Edda is a combination of the bookends of a person’s life. Part toddler, part old fogey. I spent most of the day within 2 feet of Edda, working on her walking, spotting her tipsiness, judging when she is tired. I fed her leftover brisket from dinner last night, warmed in the microwave. I eat my half of the brisket, right from the microwave, as hot as I can manage without burning the roof of my mouth and spread her half out on another plate to cool quickly and to make it easier to cut into bite sized pieces. Her skin is smooth and clear, her incision so cleanly healing, her head is still small and heart shaped I can encircle her whole face in my hands and look at her face to see traces of me and Jeremy in it. Yet, she has the posture of an old lady. Now artificially straightened, there are still angles that look not quite right, her neck jutting awkwardly forward, a stiffness that should have come from age, but now come from metal suspension bridges tying her vertebrae together.
My to-do list is very short these days and I try to hold onto each day. When I’m very busy, I imagine that when I have non-busy days, that they will somehow last longer than busy days; an afternoon that lasts a week, a lunch that lasts three hours. But this does not happen, the day passes quickly even when there is nothing to do but follow someone around the house making sure she doesn’t tire and fall.
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I dropped of my parents at BWI to send them back to the West Coast. I couldn’t have managed Jeremy’s business trip without them. When they showed up, Edda was still taking Q8h oxycodone and not pleased with her situation. Now that they’ve gone, Edda’s able to walk on her own around the house without pain. It was a good recovery week.
