One more bite?” I gently prod her mouth with the silicone-tipped child’s spoon. She jerks away and bangs a fist against her chair. “Okay. We’re done.” I set aside the bowl of pureed squash flower soup—her favorite—and carefully wipe her face with a damp washcloth. The left corner of her mouth droops and orange-tinted saliva oozes from her lip. I swipe it clean. Her green eyes bounce from side to side as she shakes uncontrollably, arms and legs undulating in a jerky rhythm. I offer her a sip of water through a straw. Washcloth at the ready, I catch the stream from the left side. “More?” She shakes her head. “Na-na-na-no.” Deciphering her stuttered and jumbled speech has become second nature. “All right.” I put down the glass and cloth. She tries to brush her bangs from her eyes but misses. Instinctively I reach out to help but stop myself just before touching her. Although it frustrates her to try and miss, it pisses her off even more when I help her. She eventually gets them moved out of the way.
