Here to do nothing

I'm in Tennessee.

I got to see my Aunt Frances, which is the reason I made this trip, after all.

She does not look well. If my mother hadn't lead me to the room, if I hadn't known to look for her in the bed, I would not have recognized her. Her face is partially hidden because she is intubated. Breathing had become a chore for her, so the respirator is helping her out. Her kidneys have stopped working, but they don't think the toxins in her blood will become critical enough for dialisys until tomorrow, so has of now she is bloated in her face, her neck, her arms, her fingers, and her legs and feet. She is also older than I picture her in my mind.

She doesn't always respond to visitors. I've had her roll her eyes and blink at me and turn her head a bit, but other times she cracks her eyes open then shuts them tight. They are keeping her sedated. It's very hard to watch, though.

It is even harder on those who love her. My mother and Betty and Mary are taking turns spending the night in the waiting room, even though they can't be with her, just in case something happens. There is always someone there.

I've been driving people to and from the house, taking them places they needed to go. I did a very little bit of cleaaning. I sat in the waiting room for a bit while my Aunts went for a walk.

But I'm leaving tomorrow. And nothing has changed. There is this limbo, this state of nothing happening, but everyone calling, of telling a hundred people each day that nothing has changed. It's a stressful, busy time, but also quiet and calm and sad.

I'm planning on going out after visiting hours and buying ink for the printer here at the house. I figure that's one thing I know I can do.