i emerge from the kitchen bearing an old favorite: hamburger patty (no bun, no veggies, no nothing) and salty, cheesy fries. ma'am is at her computer, i believe in the throes of a quest for which she will earn 30 platt (roughly equal to $300, she estimated earlier).

"It's a little hot," i tell ma'am as i hand her the plate. 

"i should think so," she jibes. "you did just make it."

i crack a smile at the ma'amological statement. she is quick to point out when i have said something unnecessary, illogical or all-too logical... she is the ultimate with "captain obvious" callouts, a combination of her uncanny observational powers and her shameless expression of all thoughts and feelings.  it irked me slightly at first, but now i kind of appreciate it. makes me more aware of useless speech. 

how buddhist. if only we could all be like ma'am. 

while she munches, i sit down in the faded blue armchair (the unofficial official caregiver's chair) to write in the notebook. "6:15pm- dinner: burger and cheesy fries." i glance at ma'am's desk, eyeing the token liter of Pepsi that stands- monumentally, unfalteringly- next to the computer screen. "and pepsi," i add as an afterthought, although I know it won't make a difference. pepsi is kind of a given. it's often part of breakfast.

After a pause, I scrawl "6:30- meds", a bit premature. my eyes drift from the trusty composition book to the rows of pillboxes on the sidetable. 10:30!  4!  6:30!  7:30! all ready, all poised, in uniform, ready to serve their makers with their noble duty of consumption, digestion, and diffusion through the bloodstream... ready to fight, and yes perhaps die, for freedom from mindfucks... these heroic little pills march fearlessly from earth into Pfizer heaven: the brain. 

ma'am takes so much medication it makes my head spin. and occasionally, more gets arbitrarily added. i guess at this point they figure, what's another few chemicals more or less? the effect of them on her brain (compounded with electroshock therapy, among other things, i'm sure) is clear. for example, each time you hand ma'am her pillbox, you have to tell her what day it is, because between 6:30 and 7:30 she has forgotten completely.  aside from her usual cocktail (served up in a punchbowl with a straw), she has been taking "big pain" pills every four hours to help with her black and blue toe that she stubbed two nights ago on the way to the bathroom. a "big pain" pill is a giant white hydrocodone (vicodin). half of one of those, and i would be loopier than John Hancock. ma'am seems completely unfazed.

"the burger's good," ma'am says between bites, taking me out of my head. i'm flattered. a compliment from ma'am is rare, but undoubtedly sincere. 

"thanks," i say bashfully. 

ma'am amazes me because despite the spaciness, wastedness, discombobulation, and physical degeneration (no doubt partially from her rigorous regime of powerful medication), ma'am is pretty with it. she talks about current events (albeit select ones, not really New York Times material), is witty, quick, eloquent, and knowledgeable. she has not lost her biting sense of humor, her extensive repetoire of jokes, or her signature unabashed, blunt, and often crass manner. she can (and does) make fun of herself (and whoever else is around). and she is honest to a T. ma'am has not lost herself in her struggles. she is likely more herself now because of them. ma'am has not given up on life. in an odd, backwards kind of way, she may be more alive than many of us deemed normal and functional.

also, ma'am does not know how old she is. 

she said something to me today that conveyed quite succinctly (in my opinion) the nature of mental illness. of course, it could only come from somebody who has struggled their whole life with it. 

she said: "neurotics build dream-castles in the sky. psychotics live in them. psychiatrists collect the rent."

"you don't have to make the burger so big," ma'am tells me as I take her plate back to the kitchen. a few weeks ago, she asked me if i'm trying to fatten her up for a sacrificial feast. 

"well," I answered, "i just do it so you won't be hungry in the middle of the night."

"that's why god invented microwave popcorn," she says matter-of-factly.

I chuckle. "I suppose so... good thing he did."

she glances my way, flashing the most fleeting, knowing, wry little smile you ever saw.

"she," ma'am corrects me.