Last night I went to visit Mom her and do her bills like I always do every Wednesday evening. Mom was just coming from the dining room after eating dinner.

After bills we chatted for 1.5 hours. It was really a great evening together, just small talk, not memories of family history or anything. Mom had me use her sewing machine to mend her housecoat sleeve that was halfway unsewn. We also cut off six inches that she was almost tripping on!

I set up her humidifier and got that going. Mom's outside window was open and was a devil to close, but we got that shut right (I noticed humidity on one window and discovered it that way...) I brushed her hair, her scalp being dry and therefore itchy. Her skin is definitely dry on the whole head, including her face. She uses the cow udder cream on her hands and face and swears by it, but she doesn't know what to do about the scalp situation. I'm going to see if there's something you can spray that can help, something easy to apply for her that won't mess up her hairset...

I can definitely see more of her old spirit coming back, and she told me she hopes she'll get more ambition and motivation back soon because inside she definitely WANTS to be doing handwork like crocheting, embroidering, and even some small sewing projects. She hates feeling unwell, and we all have great hopes her new medication for nausea will help her with that.

I think it may be quite possible that a few months from now, after being off of Zoloft, coming out of the initial grief, and having her dental work finished, she'll be doing even better.

For now, I'm looking forward to November 11th, when I'll be sitting down with Mom at my home to record her memories, taking photos of ourselves, eating good food, and drinking LOTS of tea!

My daughter Eva commented about my whistling post:

Grandma whistled quite a bit on her trip here. She even sang some songs to Mu'min. I think he really cheered her up. It was nice to see her happy when she played with him. Sometimes its hard seeing her so upset all the time about Grandpa.

My sister Betty also shared, "You know when Mom has been out here on Saturday/Sunday's; I have heard her whistle. You should try to get her on tape when you are doing those recordings!!!!"

Whistler

On my way to work this morning, I heard Leon Redbone's band doing "The Whistling Generals". Now there's a man who knows how to whistle beautifully. It puts a smile on your face and lightens the heart.

Why don't people whistle anymore? As Stuart Butler says in his poem, "Whistling", maybe it's because

"...Today there is less silence to break,
Less listless boredom to shake,
With Muzak attacking our heads
And radio alarms invading our beds..."

As long as I can remember, Mom has been a whistler. In fact, my earliest memories are of hearing my mother whistling. The tunes she whistled were sometimes borrowed, but as many times as not, they were made up on the fly as she went along. Her whistles were so strong and clear, you could hear them from some distance away.

I haven't heard Mom whistle for a long time. I hadn't thought about it until I heard that song this morning. I can only speculate as to why, but I think it's partly due to her grieving, and partly due to physical condition ... Sometimes it's like watching a clock running down. Just the other day she told me that she wants to crochet and embroider, still having the interest, but her motivation is just not there. She'll pick up a project, work on it a bit, then put it down. She glances at them, but the mood just isn't there.

I think if I was in her shoes, it would be very tough to feel motivated. Despite being in a facility where you can interact with others, there is still a lot of isolation that's difficult to get past. Every individual there has their own concerns, memories, and physical challenges to deal with. That takes a lot of emotional strength from a person, leaving them drained. Unless interaction comes to them in the form of caring friends and family, it's all too easy to fall into patterns of complacency, or even despondency.

Mom enjoys talking on the phone, and in person, just chatting about everyday things, or how she feels, or how others are. She calls each of my sisters and I regularly, and we talk. None of us probably feels we give her enough time. It's a tough balance. I don't want to someday look back and wish I had given more of my time. Mom is with us now.

It was the longest night of the year -- December 21. They played an endless loop of Christmas carols at the nurse's station. I tried to say all those things they say in the movies over the words of "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer." It was a moment Stella would have appreciated.

Just as I did when I was a child, I laid my head on her breast, close enough to hear her heart beat, as soft as the flutter of wings.

When she was finally still the nurse came and I asked for a moment. I peeled off all the band-aids stuck to her skin, as thin as crumbling parchment. I combed her hair. She never wore it neat. This was my own small triumph.

My brother came for me and we went outside. Dawn was breaking, bathing everything in a steel gray. I thought of that tub she painted and laughed. Then we each lit a cigarette. For Stella.

From Smoke and Mirrors, by Dawn Shurmaitis - As a mother battles cancer, her daughter turns to cigarettes for comfort.

As I usually do every Wednesday evening, I went over to Mom's to help her with her bills, as well as spend time with her. We often go out to eat since it's a real treat for her to get out and about, and eat some fun food. I sure don't blame her, I'd feel the same way if I was mostly cooped up somewhere, hard to get about on my own.

Today, as is often the case in recent weeks, Mom was still napping the day away, not even dressed yet. I helped her get up, then she took it from there, washing up, dressing with a little help from me. I brushed her hair to make it look nice.

All during this time, she was quietly (and sometimes not so quietly, when it overcame her even more deeply) weeping. It was one of those days when the absence of Dad hit her hard again. My own theory about why it's not getting any 'easier' for her, at least those raw emotions associated with recent loss, could be because Dad's decline and death occurred at the same time Mom's own physical/mental health appears to have begun to decline. Perhaps for her, every day is like Dad has just passed away. She can't 'get over it' because it keeps starting over in her mind and heart.

On the other hand, I've come to realize even more than I knew before, how very close they were, and how perhaps I've got it wrong. Maybe Mom's decline happened in response to Dad's.

Recent research has shown that intense grieving lasts from three months to a year and many people continue experiencing profound grief for two years or more.

I dunno. All I do know is I try to show her my love, to touch, to spend time, to stumble my way through talking with her about it. She often says she has nothing to live for, wants to die, wants to be with Dad, then says she doesn't know what happens when you die. I tell her no one does this side of death. It's the undiscovered country from which no one returns...that we know of. We can hope, we can believe, but we can't know. It's hard to accept, but there it is...

"Pervasive computing's* earliest adapters will be old people...an aging, increasingly demented America, who forgets to take pills and is forever misplacing the TV remote control."

Examples are gesture pendants, Autonomy Enhancing Devices, and an artificially intelligent health adviser, part of a "Smart Home" environment.

Full story...

* The essence of pervasive computing is the creation of environments saturated with computing and wireless communication, yet gracefully integrated with human users

A son honors his father....

Tonight I was cleaning out a closet of mine, and as often happens, I digress from one task to another. At one point, I'm at my desk rearranging and clearing out to make room for this and that (it's a long sad tale), and I come across a slip of paper taped to a cubbyhole in the desk. Document "Uncle Henry" and "Aunt Daisy" in family history it says. For a moment, I wondered what in the world, then a split second later I smiled, remembering Mom telling me last year, in the midst of her first flush of grief and confusion. "I want to tell you before I forget..."

"Uncle Henry" and "Aunt Daisy" were Mom and Dad's code phrases in their early love letters to each other, especially during the war when they were quite aware that many letters were read by the Army censors, for their genitalia. When they would write to one another that "Uncle Henry misses Aunt Daisy", they knew exactly what the other meant without being crude or letting anything slip to the censors.

Mom has kicked herself more than once for having Dad take out the bundle of their love letters and burn them. She can't for the life of her remember why they did it, either. What she does remember is Grandpa Fitzpatrick, her father, joking that "...that's the hottest fire ever seen around here..."

The evidence of our existences are fragile at best. All too easily it disappears and no one knows we were ever here...

Charlton Heston shared with the world today that he may be in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's...

[Sharon, Betty, and I have been told that our Mother is in the same situation. Only autopsy post-mortem can confirm it currently. But all the tests Mom has been through is leading the doctors to believe she is showing early signs of a dementia. I want to appreciate every moment we are given with her...]

---

``My dear friends, colleagues and fans, my physicians have recently told me I may have a neurological disorder whose symptoms are consistent with Alzheimer's disease. So I wanted to prepare a few words for you now because when the time comes I may not be able to.

I've lived my whole life on the stage and screen before you. I found purpose and meaning in your response. For an actor, there is no greater loss than the loss of his audience. I can part the Red Sea, but I can't part with you, which is why I won't exclude you from this stage in my life.

For now, I'm not changing anything. I'll insist on work when I can. The doctors will insist on rest when I must. If you see a little less spring in my step, if your name fails to leap to my lips, you'll know why. And if I tell you a funny story for the second time, please, laugh anyway.

I am neither giving up nor giving in. I believe I am still the fighter that Dr. King and JFK and Ronald Reagan knew. But it's a fight I must someday call a draw.

I must reconcile courage and surrender in equal measure. Please, feel no sympathy for me. I don't. I just may be a little less accessible to you, despite my wishes.

I also want you to know I am grateful beyond measure. My life has been blessed with good fortune. I'm grateful that I was born in America, that cradle of freedom and opportunity, where a kid from the Michigan Northwoods can work hard and make something of his life.

I am grateful for the gift of the greatest words ever written that let me share with you the infinite scope of the human experience. As an actor, I'm thankful that I've lived not one life, but many.

Above all, I'm proud of my family. My wife Lydia, the queen of my heart, my children, Fraser and Holly, and my beloved grandchildren, Jack, Ridley and Charlie. They're my biggest fans, my toughest critics and my proudest achievement. Through them I can touch immortality.

Finally, I'm confident about the future of America. I believe in you. I know that the future of our country, our culture and our children is in good hands. I know you will continue to meet adversity with strength and resilience as our ancestors did and come through with flying colors--the ones on Old Glory.

William Shakespeare, at the end of his career, wrote his farewell through the words of Prospero in ``The Tempest.'' It ends like this:
'Be cheerful, sir.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air;

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.'

Thank you, and God bless you, everyone.''

It's been one year since Dad passed away. He was such a positive person, curious, loving, hardworking.

If only I could see his smile one more time, blue eyes twinkling...No wonder Mom loved him...