Waiting Room

I see my mom. She's in a waiting room. She has an appointment she can't miss, and she's sitting in the waiting room, and she can't leave the waiting room because she can't miss the appointment, and she showed up 15 minutes early like she was supposed to, but it's still not her appointment time, so she's just waiting.

There's no way out of the waiting room. Her appointment is very close. All she can do is wait, and her mind set is that of someone waiting. She sits in a white waiting room sitting hunched and all alone in a gray chair in a row of gray chairs, snacking on grapes, swinging her feet back and forth like a bored child, in her nightgown, wondering when it will be her appointment time, tired of sitting there, thinking nothing, imagining nothing, just sitting there bored and hoping to just get the appointment over with, waiting for someone to come get her.

That is what I envision when I try to comprehend what it is she is going through, these last days.

They are going to talk to my father about hospice care now. It's a matter of days to weeks.

She is too out of it to dwell on it. In a book, it seems, that this is all natural, the body shuts down and the mind withdraws, to prepare for its death.

I'm sure we all want to know, where, where does the mind go?