Listening to the Music

The weekend was a whirlwind. Fueled by the knowledge that we had to dive back in and salvage our jobs on Monday, we felt an urgency to get mom adjusted and create spaces for the upcoming changes. The house resembled an ant colony, with furniture moving from one room to the next, the steady stream of family bringing in food, supplies, sorting medications, coming up with ways to communicate details from day to day. “We really need some shelves here” someone comments. Tape measures appear, a crew disappears and reappears carrying shelves. We all take turns shuffling visitors in and out, eating in shifts and making sure mom is getting what she needs.

The doctors have warned us that while the steroids are working to keep the swelling at bay, they can only do so much and this could move rapidly. There are moments when Mom can communicate perfectly, we would almost not be able to tell there is a tumor pressing on her brain. Then there are times where she holds her head in her hands and exclaims in exasperation; “I just can’t remember, I don’t know the word, oh I can’t do this.” It hurts to watch her struggle to communicate. Sometimes we can guess what she is trying to say, sometimes we can’t and only make it worse with our suggestions.

Our fear right now is that she will slip too far away from us before our brother arrives from Shanghai. He has been frantically wrapping up work so he and his wife can get home. They have Facetimed in, but it is hard to be so far removed from the process. We have been able to lean on each other, hold each other and analyze each days developments. We are watching it unfold before our eyes while he is half way around the world and twelve hours ahead. Mom has been fueled by the activity and her own need to spend these precious moments with those she loves, but she is not eating enough to sustain this level of activity. The focus this week, along with an endless list of logistics, is to help her rest and keep her energy up so our brother can say his goodbyes.

Tonight dad asked if mom could still play the piano. We gathered in the living room and watched as her fingers tentatively touched the keys. “I don’t think I can do this,” she says. But slowly, fumblingly, her fingers find the right keys and soon music fills the room. Childhood memories swirl around with the notes, this music is so much a part of us. We haven’t even realized how integral the sound of her playing is to home.