Blink

"I wish you knew me before," she said to me one night, while she could still speak. I do too. I've seen pictures. She was stunning. She taught preschool. She just got married. She had headaches. She came to us, a brain tumor took over, and her regression began: her ability to walk, get out of bed, go to the bathroom left one at a time. In the end she lay in bed, eyes wide and scared, voice gone. Her mom never leaves her side. Her baby has become her baby once again. Her mom writes each letter of the alphabet on a plain piece of paper, clearly, in rows. She holds the paper in front of her daughter and points slowly to each letter, one at a time. My patient blinks when she wants her mom to stop and her mom records the letter. The letters blend together. We insert spaces where they're needed. It is in this manner she spells out what she needs, what she's thinking. HELPME. DONTLETMEDIE. ICANTDOTHISANYMORE. IWISHYOUDIDNTHAVETOSEEMETHISWAY. IMSORRY. It's tedious and time consuming and heart breaking. One letter at a time.