I slept in her room last night and listened to her breathe, raspy and harsh, then very quiet, and then another raspy inhale. I woke up every time there was quiet, and during one of these wakeful times, I saw my mom sitting up in her chair, swiveling about 20 degrees one direction, pause, 20 degrees the other direction, pause, repeat. It's a consistent rhythm, and as long as she's awake, it's constant. She was rifling through a sticky-note pad, and I asked her what she was doing.

"Wha?" she said.

"What are you doing? Do you need help?"

"Oh. I don't know. Finding a place for this paper."

I got up and replaced her oxygen tubes -- for the 10th time -- and covered her back up. I got the mug for her dentures and asked her if she wanted to take her teeth out. She had no idea what I was talking about, so I just told her it was okay, not to worry. "I love you," she said, and I hugged her and told her I loved her too.

And then, this morning, I touched her hair, and she woke up. She was confused to find my brothers and their wives here, and she wondered how they got here so early. My brother J took her blood pressure, and it was 58/40. Her pulse is so weak it's impossible to count her heart rate without a stethoscope on her chest.

I've talked to my aunt and told her what was going on. The hospice nurse called and I told her about my mom's condition. "Oh, good Lord," she said. She also believed my mom wouldn't make it through the night.

I apologized to K & K for calling and having them come out here last night, when we all thought every breath would be her last.

The preacher came and my mom thought I told him that my brother K eats dogs. She's trying very hard to be alert, and she holds up her chin, swiveling, one way, then the other.

She drank an entire bottle of Diet Sundrop, and then through most of it back up, along with some thick white sputum and some dark green bile. Then she crunched ice, one piece at a time, carefully crushing it into tiny bits before sliding another piece gently into her mouth with her straw.

I hate this. I hate not knowing what's going to happen. I hate that she's making these compulsive motions, often scratching herself raw, even when I put lotion on. I hate that she sits there, swiveling and swiveling and swiveling, making non sequiturs. My mom is no longer here, not really. I see glimpses, but only briefly.