In my absence...

...Jack has really stepped up his big brother game and has been a huge help with his younger siblings. Tom's headstands and flips have gained both momentum and control. Will's love of Thomas the Train now borders on obsession. And last but certainly not least, Sam -- already the undisputed champ of his chosen field -- has perfected what I like to think of as The Flying Teabag. It involves a full leg extension, the use of a wall or conveniently located piece of furniture and -- of course -- a completely unsuspecting brother. Mommy is so proud.

Vigil

Mama sits, absently fiddling with the plastic star sewn high on the left shoulder of her lavender pajamas just over the phrase, "Call Me Princess." I marvel again at my brother's consistently awful taste and my mother's unfailing resolve to wear his gifts of clothing with an equal mixture of bravado and chagrin.

"Do I really have to call you Princess?" I ask with a smirk.

"No... just know that I am," she shoots back.

We both grin and return to our separate musings. We've spent the last few days talking about anything and everything that would pass the time. We've shared funny kid stories, commiserated on the discomfort of hospital beds, played "Guess That Food" at meal-times. And every so often, we have flipped channels as if we were men -- making endless circuits in the fruitless hope of finding something "good" on t.v.

After three days, we've both gotten quieter as we find it harder to dance around a subject neither of us wants to discuss. My mother is sick, and getting "well" may no longer be an option. The hiss of oxygen is constant -- the latest doctor visit leading us both to believe its clear plastic nasal tube will become a permanent accessory to her wardrobe. And doctors are using terms like "chronic condition" and "managing symptoms" while the word "cure" is reserved for someone else's room, possibly someone else's mother.

I watch in helpless silence as she wiggles this way and that, seeking a comfortable position for her 80 year-old frame in a hospital bed designed to meet every possible need except sleep. Finally her body stills as she settles into a light doze -- her tousled grey curls the only feature visible above the thin blanket.

For as long as I can remember, I've thought of her as "my little mama." The urge to protect and coddle linked hand in glove with an underlying sense of exasperation at her physical frailties. That we are here, in a cramped hospital room under the care of white coats and vibrantly patterned scrubs, is no shock. It is simply another scene in an already familiar play.

But somewhere along the line, I missed intermission... was unaware that the houselights had dimmed and the second act gotten underway. My timing is all off, and I feel the urgent need to check my watch to assure myself that there's plenty of action still to come before the curtain falls.

Her nap is short-lived as nurse after nurse enters her room-- each with a different agenda. As quickly as they descended, the swarm clears. Mama's toes peek through the ends of her new pressure stockings and I move to add another, warmer pair. I glance up to find her grinning from beneath a ridiculously oversized ice pack. Smiling in spite of myself, I threaten to take her picture.

"You wouldn't," she dares.

"Watch me," I counter.

We take several pictures to capture the silliness of the moment. She examines the best one with a critical eye before giving an approving nod.

"You can show Jack what I look like, and he'll have a good laugh."

"I will," I promise as I put my phone back in my purse.

The star of her own tragicomedy, mother never fails to nail the punch line. All I have to do is remember to laugh.