For the past few days, Owen has been more tired, not speaking much at all. Yesterday, he ate only two tiny spoonfuls of yogurt, and didn't have anything to drink. We continue to offer him things to eat and drink, even if he is unable to answer us. He does open his eyes here and there, although we are not entirely sure how much he is able to see clearly. I am no longer able to hold him on my lap-it is just far too painful for him to be moved that much. Obviously, keeping him comfortable and pain free is most important, so I make that sacrifice, knowing that likely, I will not be able to hold him that way again.
There is no standard measurement for the amount of pain one feels with the knowledge that she will lose her child. No Richter scale to give a comparative number to people who have never watched their child slowly decline. This particular time is most difficult to date. It is wonderful in numerous ways because Owen is still here. Although I am not able to hold him in my lap, I am still able to touch him, kiss him, listen to him breathe. Yet, I know that time is so limited now. I see him getting more and more tired, less able to fight. Of course I would continue to care for Owen for the rest of my life, even with the circumstances being what they are. What is most troubling for me is the knowledge that I will not be able to do that soon. Someday, far too soon, I will not be able to do those things with him that I cherish so much.