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She had always been active, hyper even. The main gift she gave to the world was energy and service.  Baking cakes, visiting the sick, sending cards to the elderly with birthdays and working at places like Protestant Welfare and Dinners for the Needy on Wednesday nights defined my mother.  Mother is a young 87 year old or at least she was until the fall last summer.  Months of recovery then another surgery somehow sent her into a state of constant state of craving sleep.  Even when she was awake her eyes would become hooded, almost droopy, with the signal it was time for everyone to leave.  Slurs of confusion, forgotten appointments and wobbly legs makes her life hazy.  The blurs of existence surrounding her now give her pause, knowing something isn’t right but too weak to fight the fog that pushes her toward sleep.  The doctors say it is part of the healing process.  Mom says it’s too much medication. I say “Please, God save her from this torment.”  My dad shakes his head with fought-back tears wanting to believe she just isn’t trying hard enough and fearing she’s given up.  Yet he takes her to Walgreens or Wal-Mart to push the cart up and down aisles to exercise like I suggested hoping that today it will be partly sunny instead of walking in fog.