Thursday, December 11, 2008

Two Thousand and One

Last night I heard Mom muttering, "Two thousand and one. Two thousand and one."

"What about two thousand and one, Mom?" I asked.

"That's how old I will be in April, " she replied.

"Independent" and feisty one day, lost in a fog the next.

Last weekend the Grand Dame of Independent Living was back in residence. She informed Phil that it was past time to feed Ramsey and Violet, because "those dogs are starving." She instructed me to wash her favorite slacks in cold water. I was to stop "babying" her because she has always "done for herself." This she said while shakily pouring boiling water into a cup for instant coffee. Finally, I was to take "that thing (walker) out of here." She did not need it. How many other 99-year-old women did I know who could get around as well as she? About that fall a week ago when she banged her head on a protruding corner and made half her face black-and-blue? It was nothing. I should stop making a mountain out of a, out of a . . .

1 comment:

Ruth Hull Chatlien said...

Oh, it's so sad when they get like this.