Yesterday morning, I was awakened by my phone which is rarely kept in my bedroom at night. My iPad keeps me company instead. If my phone rings, and it never does, then the wonders of modern technology will allow my iPad to receive the call. But that’s not why I keep it on the floor next to my side of the bed. It’s more for the occasions I wake in the night and counting sheep or tracing walks through the English countryside or a Southern California beach in Winter cannot lull me back to sleep. I play games: matching games, solitaire, crossword.

Sometimes I read about something I can’t control. That helps me understand and cope in one efficient swoop. Lately, I’ve told myself it’s good for my brain, as if it somehow makes up for a lack of sleep. I’ve had quite a bit on my mind lately. At times, too much.

Earlier this week when my sister was visiting with one of her daughters and newest grandbaby, my husband had to leave unexpectedly after learning his father had had a severe stroke. Not wanting to fiddle with the iPad should he call, I’ve kept my phone nearby for the past two nights.

When a call came in yesterday morning, I didn’t recognize the number so let it go to voice mail. Glasses retrieved from where I’d knocked them onto the floor while flailing for my phone, I realized it was a local call most likely from one of the staff members at the facility where my mother now lives. There had been an incident.

I thought of my father-in-law in that moment, unable to move most of his body, unable to speak in a clear voice or connected way, and most likely feeling anxiety about his new condition. In contrast, my mother is completely mobile, and outside of having poor vision, is almost as sturdy as an old oak, but much thinner. Unfortunately, Dementia has left her with almost no memory and significant personality changes. She is often very unhappy.

At this minute, my husband is with his father as are other family members. His father’s passing is imminent. He has been texting me from time to time since yesterday when they decided his father would be receiving hospice care in the hospital instead of returning him to the place he’s lived with his wife of more than 60 years. “He stops breathing for a while, then takes three large breaths. He’s wheezing and the rattle is beginning,” my husband shares. As much as I have learned about how a human body prepares for death, I realize I’m struggling with the updates.

Yesterday, after listening to the voice mail about my mother, I returned the call immediately. The “incident” had been at breakfast between my mother and another resident. She has made a few friends who enjoy sitting together at meals. Recently, one was moved to a facility closer to her family. Her vacant seat in the dining room was taken by the resident who slapped my mother on the arm. I imagine my mother said something unpleasant to her which perpetuated the aggression — something like, that’s not your seat. There might even have been a sneer on her face at the time because I’ve seen that personality. My mother didn’t deserve being slapped, but I understand her retaliation was immediate. She slapped the woman back. There were no complaints about the incident. I was simply being informed. It conjured memories of teaching Middle School. Dear Mr. or Ms. So and So, your daughter struck another student today at lunch.

Right now, according to my husband, my father-in-law takes about three breaths before lapsing back into stillness for almost a minute. He appears comfortable. My husband and others take turns holding his hand. They share stories about growing up that feature their father while their mother mentions she cannot hear because of her hearing aids. She, also, has severe memory loss, and so as much as it seems she understands what is happening, I expect she will relive what has happened over and over after he passes because she won’t remember. I know this because my mother’s husband passed away several months ago. She often mentions that it seems it never happened.

I may go to visit my mother tomorrow, but could wait another day. I’ll wait because I never know how she will respond when I’m there or how she’ll behave when I leave. I’d appreciate being able to bring her to my house in a normal way. Perhaps we’d do some gardening, or I’d make an early dinner for her. Sit on the front porch with our dog and call to the passersby. I just don’t have the confidence that it will go well. Not yet. She’s unpredictable. I don’t have the emotional energy to handle it well. I’d like not to think about it.

Right now, the sun has just dropped below the horizon. Hours have gone by as we wait for my father-in-law to pass. He’s been more a father figure to me than my own father whom I’ve only ever had a vague, sporadic relationship with since I was four. My father-in-law has definitely had a more positive impact on me than my stepfather who was abusive in a number of ways.

I’ve always appreciated my father-in-law’s demeanor: calm, pleasant, quiet, appreciative. At 95, he’s lived a very long life. I’m glad to have known him and to have had the experiences we’ve enjoyed. The six-week wine tasting class that met once a week was excellent. We never spat out the wine as instructed. The animated discussions we engaged in lacked animosity, just the way we all used to be able to contest one another’s views. The trip to England my husband and I accompanied his parents on contained moments of wonder, of hilarity, and expected impatience: how difficult is it to find a Ploughman’s lunch in a characterful pub with a fire roaring in the grate on a crisp Fall day? Evidently, quite. Good memories, though. Very good.

It’s time to go outside and appreciate the coolness in the air this evening. To sit with my dog on the porch and be thankful for my life. To appreciate now. To wait for my husband’s call.