Mom sits on the side of her bed, white hair disheveled, blue eyes bright. "Good morning!" she says, before I hear her wheeze.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Good so far, she smiles. And I slept like a baby. Thank God I can sleep," she adds. Her pink face shines, her stick thin black and blue legs poke out from under a short flower-sprinkled nightgown. I leave the room and stride across the hall to the mini fridge that holds her small vial of morphine. As I re-enter the room she chirps,"My appetizer," as she opens her mouth and I use the small dropper to release the drug under her tongue. "I always feel like a baby bird when I do that," she says.
"And I feel like the Mama bird," I say.
"How's your poor eye?" Mom asks. Yesterday, a bug bit me near my right eye and it's been swollen.
"My poor eye?" I laugh. "How's your poor body?" At this she shrugs. After sixteen months in hospice care, my mother would rather focus on any small ailment of mine rather than discuss her own. Afterall, we discuss her worsening health several times a week with nurses, social workers and other hospice caregivers. When she's with me, she gets to do the asking, the cargiving.
"Put some ice on that," she says, "It's red."
"Thanks Mom, I will."
