Days have fallen into an uncertain rhythm, a sameness. I cram in a visit almost every day, and the two that I didn't make it prompted multiple text messages and calls from my mom, and once even from the nurses' station. She's become fixed on the idea that she is moving, and industriously packs everything, including the wall clock. When I thought to hinder the process by taking the tote bags with me, she stripped the bed and bundled all of her clothing along with playing cards, phone charger and a half-empty milk carton into a sheet. All of this was piled onto a wheelchair she found in the hall so she could be ready to go. I start our time together with cheery conversation while I unpack and sort and restore order to this hospital room that she has been staying in for almost three weeks. And I'm learning where to hunt for missing items. Today I have no time constraints, so I settle into getting her mind back on track. Whatever that means. W...