Hello, Mom. You seem so small and far away.

Off the oxygen and forgetting how to walk.  I'm now unable to toilet mom when Henry's around because she's too wobbly and he's too unpredictable.   I started getting her up out of her comfy chair on our last visit and H darted to the door, starting to go out into the zombie-filled unit.  I actually raised my voice to him saying, "Close the door, Henry, right now" and locked my 'mean mommy' eyes on him for emphasis.  He shut the door and waited.  Once H was no longer a flight risk I focused on coaching mom to stand.  She needs a lot of help now.  I count to three, my forearm under her armpit and I lift and she struggles.  First one hand on the walker then I coach her into putting her other hand on the walker.  This can take some time.  She seems nervous about moving so her motions are slow and unsteady.  I can see her hand gripping the chair arm, waiting for direction from an unreliable brain.  After her hands are on the walker grips then I tell her to stand up straight and strong.  I ask her how her legs feel and if she feels confident enough to move and once she says yes, we start our journey around the bed, past the bathroom and out her door.  By the time we are twenty paces down the way, with frequent stops and gentle reminders about putting one foot in front of the other, she is winded and weary.  I get her settled into a chair between her friends and she looks at me like she just climbed a mountain.  I get real close to her, look her in the eyes and ask her how she feels. Mom starts searching for words in that look I've learned to recognize so I ask, "Do you feel pain or do you feel weak?"  She looks right back at me and says quietly, "I feel weak."  I pat her leg and hold her hand and say I'm sorry.  Another couple moments of silence and I tell her that Henry and I have to go now and we'll be back soon.  We drift away, Henry running ahead and me lagging behind, looking back and waving good bye.  Mom waves back and smiles and so do I.