Moving Mom

For about a week after changing rooms she was more agitated than usual.

"Am I here because I am dying?", she wants to know. "Everyone here is really old and crazy."

How can you say "That is why you are here"? Even if she is not REALLY old, she is increasingly more frail mentally with each passing day. She doesn't need help standing up so much as her brain no longer tells her why you would want to stand up -- or what muscles you would need to do that. She isn't happy or unhappy about her surroundings. She is just slipping slowly, inexoribly into a place where the surroundings don't really matter so much -- as long as she is warm and clean and not hungry. She sleeps not so much from boredom as from the exhaustion of constantly having to try to make sense of every little thing. What day is it? Is it morning or evening? Why are these people all smiling at me? Should I know who these young people are? Didn't I just eat? How did I get these clothes on? Do I have a purse anymore?

In Laws

"You know, I was worried that we wouldn't have anything in common -- that it would be awkward to be together for a day or two. But they are really okay! I mean, I like them a lot and this is not going to be bad at all. I feel much better!"
"You know, they can hear you -- we are in the same car."

Bits of stuff for the book . . .

I am not even sure what her name is -- she goes only by her stage name which is Tamale. She is an MC for Drag King shows and has a bustier tatooed from her hips half-way up her back -- front and back.