Distractions

I go with apprehension and hope. The drive up the beautiful hill distracts me from the duty of the drive itself. The smell, when I come through the door, is always the first thing on my internal list. Is it OK? Is it bad? What does it mean if it's bad? How can I distract her to remedy the bad? Today she said, "I don't want to live like this. But, I know I don't have any choice." Such heavy words for a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Distraction is called for again, "Let's call Mark," I suggest. "OK" forces its way out of her sad, little, old mouth. I repeat the now-weekly ritual of dialing his cell and he answers with great gusto, "Hello! Hi Mom, How are you?" He and I talk about what's new, what we've done, what we plan, the wildlife we've seen, etc. I prompt her participation with a question, "Do you want to tell Mark how many deer you saw today?" "Three" The part of conversation that I've deemed the most valuable comes at the end. "I love you, Mom." "I love you, too, Mark." My husband and I finish our self-ordered tasks of watering plants and I basically beg her for some dirty laundry to do. I haven't washed anything for two weeks which means her clothing must be pretty toasty. This time she concedes that her pants could use some washing. By the time she's done a few more things have been removed from the closet. "Rod will bring these back to you in the morning on their hangers." "Great service," she offers. I kiss the top of her shrinking head and tell her we love her. The soiled clothes are piled in the portable hamper. She holds my hand, "Don't forget me." "We never forget you," I say. And with this I'm out the door back into the hallway with other smells. As we make the reverse drive down the beautiful hill my apprehension turns to sadness and my hope plummets into guilt and uncertainty. I know she's better off here than in Montana. I know these things in my mind. My heart is broken, though, every time I see her because I know where we're headed.