Comme ci comme ca

Wauwatosa, in its wisdom

Found Mom yesterday about 11:30. She'd just finished a swim session, after having worked out on the machines before that. She glowed; her mind was sharp; she said she felt so good. Morning is her time.

We had lunch with the group. C and I talked about "Wolf Hall," and she thanked me as Mom and I left like she hadn't talked in a month. Mom, though, faded rapidly, her exercise catching up with her. Her face expresses her state -- from a near-normal range of expression when she's on top of it to a frozen mask when she tires out, as if she can't even muster the energy to brighten her eyes. It is Parkinson's, of course. As if growing old and feeble without disease isn't cruel enough, the fates must have their fun by raining this horror upon you.

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Took her to church today. An hour and a half, and she followed pretty well. Though she did ask, in the middle of the first hymn, if I saw the football player and his wife. (They were not in evidence.)  It was an ordination service, with a sermon by a guest preacher on how you can't escape God, especially when you're a pastor; everybody is super-polite to you and you'd like to just run. (I think, in my case, I'd be tempted to throttle somebody. Not sure how redemption would play in that situation.)

Then I took her to the room and we spent a good long time looking for her checkbook. I could see myself having to figure out what we'd paid and what not, and then cancel her checks and get a whole new set -- something I've done before and what a hassle. But, miracle of miracles, she found them in her underwear drawer, where I swear I had already looked. So, as a preventive measure, and, tacitly, to my way of thinking, as a punishment, I took them and said I'd keep them at home. Because, for sure, I won't lose them.