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Authors: Elizabeth Amelia Barrington
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several days afterward, Mom would be tired and listless. She endured painful vomiting that seemed to wrack her thin body almost beyond the point of endurance. Gradually, she seemed to lose her appetite, so I bought special drinks loaded with calories to keep up her strength.
I rearranged her room so that she could see the yard from her bed and filled her room with plants. The plants seemed to revive Mom and draw her towards them, coaxing her out of bed to tend to them with water mixed with plant food or to prune leaves or stems that needed removing. Every day, the first thing Mom did upon arising was to speak to each plant in low, encouraging tones. I offered to bring a television into her room, but she declined one, opting instead for library books. She sat up in her bed or on the La-Z-Boy in her bedroom, reading and dozing while Ravel played in the background. Father Riley brought communion to her every evening and sometimes they sat and talked.
Dr. Rutherford maintained that Mom was improving and that the malignant mass would shrink, but I had doubts. Something seemed to be working on her, transforming her in some essential way. Formerly, she had been the type of woman who could never be still for long, no matter what her health problems might be. Even though often tired, she had always needed to be working on a patchwork quilt, sewing a dress, baking a pie, or cooking a meal. Now, she had turned into a different person, a person who had become quiet, passive, and thoughtful. She was now content to sit gazing out through one of her bedroom windows for long periods of time. She hardly ever ventured into the other rooms of the cottage. I began a campaign to ensure that she left her room each day by taking her on a short walk around the paths of the yard or in front of the house, with my arm around her back to give her support. Mom passively acquiesced to the walking routine, just as she silently agreed to everything else those days.
Frank's dinner plans had to be rescheduled for a later date, because he kept changing his mind about the details . The guest list had been changed several times. He could not make up his mind about which catering company he wanted to use or even which stationary company to use for the invitations. I patiently edited guest lists, interviewed caterers, and collected stationary samples and price lists. I discovered that if I gave him too much information at once, he complained that he was doing my job, so I prepared summaries for him. Sometimes, he looked at the summaries and stated I was not giving him enough information.
I quickly began to resent his antics, and at times felt like strangling him but felt I deserved an Oscar for the way in I actually handled Frank. I complimented him, teased him, and smiled at him until my lips ached. I laughed at his usually inane jokes and repeated to myself over and over: He's helping me take care of my mother. I had resolved to make the dinner plans work, no matter what I had to do.
###
One Saturday afternoon found me at the desk in the small library office working on a presentation that included an edited guest list, stationary and caterer summaries, and price lists. I had created a folder for each presentation, folders that included all the summaries and details. Once gain I thanked God for the office experience I had gained at my after school job in high school. I was intent on forcing him to make a decision tonight, before my date with Paul, if at all possible.
Some one knocked at the cottage door. It was Margaret. "I'm coming over to visit your mom. Mr. Armstrong wants to see you for another round of party planning, you poor thing." The last three words were whispered.
I headed to the library and sat down to wait for Frank. He walked into the massive room, shutting the door behind him, which was unusual. I sat on one of the leather sofas, files in hand. I noticed that Frank was dressed to the hilt, wearing his custom-made leather shoes, his
I rearranged her room so that she could see the yard from her bed and filled her room with plants. The plants seemed to revive Mom and draw her towards them, coaxing her out of bed to tend to them with water mixed with plant food or to prune leaves or stems that needed removing. Every day, the first thing Mom did upon arising was to speak to each plant in low, encouraging tones. I offered to bring a television into her room, but she declined one, opting instead for library books. She sat up in her bed or on the La-Z-Boy in her bedroom, reading and dozing while Ravel played in the background. Father Riley brought communion to her every evening and sometimes they sat and talked.
Dr. Rutherford maintained that Mom was improving and that the malignant mass would shrink, but I had doubts. Something seemed to be working on her, transforming her in some essential way. Formerly, she had been the type of woman who could never be still for long, no matter what her health problems might be. Even though often tired, she had always needed to be working on a patchwork quilt, sewing a dress, baking a pie, or cooking a meal. Now, she had turned into a different person, a person who had become quiet, passive, and thoughtful. She was now content to sit gazing out through one of her bedroom windows for long periods of time. She hardly ever ventured into the other rooms of the cottage. I began a campaign to ensure that she left her room each day by taking her on a short walk around the paths of the yard or in front of the house, with my arm around her back to give her support. Mom passively acquiesced to the walking routine, just as she silently agreed to everything else those days.
Frank's dinner plans had to be rescheduled for a later date, because he kept changing his mind about the details . The guest list had been changed several times. He could not make up his mind about which catering company he wanted to use or even which stationary company to use for the invitations. I patiently edited guest lists, interviewed caterers, and collected stationary samples and price lists. I discovered that if I gave him too much information at once, he complained that he was doing my job, so I prepared summaries for him. Sometimes, he looked at the summaries and stated I was not giving him enough information.
I quickly began to resent his antics, and at times felt like strangling him but felt I deserved an Oscar for the way in I actually handled Frank. I complimented him, teased him, and smiled at him until my lips ached. I laughed at his usually inane jokes and repeated to myself over and over: He's helping me take care of my mother. I had resolved to make the dinner plans work, no matter what I had to do.
###
One Saturday afternoon found me at the desk in the small library office working on a presentation that included an edited guest list, stationary and caterer summaries, and price lists. I had created a folder for each presentation, folders that included all the summaries and details. Once gain I thanked God for the office experience I had gained at my after school job in high school. I was intent on forcing him to make a decision tonight, before my date with Paul, if at all possible.
Some one knocked at the cottage door. It was Margaret. "I'm coming over to visit your mom. Mr. Armstrong wants to see you for another round of party planning, you poor thing." The last three words were whispered.
I headed to the library and sat down to wait for Frank. He walked into the massive room, shutting the door behind him, which was unusual. I sat on one of the leather sofas, files in hand. I noticed that Frank was dressed to the hilt, wearing his custom-made leather shoes, his
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