the gift of speech

Another difficult, painful evening, though I'm better now. I started taking Wellbutrin a few days ago but two hours ago I would have told you it's not working. Finally I dragged my ass down to the hospital where there are sick people who actually look sick. I guess my Mom had a hard day, too. My niece told me they want to give her a new breathing tube, this time by making a hole in her trachea. They say at least she'll be able to talk. The respiratory therapist tried to reassure me. She said the tracheotomy hole heals up nicely.

"Elizabeth Taylor had one," she said, running her hand over her own throat. "You couldn't even tell afterward."

The whole time I was there, my mother kept trying to speak to me. But she can't make any sounds because of the breathing tube. It's very disconcerting, even a little maddening, to watch someone's lips moving when you cannot hear a single word. I put a pen in her hand, hoping she could write something, but she could hardly hold it. When she managed to touch pen to paper, she made small jagged lines and circles. Not letters but the idea of letters. I have to remind myself that my mother hasn't lost her mind. She is sedated, that's all. Before my father died, he had severe dementia for five years. I know what it looks like. The last time I visited him, he couldn't talk either. Not because he had a breathing tube but because his brain was so damaged. He'd move his lips as if he were speaking, and make noises that sounded like conversation. But it wasn't speech. It was the idea of speech. He even included faint little chuckles to follow the jokes he hadn't told. Before, when he was still himself, he was a charming and funny man. In the end he could remember the cadences but not the words.