My Mother is Not a Science Experiment

Last week, before he announced that my mother has something called Frontal Lobe Syndrome, Dr. P. (that's what we'll call him to avoid a lawsuit, although I assure you, the P. stands for something), said that, with physical therapy, she'd walk again in two months.

He has since revised that prognosis, saying soon she'll look at her feet and not know what to do with them. He says she is still eligible for clinical trials, though. Her internist advised us to keep her comfortable and love her. She didn't actually say that Dr. P. intends to use my mother as a research subject, but that's the vibe we're getting.

I spent the weekend on my parents' couch. My mother spends most of the day in bed sleeping. She responds better to questions that require 'yes' or 'no' answers. If you give her a choice between Cheerios or Corn Flakes for breakfast, she looks at you as if you were asking her to decide whether Scott Peterson deserved the death penalty.

I look at this time as a gift. If she is indeed dying, then we have the opportunity to love her and take care of her. She is not in pain. This isn't, by any means, an easy situation, but it it is better than getting a call from a stranger that she dropped dead of a heart attack.

I am going back on Wednesday to take care of her while Dad and Siblings One and Two keep their appointment with Dr. P.