Ma Schmidt slept all Saturday night, just as she had slept all Friday night. But there was a noise all through the night like someone moaning. I heard it, then rolled over and went back to sleep; but it seems that it kept waking Schmidt. In the end it appears to have been a tree branch creaking in the wind against the side of the house. But it reminded me forcibly of the weeping chains in Orual's well. Readers of Till We Have Faces will remember what I mean.
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Ma's agitation this morning was quieter but still real. Schmidt got two pills into her by crushing them into water with sugar. She still asks for glasses of water, but often drinks only once instead of multiple times. But she won't always relinquish the cup after.
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This morning she spends more time staring out the sliding glass door and seemingly pointing at things. But when I ask her what she sees, her answer is inarticulate.
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"What are we doing here?"
"What am I doing here?"
"I've got to go to the hospital."
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Even when she is asleep, it seems she is aware of holding my hand. If I let go to get a snack or to refill my coffee—or to write down one of these notes!—I have between one and two minutes to get back to her. After that she starts to wake up and get antsy.
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