Sunday, February 3rd, 2008

In the morning, I went to get an oil change (bane of my existence. Do not do this when suffering from any type of emotional trauma). The hour or two I was gone from home made me feel guilty and nervous. I wasn't confident that one sole person could handle Betty yet, so I rushed home as quickly as possible. My dad told me something weird had happened while I was gone: It was a nice day, and Betty had told my dad she wanted to go on a walk. For some reason, something inside of her told her she wanted to run, which inevitably led to her stumbling. Very fortunately, my Dad was right by her side to catch her fall. He quickly took her home. We spent another morning doing nothing but lounging around, watching TV and reading. I got her to tell me her favorite type of music (bossa nova), so we just did a bunch of nothing while Nicola Conte (great stuff) played in the background. It was a pretty depressing afternoon. Right now, my dad's mood basically dictates how the entire family feels about their lives at any given moment, and he had been pretty disheartened by the running incident.

We "practiced walking" at some point in the afternoon, because my dad wanted to gauge Betty's current level of competence without the help of others. We had her walk from one end of the room to the other without our assistance, and we basically learned that the problem is that she has no center of balance. She quickly gears towards one direction and soon as she starts walking, but (sometimes) stops herself before she hits something. It was cute though - Betty is a feldenkrais practitioner (which is a fancy way of saying massage therapist), and her normal self is very intrigued by the "correct" way for humans to walk. So my dad said "Now try your feldenkrais walk," to which she responded by walking with a cute little sway in her hips. It was bittersweet to see that she still had that sense of humor.

Our family's best friends, Dan and Terry Gilbert, kindly brought us dinner. They were angels. Terry was so compassionate, and I could tell that Betty, though initially embarrassed, was happy to have them there. After dinner, Betty was able to whisper "Lily really stepped up to the plate this time," which was really special to me. Betty got up from the table and tripped at some point, and I slid across the floor to catch her. She whispered "thank you for being down here so fast." Once again, I felt that underlying sense of trust that she and I have developed. Tons of tears later, they left, and left us a bunch of food and cake. It was really so nice of them to stop by and be as understanding as they were.

Once Betty and my Dad were finally asleep, I felt the weight of the world build up on my back. I had been assisting Betty to and from every little location all weekend. I somehow let the all too reoccurring thought that "no one cares about me" interfere with the fear that I was losing such a close family member, and I finally began to unleash the tears I had basically pent up since her diagnosis. I drove to the top of this beautiful hill in San Rafael, turned on my favorite Blonde Redhead album, and cried violently for an hour or two. I guess it was healthy that I did it. I just didn't want my dad to see me weak, because I know that my sturdiness is the only thing keeping him strong right now.