The Lazarus Syndrome

I entered Mom's room this morning with some trepidation and a book bag filled with knitting, banana, prayer book, journal, diverting book, and how to jump start your career book.  I was prepared to stay for quite a while, quietly keeping watch by her bedside.  Her head tilted to one side, she was obviously out on the morphine, but when I kissed her on the forehead she opened her eyes, gave a huge toothless smile and whispered in her best Boston accent, "Hi, Dahlin'!"  The nurse came in and told me that she had finished a glass of liquid nourishment a few hours ago and seemed in a fine mood.  My friend Bob came, a Catholic priest, and gave her the Sacrament of the Sick (formerly "Last Rites" for those of you who don't keep up) and she told him she loved him, then insisted on kissing his hand.  Her voice is still soft and raspy from her episode the night before last, and she is too weak to get out of bed and into her wheelchair...yet...but I'm not sure what the odds would be in Vegas on her getting there.

So after a night of too many sherries and hysterical sobbing, tossing and turning, and second-guessing myself I am emotionally and physically exhausted, but Mom looks pretty good.  I have no idea what will happen next.  Does anyone?  The woman is tough as a three dollar steak, and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if she hung on for a month or more.  The only thing I know for certain is that I'm taking a fat nap before going back there later today.  And that I have the most supportive, wonderful, caring friends anyone has ever assembled on one planet.