Sunday afternoon

Many of the conversations this afternoon were lower key. At one point Ma Schmidt tried to change position to get more comfortable, and then sighed and said, "It didn't work, of course." 

At another point Schmidt was walking her back to her bed from the bathroom, naked from the waist down so that he could wipe her up more efficiently; I was standing around trying to figure out if I needed to help; she happened to catch my eye and said, "You're not supposed to be watching this part." So maybe she has forgotten my hoisting her ankles up over her head so that I could wipe her clean yesterday. (My God, was it only yesterday?)

There were other snatches of conversation distinguished only by their bland normality.

Then there were the times she asked to go to the hospital, because she felt so awful and therefore must be sick. (Bad news, sweetie, but you're not sick.) Mostly she recognized Schmidt today. She didn't remember my name, but she remembered that I'm the one whose job is to sit there holding her hand. Schmidt got a little work done in the shop.

During the evening, Schmidt explained that one of the reasons Ma is afraid of dying is that as long as she is alive she is bringing in Social Security for him. Of course, this is not a goal that can ever be satisfied; she can never lie down and relax because she has completed it. So part of her wants to live forever, so she can provide for him. 

One reason the days seem long is that so much time goes by when nothing is happening at all. So it's hard to keep track of how much time has passed when there are no milestones. I suppose that's better than chronic catastrophes.