My Facebook status this morning read thus: “Happy Birthday, Effie. Wherever you are.” The little lady turned 83 today. When we sang to her and gave her a treat to celebrate, I could not tell whether she understood or not. But she liked the treat! [I don’t allow anyone to say the name of it out loud, so I’ll whisper it for you: Ensure.]
Every day we wheel her into the kitchen to chill with the fam and get licked by the dog. She always loves it, but after about 15 minutes she’s tired and wants to go back to bed. Today, as I tucked her in after our little “party”, she told me, “I love everyone who lives here.” That’s pretty coherent for somebody who has given me the funniest names the last few weeks—such as Gibraltar, Sonny Boy, and Vel-vel. (I like Vel-vel.)
Most of the time this ministry is quite doable. Not counting the times she terrorized the room before I child-proofed it, only twice have I been flabbergasted: a week ago, when she was calling me names and slapping me (a five-minute episode not observed before or since), and yesterday when she repeatedly spit mush cereal all over my glasses (again, not repeated, so far).
She’s worse all the time, it appears, but is still eating, and is not in any pain, so we continue. My teenage daughter sweetly volunteered to stay at the house a couple of nights this week so Hubby and I could attend Christmas parties. I’ve worked things out so all she has to do is be a person in the house, but last night she and her sister and brother-in-law went above and beyond the call, and actually wheeled Effie out for one of those kitchen chills—even gave her the rest of her [Sh-hh!] “treat.”
It’s looking like we just might have a Merry Christmas after all!