Her arms seem to bend in unnatural ways. In proportion to her body weight, her arms do seem too long for her frame. They have no definable muscle structure anymore, but somehow can still pick up a cup of coffee and gesture this way and that as she talks about the wonderful trip she's taking in her car (if only she could find the map that seems to be wedged under her emaciated frame).
In younger days, her legs carried her wherever she wanted to go, but now they are of no use and offer only a harbor for sores and scrapes which inevitably get infected and eat at what little flesh she has left. They are to her what fleas are to a dog, parasites that carry disease and leech energy from the rest of her body that still functions.
As we move her from place to place in the bed, in the never ending and ultimately terminal process of wound care, she grimaces, brought back momentarily to the present reality by the pain, but maintains a stoiclly smiling outlook on her situation. With each apology from the staff for the necessary and temporary pain of repositioning, she simply and softly says that all is "necessary and unavoidable" at her stage in life. Shortly after we're done, she returns to the great out-doors and the trip that seems so enjoyable... if only she could find the map.
I wonder when she will find that map and make it home, walk in the door, drink a cup of coffee, and close the door on the rest of us.
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