Today I got a phone call from the assisted living place where my mother stays. It was the nutritionist. It seems that a doctor has asked her to look at my mother’s case. My mother has lost fourteen pounds since November. 

“And . . ?” I ask her. 

“Well, she doesn’t drink milk,” the nutritionist says, “and doesn’t seem to be interested in drinking Ensure. We do have some ice cream that has protein and other nutrients in it.”

“She’s 92 years old,” I tell the woman. “Don’t push anything on her.” 

The nutritionist says she won’t. 

“Your mother mentioned being sad sometimes.” Did I know that, the nutritionist wonders. Yes, I knew. She’s been sad for years -- ever since the botched operation on her back took away her mobility. I’m sad, too. Sad that her once-brilliant mind is now a series of misfires. A couple of weeks ago she told me she couldn’t remember her last name. She sat in the dining room of the AL facility waiting for dinner and asked if this was something special, something they did once a year. I didn’t ask what she meant, only said, no, I didn’t think so. 

I repeat to the woman: “She’s 92 years old. She’s not having a good time. I’ve talked to the doctor about anti-depressants but he doesn’t recommend it at her age. I visit as often as I can, daily except when I’m not in town.” 

The nutritionist understands. 

“I don’t want to do anything unless she’s in pain,” I say even though the truth is that she is in chronic pain. She is too fragile for any of the usual remedies. Her mind breaks apart completely under the influence of narcotics. So she suffers. And we watch. I will not press food upon her. I will not let anyone else. 

A couple of days ago one of the people who work at my mother’s AL facility told me that she never wants to live in a place like this. We shake our heads. Never. Or worse, much worse, one of the nursing homes. 

“Every time I go to one of them, it takes me days to recover,” she says. 

I know that there are people who live happy, fulfilling lives well into their 90s. But my mother is not one of them. It isn’t a terrible life. She’s in a good place. She plays the piano every day. She plays a daily Scrabble game (very, very badly). But she’s lonely and isolated. Losing your mind does that. She can’t interact with people, only dredge up a repetitious cycle of half-memories. Her Scrabble partners wait patiently while she tries to remember what she’s doing with these letters in front of her.  

Yesterday my mother told me she has been talking a lot to her younger sister who died a couple years ago. They did not have a whole lot in common; nevertheless their sisterly bond held fast over their long lives. I’m hoping that Hazel is talking to her, keeping her company along this journey, this journey that is not for the likes of us, the living. 

I’ve thought seriously about quitting my job, getting a house with accessible bathrooms and just making do with her social security and my freelance work. Would that make her happy? But this is probably a ridiculous pipe dream. Her constant needs, now taken care of by a staff of people, would quickly erode me if I tried to do it by myself. Besides, it’s no easy matter to dump the house where I now live. 

So my mother is losing weight. In an hour or so, I’ll shut down my computer and go over to sit with her. I may take away her television before the next rent cycle. She doesn’t watch it any more and I am paying for cable that she doesn’t use. But when I tried to take it yesterday she became upset -- even though she’d just told me she hardly ever watched it. So I left it -- a reminder of a person who once watched the television. 

Outside my window right now black crows are screeching and charging through the branches of the trees. A hawk has sent them in a flurry of outraged conferences. 

And I’m thinking of my mother -- diminishing feather by feather.