It's time

Mother dozes in her chair
awakes awhile and reads her book
then dozes off again
Wind makes a rush at the house
and, like a tide, recedes. The trees are sere.

Afternoons are the most difficult.
They seem to have no end.
no end and no one there.
Outside the trees do their witchy dance.
Mother grows smaller in her chair.

("Portrait of my mother in January" By: August Kleinzahler)

Often I have told my daughters that when I no longer know what day it is or can't remember to occasionally bathe and change my clothes they should tell daddy that it's time for a "fishing trip". On the boat I should be encouraged to stand near the stern of the vessel in order to haul in a really big fish; then as one of their husbands guns the throttle, I disappear over the side and slip beneath the waves with the help of my old Army boots and lead lined underwear.

They think I'm kidding.
I am not.

My brother and I are dealing with the severe decline of our 88 year-old mom these days. We love her but she can no longer function on her own. She tries to fake it, but there is now no doubt that she has slipped into the downward spiral of dementia. It is completely unfair.
She spent several years and sacrificed her own health to care for our father as he battled Alzheimer's Disease until it put him in the ground nearly fifteen years ago. Now, she's headed to the same sad rodeo.

In the next couple of weeks we will try to trick her into the room we have reserved for her at a fine facility in her hometown of Springfield, Illinois. There she will be provided the supervision she needs to take care of herself---something she neglects today. Like a three year-old, she will be reminded to eat, change her clothes, and take her medicine.
Damnit! There ought to be a better way.
There isn't.

When it dawns on her that she is leaving home to spend the rest of her life in a place for the mentally infirm, she will be furious with us.
For awhile.