Mom: I'm as weak as a chicken.
Gwen: (laughing) A chicken?
Mom: Yes, it means I have no strength, no energy.
We've been hearing "weak as a kitten" for a while now; I guess "weak as a chicken" is moving down the Kansas farmgirl energy scale. Mom asked me to wash her sheets and her laundry, and remake her bed, and take out her trash, but she wanted to cook her own breakfast.
Mom essentially dragged herself out of bed and willed her way through cooking eggs, bacon and toast. As soon as she had eaten, she made her way to the red chair, went to the bathroom twice with "the trots" (refusing medicine for that too), then slept until noon. Mom was astonished to find she had slept all morning, but I assured her it seemed that's what she needed to do. She was alert and rested enough to watch a dvd of a short, one man production of Bonhoeffer's life, then watch her regular Sunday program and have some lunch.
After staying awake for almost two hours, Mom was ready for another nap, this time in bed. While she napped, Ev and I went out on the back patio to work on vocabulary. About an hour later, just as I was thinking I should check on Mom, she opened the back door! Mom shakily came out and sat in the sunshine and petted the dogs for almost an hour. (Well, she petted Nate's dog and shunned Meg's dog. And they were both very well-behaved. Perhaps we should rename them Jacob and Esau.) Then more napping throughout the evening.
Mom still has the weeping edema in her legs. She still says they do not hurt, just feel "tight." She still gets around on her own, but shakily and with great effort. She can tell her condition is deteriorating, and she is glad. She said that exact thing out loud to me tonight. She is ready to go.
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