Today, she's been more confused than usual. She asked me why there was food on the bed. Er... There isn't food. I pointed at a spot on the bed, and she said no -- right there. Oh, the blanket, with the landscape from the Thousand Acre Wood. No, that isn't food, just a blanket. She was satisfied. She wrote out a deposit slip, and it took her almost 30 minutes. There was $100 back in cash. "For ya'll," she told me. "Whatever you need while you're here."

"It's for you," I said. "And that's going to be a lot of Sundrop and soup for you." She looked at me, confused. "Huh?" she said, and "I guess," and then she moved on to something else.

She was weak, too weak to leave her chair, so I helped her to the bathroom. The nurse came, and the social worker, and she talked to them almost as normal. Her blood pressure was low -- 78/50 -- and after drawing off 400 ml of fluids from her abdomen, it was 70/50. Very low.

I took Rusti out to play this afternoon, after the nurse left, about 5:15 or 5:30, and when I came in, Mama was sleeping. "She's worn out, I think," I said.

"I usually do thirty times," she said, rousing from her nap. She meant she throws the ball thirty times, with the ball-flinger I got her from Petsmart years ago.

"I think we did more than that," I said. I always lose count, but I don't tell her that. Her OCD and mine aren't always compatible. I just have to hit the right trees with the ball before we stop -- there's no particular number.

At 6:30, I went to cook dinner. She snored loudly, and I worried. My brother P had called, and I said, "I'm glad you're coming here tonight." My mom roused up briefly, but showed no interest in the call.

Her breathing has gotten rougher, and slower, and faster. And softer and louder. I called J, who was on dispatch and needed a bit to get someone to cover. Ana sat beside me, and I touched my mom, just needing to let her know I was there.

I called P back. "Get here soon."

Ana called Aunt L.

Ana called the hospice nurse, who called back, and said she was on the way to church choir practice, and she'd stop by on the way. She found no blood pressure. Mama's heart rate was 144 beats per minute.

J called brother K, who called back and said they'd be on their way -- from 3 hours away -- if it was necessary. "I think we're looking at hours," I said. I caught my breath.

Mama, of course, roused up while the nurse was here, and acted almost like she knew who everyone was.

She still rouses up occasionally. I told her, "I'm here for you, Mama. Whatever you need," and "I love you, Mama." She mouthed I love you back. She's still trying to be our mom. She's still trying to understand why we're all in here, talking, and trying to act like we aren't here to witness her final breath.

I thought I was prepared. I thought I was ready to let go. I hope K gets here in time.