Through a fog, I hear the dreaded “Hello?” that tells me Norma's out of bed and waiting for me to start shepherding her through the day.  I trudge down the hall and meet her standing at the door of her bedroom. “Jesus, honey, it's just 2 o'clock. You've got to lie down.” Without protest, she lets me lead her back to bed and tuck her in.  As usual, I grab my phone and slip in beside her, hoping my proximity will lull her into a dormant state for the next few hours. (I've resisted going to bed with her as a routine because I still cherish the solitude and squalor of having my own bedroom.)

I doze off and then awaken abruptly from a dream of being unable to find my car in a massive concrete parking garage.  It's still barely light outside. I reach over and find Norma gone. I shout to her—but hear nothing. I rush to the bathroom.  No Norma there, either. Jesus Fucking Christ! What next? I start down the hall, calling out to her and hear her meek, “In here.”  Relief that she's alive instantly neutralizes all my annoyance. There she is, sitting in the living room, looking straight ahead at the blank television screen she's long since forgotten how to activate.  She's dressed herself in a plaid shirt but left her red pajama bottoms on. And she looks smashing. Affecting a calm I don't feel, I sit beside her, patting her hand and steeling myself to the reality that sleep's over for me.

All is well for a while. I feed her and her pesky little dog, load the dishwasher, find her a TV channel that doesn't specialize in rape and dismemberment and immerse myself in Facebook and Twitter.  At intervals, I join her on the sofa to watch TV and try to make her laugh. “Boy, I didn't see that coming,” I say in a tone of wonder as a shopper in a commercial picks a roll of toilet paper off the shelf.  She is not amused.

She's maybe five minutes into “Days of Our Lives”--her favorite soap opera—when she suddenly becomes panicky.  “Let's go,” she says, leaning forward and attempting to stand. “Go where?” I ask. I'm still in my sweats and can think of nothing less alluring than going out into an overcast day that looks like stained gray carpet.  “We've got to get out of here,” she insists, even as I try to explain to her there's nothing to get out to. She's hard-eyed now, and none of my attempts at humor break through. “We've got to get out of here,” she persists.  I give up and tell her we'll go. 

I get us both dressed, assist her in shoving her limp arms through her coat sleeves and then inch-walk her laboriously out to the car.  “Where are we going?” she asks as I wedge her through the passenger side door. A torrent of bitter, smart-ass answers comes to mind, but I just say, “Hell, you tell me.  You're the one who wanted to go somewhere.” She senses that I'm pissed off, which instinctively pisses her off. She quits talking to me. I drive us around randomly for an hour or so, a diversion that does not visibly gladden her heart.

Back at the house, she remains sullen until our youngest daughter calls.  Then she's all smiles again until bedtime. Around midnight, she awakens me with her urgent “Hello?”  Again, I convince her to lie down, but she will not sleep or even try to. “I want to go home,” she repeats at approximately 30-second intervals for the next five minutes, oblivious to my assurance that she's already home. She tosses about and does not drift off again until I put my arm around her and find her a soft spot to rest on my shoulder.  

“Like sand through the hourglass—so are the days of our lives.”  Yep.