Mom's still fairly alert today, and still conversing pretty well. At first her speech was more garbled, but it improved as the time went by. The most frustrating thing, I think for her as well as us, is that when her speech is most garbled, the "filler words" come out most clear. So very often, she'll ask "Did you know that [unintelligible]," or "I feel that [unintelligible.]" The most garbled words tend to be the ones on which the meaning of the sentence turn. So at first today I did quite a bit of guessing. But as the visit progressed, the big-ticket words -- the ones carrying the meaning of the sentence -- started being clearer. I do not know whether to ascribe this to my re-acclimation to her or vice versa.
She asked how everybody is, and how I am, and of course, I told her we're fine. She does not seem to think that any of us has met with an unfortunate accident anymore, so I think the UTI-inspired confusion's abated some, though she may still be a bit on the fuzzy side. We made some calls while I was there, one to Mark and one to Marlene (her sister in England,) so Mom got the update on her siblings. A bit more of the old Estelle shone through as she was talking to Mark, as she started asking when he'd be in to visit. As poor Mark tried to explain that it's a plane trip, and he had to plan it out, she shifted her tack to ask him to tell her "approximately." Her will is still there, that's for sure, but I think at today's level of understanding, Mom could not process the difference between a visit that's some time off, and a "what time will you be here" visit, as if it will be tomorrow.
I worked with her a little trying to acquaint her with the nurse-call button. If you haven't seen them, or if there are different kinds, the kind she has is as follows: There's a long cord, ending in an assembly about the size of a small hand-held microphone. On the end of it is a nice big red button.
Mom's fingers and thumb were around a foam rubber thingie they use to combat contractions, so I did not want to replace them with the call button just then. But I asked if she knew what it is. She said "let me see it," so I held it up closer to her. She said "it's a cord." I explained what it is, and what it is for - then I put my finger by her thumb, and asked if she could press against my finger. She couldn't - she might have exerted the slightest bit of pressure using her thumb, and none when I put my finger by her index finger. But interestingly, she moved her arm and hand to exert the pressure.
So while it would be best if she gets control of the digits on her hand -- which may have been impeded today by the foam rubber thingie, after all -- it would still be possible if she grasps the idea of the call button, for her to be able to press it herself by moving it against something stationary. I think that knowing how much care she requires, her aides and nurses pay a lot of attention to her. But being able to use the button, to my way of thinking, would give her a baby step toward a bit more autonomy. And as I say, this was all very spur-of-the-moment; I am not sure of uncurling her hand and curling it around another object is a painful thing to her, so I'll ask the nurse about that one. She seemed to be pretty comfortable, and I didn't want to cause her any pain with my amateur therapy session.
A little after noon today, an aide came in with a breathing treatment mask, which they give to anyone on oxygen, and with some medication. When I returned we chit-chatted a little more, but with the mask on, understanding was more difficult again. But she said the most important words the most clearly, when I left -- perhaps they were easy to say clearly because we say them to those near to us so often, like the "set up" words that don't carry meaning in a sentence. Perhaps we learn to say them purely syntactically, eventually, without semantic meaning. But at the risk of mawkishness, I'll just opt to believe -- as all of us have to, after all, some time or another -- that their semantic content is as clear in the heart as in the voice that speaks them.
They were, of course, "I love you."
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