"It's pretty bad, isn't it?"

Mom's talking more again. Just a few minutes ago, she had two phone conversations, one with her brother (my uncle John), who is currently in St. Louis on business, and another with her good friend Mrs. Kopf. I don't know what was said during these conversations, and have no idea whether the conversations followed a logical train, but at the very least Mom was interacting with people over the phone in both English and Korean.

Alas, Mom is much, much weaker than she was on June 2. She was barely able to walk to the van with Dad's and Sean's assistance when we left home around 2PM. Upon our return at close to 8PM, she had only enough strength to mount the stairs to our back door, simply allowing herself to sag in Dad's and my grip right when we reached the threshold. We ended up carrying Mom inside the house, crossing the dining room and kitchen, and finally depositing Mom on her couch. As we carried her, she laughed at the ridiculousness of her situation, alternately moaning "Oh, my goodness!" and "Oh, my gosh!" between weak bouts of mirth.

We got Mom onto her couch, settling her into her favorite corner. She slumped there, shoulders sagged, staring at the floor and panting from the experience of being awkwardly carried, obviously thinking hard about something. Finally, after a few quiet moments, it came out:

"It's pretty bad, isn't it?"

I could have broken down then, I admit, but I was buoyed by this evidence that Mom was starting to grasp her own situation. I feigned ignorance:

"What's pretty bad, Mom?"

Mom didn't look up from her contemplation of the floor.

"All of it."

I sat down next to Mom and took her hand.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad." I squeezed her fingers. "But that's what we're here for."


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