Ardis the hospice day nurse sits at the dining room table, Buddha-like, where he can keep an eye on Mom. Mary is working on her latop. Ever the journalist, I think she's drafting an obituary. Adrian is sitting in Mom's spot on the sofa, in the captain's chair, working on his laptop. I am without laptop, so I'm using Dad's PC, just back from the computer emergency room with a new motherboard.
Dad just walked down to the apartment office and walked in with a beautiful bouquet of flowers from June Bishop, an old friend (going back to grade school) of Mom and Dad's sister Marybelle. Helen and Will walked in at the same time as Dad. Susan just called, she's out of school for the day and so she's headed over. Travis called before that and he's going to be on the road up from San Antonio either late tonight or first thing in the morning.
It's quiet now, but it's going to get noisier.
I doubt it will get as noisy as it did last weekeend when EVERYBODY was here, laughing, telling stories and drinking champagne. It put a smile on Mom's face to hear the music of her family. Her grandchildren were thrilled to see one another and their energy was contagious and continuous.
Her response has lessened during the week. She did not turn her head to me when I visited on Tuesday. Today is the first day Ardis has officially confirmed that she is non-responsive. But her heart keeps beating. She continues to breathe.
It's hard to imagine that her body can continue, that she can get any weaker, but she does. Living proof of Zeno's paradox of Achilles and the tortoise.
But ultimately the paradox will be proved wrong.
It's just a small matter of time.
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