Naptime

7:00pm on a Thursday. I'm watching a re-run of Next Food Network Star while Mom sleeps in her recliner. She sleeps a lot these days. She dozes off, opens her eyes to see what's going on, lets me know that she's "only resting her eyes" and goes back to sleep. In some ways, I find that it's a relief when she sleeps because I'm free to go in the other room to cook or visit with my roommate or check out what's on TV. I may spend a little time watching something Mom and I wouldn't normally watch (that would include anything that isn't Andy Griffith, Little House on the Prairie or Murder, She Wrote).

These brief forays away from Mom's side have gotten to be habit-forming. I welcome the excuse to walk away for even brief periods of time, but am always drawn back to peek in and see if she's awake or if she's struggling to get out of her chair or if she's decided she wants to get ready for bed. I'll often sit back down with her, even if she's sleeping, just to be available if she needs me.

I'm amazed at how much rest she needs. She goes to bed anytime between 8 and 10 and rarely gets up before 10 or 11 the next morning. Linda arrives at 11:30 to serve Mom lunch, help her get dressed or give her a bath, do laundry (and many other household chores) and spend time visiting, laughing and watching a bit of TV. By the time I get home around 5:30, Mom's ready to visit ("what is it you do?") eat dinner and a couple of servings of chocolate ("what's a person gotta do to get some chocolate around here?") and watch a little more TV. And several times during the course of the evening, she nods off, sometimes for an hour at a time.

Her need for rest is most certainly a byproduct of her failing health. I talk myself into believing that she's conserving her strength which will, in turn, prolong her life. But the more realistic interpretation may be that she's slowly fading away from us, one nap at a time.