By Degrees...

You’ve probably heard the fable that if you plop a frog in comfortable water, then raise the temperature a degree at a time, the frog won’t notice or attempt to escape.  In today’s blog post, I will play the role of the frog and Leslie the pan of water.

As I’m with Leslie almost (thank you, friends and respite care workers) 24/7, it can take a regular visitor’s eyes, or time and repeated exposure, before I notice signs of her slow decline.  Friends who visit every few days comment on changes that only then settle into my consciousness.

One day she walks by herself with a walker; a day later she is unsteady enough to need a “spotter,” and a few days later – owing primarily to a blood clot in her leg – she needs a wheelchair to get from bed to bathroom.  She remains, however, very strong (thanks, Jess!):  she stands by wrapping her arms around my neck and I can still feel the power there and the leverage in her legs.

At the beginning of a week, she claims no appetite, but eats along with everyone else when food is placed in front of her.  Midweek, she prefers – and devours - smoothies, applesauce and other easy-to-swallow foods.  By the weekend, she consumes mostly sips of juice and milk (though she did enjoy a few spoonfuls of her favorite stuffed pepper soup from our go-to BBQ place, Chuck’s, and Lindsey's spaghetti and meatballs).

A week ago, Leslie got fully dressed every morning to “receive”; since Wednesday, she’s been in pajamas every day.

Her voice has become softer and more mumbled, and her thoughts often garbled.  On the other hand, she can rouse herself to voice an opinion:  this morning, I told my sister I wasn’t quite ready for breakfast and Leslie piped up with a very clear “speak for yourself”; later, she gave the certified nurse assistant bathing her an expletive-filled earful of her preferences about how to be positioned.

It’s been some time since she last asked for her iPad or laptop; I read her your messages, and trust that they are getting through the fog, and that she feels your love and light.
 
Slow decline is nevertheless decline, and Leslie is entering that netherworld where she is not in pain, but not especially enjoying life, either.  She still seems happy to see visitors, but more often the conversations fly above her, instead of revolving around her.

This is a terribly hard time, difficult to watch and to comprehend, but know, dear friends, that she is comfortable, hovered over by loving and gentle hands (friend and professional), and protected by her faithful kitty.