Fall after fall after fall

South side of the building,
where people who can walk live.

Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday. I got one ride in, and not even an hour of writing. I don't know if it's really need, or my own compulsion that keeps me going there -- my desire to come through this and have no regrets, no wishes that I'd done more.

I reserve the right, though, to be cranky.

She's had three fairly mild falls in the last three or four days. She doesn't understand -- and who would -- that the way she gets places is by sitting, not standing and walking. So she stands and falls. When I push her in the chair and we stop for a moment, she moves as if to get up, and if there's a railing nearby, as in church, she pulls on it to stand.

Her efforts to get up, and her falls, have forced the aides to put her in the penalty box -- right out in the hall by the elevators where they can watch her. It's a more social venue anyway than in her room, more people passing and saying hi.

She was good yesterday and today, her color good, her mind working pretty well. I took her down to the bistro yesterday in an after-dinner visit, where we ate Dove bars. Mom spied a woman sitting alone, crooked her finger at her and gestured for her to come over -- ordered it, almost -- but the woman declined, and Mom went back to her Dove bar. It's interesting that, even in her dire state, she doesn't really mope, but seeks connection. Any random stranger will do.

So I went back to take her to chapel today. (Going to the regular church, which necessitates a drive, is just too complicated.) I love the services in the chapel. Religion works best in times and places of trying circumstance, and Mom's time and place fits the definition.

Today there were maybe three dozen people, and only about about three-quarters of them could stand. The hymns are sung with gusto and affirmation, the prayers, oh dear, the prayers, are beyond touching. They start with calling on blessings for the world, then the country, the state, the city and right on down to the place and the congregation.

Then the reader names those with birthdays this week, and then those, invariably absent, who have asked for intercession -- "Georgie, Ted, Fred, Maureen, Bob, Marie Christina," 12 or 15 names -- and the reader says, "and those we name, either silently or aloud," and quiet calls rise up from the pews, "Sister Ann, Roger, Jim." The first time I heard it, I cried.

*

Julie and I and Mom made a post-church visit to Mom's room, and coming back, an older, shaking woman named Judy got on the elevator. She said, "Well, M___. Do you remember, the first day you came here, the very first day, you were down by the entry and you said, 'Can you sit with me? Can you talk to me?' So I sat down and we talked."

She was confused that day, scared, in a whole new place. I'm only sorry I wasn't there myself.

*

Young son E, on his way to making something of himself, has published a piece on the trendy website N+1, about growing up next door to Scott Walker. It's a lotta fun. Check it out here. 

Night ride