"Hi Enid" I said, calling her by her first name. Sometimes when I called her Mum, she would look at me with confused eyes, as if to ask, "Why are you calling ME Mum? I'm not sure I know you," she seemed to say "But if I do, it's not as a daughter. That's for sure!" Today, my softly whispered "Hi Enid" got nothing but a blank look. I tried again "Hi Mum. It's me, Sim." Her expression didn't change at all. Not a sign of recognition. Nothing. I noticed a book in her lap. Next to Die or something. A mystery. She had always loved mysteries and this one was endorsed by Patricia Cornwall. "Oh, what are you reading?" I said lamely as I pushed her wheel chair closer to the unlit fireplace. I sit on the brick hearth. There was a huge flat screen tv up above it. There was a dog show on which a lot of the visiting families were watching.
I tapped the book "How do you like the book?" Her eyes found the shiny green cover with its black letters. I watched as she ran her fingers over and over the title, almost as if she was reading with the tips of her fingers, as if the words were written in Braille. Except she wasn't blind. "You love to read" I said. Before the disease she practically lived in the library, checking out as many books as the library allowed.
It is hard to talk to someone who doesn't answer back. I don't know how those people whose loved ones are in comas do it. How do they visit day after day, sharing stories and tales of their day? Today I don't have the heart.Like an idiot, I show her the clothes I have bought hoping for something. But the something doesn't come. I mostly just sit there holding her hands. We squeeze each others fingers gently. I am saying "I love you and I'm sorry it's been too long between visits" I can only hope that she is saying she loves me back.