and say, "I just got goose pimples." 

Three months of daily repetitions. And then on September 19th the repetitions stopped along with her heart. Her heart filled our home for three months, and then it went away. 

I have some new morning repetitions now. Wake up, force my feet to move, go down stairs and make coffee for two, not three. Don't get out pills and supplements - the police officer took those with him after the paramedics left, don't make breakfast-no one is hungry anyways, convince myself that a shower is a better choice than going back to bed, put on her wedding ring and then cry at my reflection in the mirror because I look so much like her. Life was better with her in it. But that isn't our choice. The day will come where I can reflect on mom crossing over from death to life, hug myself and say, "I just got goose pimples." 

 Just not today, and probably not tomorrow.