The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 3: "We Must Talk with Them"

I put the basket of clean clothes down and help Dad pick up Mom and climb the stairs. She uses the bathroom and Dad helps her brush her teeth. Mom sleeps in Leslie's old bedroom with the queen sized bed. Our parents stopped sleeping in the same room after complaining that they kept each other awake at night.

Mom sits in a chair while I make the bed with clean sheets, making hospital corners the way I was taught in the Air Force. I ask Dad to find a clean nightdress. The one she's wearing smells from the accident at dinner. I lift Mom up so that Dad can get the old nightdress out from under her. I look away to give Mom some privacy. Seeing her naked reminds me of the afternoon when Mom and I visited her Aunt Ellen in the nursing home. When Mom's dressed, I help her into bed.

Mom reminds me again that Dr. Madison prescribed two Ativan tablets at night.

"I know. Leslie told me before she left." In her pill tray, two Ativan pills are the last ones for today. I pick up the prescription bottle to verify the doctor's instructions: 'One or two before bedtime.' Perhaps cutting the dose back to one will, over time, reduce the lethargic fog surrounding her and leave her more alert. I break one tablet cleanly in half.

Dad comes in with a glass of water. While he props Mom up with pillows, I place both halves into her mouth. "There you go. Two pills."

She tests the halves with her tongue, then looks at me with narrowed eyes. "I get two of them."

How can she tell? I pretend not to hear and pull up the duvet to hide my surprise. How low will a son go to cheat his old Mom out of one of her pills?

"I get two pills." She raises her voice. "Big pills." And holds out her hand.

Dad carries over the pillbox. "Here's the other one." Mom tries to take it out. "Harriet, let me get it." Her fingers twitch and the tablet flies out of the tray onto the rug.

I inspect the pill to ensure it's free of rug fuzz. I hold it up and Mom opens her mouth. "Down the hatch, Hat." Dad is pleased that he's defused the situation. He gives her a drink of water.

At least I tried.

Once they are in bed with the lights out, I sit on the stairs listening to make certain they are settled. I'll buy a gate for the head of the stairs to prevent an untimely descent. In the living room, I click through the TV stations but find nothing to watch. I open my book.

Before I finish a chapter, a door opens. It must be Dad since I doubt Mom could get out of bed and make it to the door. I call up using my best stage whisper. "Dad, is that you?"

"It's my bladder. The fool thing is acting up."

"Do you need any help?"

"Nooo waaay." He stretches out the two syllables. "How come you're still up?"

"It's only quarter to eleven."

"Hell, I thought it must be after three." He closes the bathroom door.

While opening the couch into a bed, I hear the toilet flush. Dad returns to his room.

All is quiet once again.

I'm exhausted and wonder how many days Leslie and I will need to babysit. It's not the best time for me to miss work with quarter-end approaching and financial reports to be prepared for thousands of customers. I usually work long hours to solve problems with data errors and automated loads. That's hardly my parents' fault, but I can't help blaming them for not taking better care of themselves. Rachel and I are determined not to be a burden to our children.

I resume reading, but my eyes close and, when I drop the book three times, I call it quits. My left leg has fallen asleep. I walk back and forth to shake it off, then go to bed.