Sunday 22 May 2005
11:27 pm

What I foolishly did not foresee when I arranged these vocal workshops for the ugly sisters is that now that we know some of the same songs, we have no excuse not to sing together when we are asked. And who would ask us? Our mother, of course, so we cannot say no.

A week ago she was here with Joan’s mother-in-law and Aunt Reta, and requested we sing.

“Oop, I’ll be going then!” Dad said, jumping up and heading for the kitchen door. We wondered why some of our menfolk want to run away when we commence singing. Is it that terrible to listen to? But Mom didn’t puzzle over it for more than a few moments.

“They must feel inferior,” she pronounced, perfectly serious.

Oh Mom -- you crack me up.

This Sunday, things are looking very different than they did one short week ago. Last night I looked at Mom laying in her bed, took her frail hand in mine, and for the first time since this ordeal began one year ago, thought -- knew -- "She is going to die; soon. It's really going to happen."

Today, she is even weaker than she was yesterday. I go over several times a day, talk to her a bit, but not a lot. I cover her, uncover her. Sit by her feet, with my hands on her shins, and look out the window, then back at her, then out the window again. Rub lotion into her swollen feet and the hand that is easy to get at; into her arm where the skin is so dry; gently smoothe cream onto her face; apply lip balm to her dry lips. Her response is barely noticeable, but she knows I am there and perhaps is comforted by my touch, as she has always been except for the times she had too much pain to stand it.

Her eyes flicker open when my aunt, here from Saskatchewan, walks up to Mom's bed. "Hi Rosie," she says, then her eyes close again. She was surprisingly responsive to the palliative-care nurse too; greeted her by name and answered all her questions. The rest of us, we are like constant fixtures I guess, so she doesn't wake up for us the same way. She did perk up, though was unable to speak, when Trinket was brought into the bedroom in her daddy's arms; how she loves that little girl.

My brother Cameron was to come on Saturday; he has been called to come sooner. Karen's husband and Scott are preparing to drive out as soon as they can organize to get away from their farming responsibilities ... which neither can really do without concern at the heavier workload they leave with their partners ... but they are both doing their damnedest. Fortunately they have partners willing to step up to the plate. But, I told Scott, take enough time to get ready to leave, and Karen and I will prop each other up if need be, till you get here. We'll manage.

Rivers of tears, that's all. In my case, anyway. When I'm alone; not so much when anyone is around. I manage to keep myself under control, sometimes with painful effort. Mostly. So far. It won't last.

I am avoiding going to bed, because that's where the tears start and don't stop. Can't put it off much longer though; might as well bite the bullet.

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