“Does He Ever Get to Be, You Know, Just a Dog?”December 17, 2015
What’s His NameJanuary 18, 2016
My mother read murder mysteries with the same zeal that Sir Thomas arranges his fluffies before circling down to sleep. She could check out a dozen from the library and be back for more a few days later.
After she passed away, I found a whodunit on her nightstand. Yellow flags stuck out from the pages. Handwriting I didn’t recognize listed character names and cryptic notes: red dress and flashlight. I cringed at how, in the end, the morphine fog must have confused her and kept her from the stories she so enjoyed.
What I discovered later was that her hospice aide brought the sticky tags to the house. She’d jotted the notes so my mother could keep the characters straight and continue to do what she so enjoyed through to the end.
I never got the chance to meet or thank my mother’s hospice caretaker for the simple act of stepping in with a pack of Post-Its.
But there is Sandy, who for years has provided for the retired, aging service Danes – including Tess – through to the end.
Thank you, Sandy, for simply stepping in with an extra-soft fluffy and an equally soft touch.