Here

My mom is markedly more frail than when I was here in January. Her confusion has deepened, so that sometimes now she wants to get dressed and do things, like make sure the ads get into the newspaper, or take the child (which child?) to the beach. Her hands, her arms, also tremble almost continuously, and her fingers, though still beautifully manicured, have become more twisted with arthritis, the knuckles swollen, the joints stiff. She is happy I am here, she says it is a joy to have me "right there," and as a mother myself, I can imagine what that feels like. I am gratified to be here with her, though it is so hard to see how difficult her life is now. But my brother and his wife are taking very good care of her; the three women who rotate her care are all patient and kind, and they know how to distract her when her brain gets stuck in a thought loop, which is probably just a more extreme version of the way my own brain works, not a comforting thought at all. The day has felt long because all I've done is stay in the room with my mom most of the time, while my brother and my sister-in-law, both doctors, do their rounds and attend to their other commitments. Their 13-year-old is out with her friends, and their 10-year-old, aka MisterFifaBoss, plays Fifa soccer on his X-box live. None of us can fail to notice my mom's recent decline, but she is still here with us, her sense of humor intact, as seen in her rueful laugh when she comes back to herself and says, "Never mind, I'm talking rubbish again." This afternoon, while she napped in her chair, I did go for a walk and take pictures. I am, as always, an Instagram slut. This is even more true when I have time on my hands. If you follow me on Instagram, please forgive my clogging up your feed.