Reading, That's All

Snow-On-The-Mountain is what I grew up calling this plant.

Looking through the pictures of our summer trip by road Back East this evening, wondering if any of the ones that are on this computer would "do" for this entry, I saw this and thought about my sister's hair, which I remember best as being simply chocolate colored with highlights of copper.

Now, at 60, her hair is mostly gray, though her brows and eyelashes are still chocolate. It's unflatteringly and unevenly cut, because Jan, in our mother's opinion, did not need, ever, to go to a hairdresser to have her hair cut (and so get used to such a process). And in the past 10 years, for whatever reason, Jan decided that having her hair cut was one pain in the ass she didn't want to cooperate with.

So our mother would wait until Jan was deep in an apneac sleep, sneak up on her and cut chunks off before Jan could completely wake up.

I spent much of my day with Jan today, just talking to her, and reading pointless magazine articles to her. Just making sure that she wasn't alone in the hospital noises. She turned her face toward me at first, and though she didn't speak much, she was peaceful until my soporific reading put her to sleep. (Actually, I used to read aloud to my first roommate in college when she asked me to -- when she had insomnia. I was a cure.)

When Jan slept, I took off to run errands or feed myself. When I would return, I'd resume reading. After a tech article in the newspaper about state of the art mini camcorders that are YouTube-friendly, Jan, her hands folded demurely in her lap and staring straight ahead, muttered, "Didn't understand a word of it."

I didn't either, but rejoiced ... she had been listening.

I was also a bratty little sister and read some tasty recipes from the magazines, as well as told her what I had for my lunch (luscious Laskaris Hotdogs). Jan is still refusing to take anything by mouth -- possibly because it's the one thing she still has CONTROL over (and unfortunately, "control" is what our female lineage seems to be all about), but she was salivating as I was talking food.

She's been pattering with her bare feet on the textured cool plastic of the foot of her bed, and making purposeful gestures with her hands that shape something of what she's thinking. She mutters things, makes up things, and talks more than I ever knew her to in the past 15 years ... and she's fixated on three phrases that are like magic words to make people react: 1) "I'm scared." 2) "I'm going to cry myself to sleep." and 3) "I'm so lonely."

Don't get too sympathetic ... Jan is a lifelong drama queen and will play to her audience. Those statements are left behind like dust kitties if we ask her, "What scares you?" or "Why are you going to cry?" or "But we're here, who are you lonely for?"

And then I see that sideways glance from her eyes (even though she can't see) that looks exactly, exactly like the one our Dad had when he thought he had gotten away with something but wasn't quite sure.

It was a good day, and by the time I was wilting (from having no sleep last night, but that's another story), Jan had about had enough of obscure pointless articles for the evening. "Tomorrow," I told Jan, "I'm going to pick up a People magazine. That's got to be more interesting than this stuff."

Thank God, I can say "tomorrow."