Upturn in the Dark April 11, 2000  Jeanie Wylie's sweet head, now wounded again, looks like the map of a warzone - scarred, cross-stitched, overlaid with the subterranean shunt tube, and now a third shaved and fuzzy length of hair - yet she remains unaffectedly beautiful. One of the nurses declares her gorgeous and brings in a turquoise scarf to cover the battleground and make her practically beatific. This morning her countenance - quick smile and eyes full of thoughts she can't yet say - was so sunny it turned my mo od rightside up. It has not always been so this last week.  Yesterday was actually worst, though perhaps I gave in. She: sluggish and slack, utterly nonverbal, acting only on command. Me: dragged under with grief. I summoned my brother out of a Methodist meeting in sobs over the payphone. The recovery, for which we pray, has been slow and incremental at best. Doctors, even those we like and trust, render diverse opinions, some dire and deadend: "If I had to classify her state, it would be 'dementia.'This may be what we're going to get." Short-term memory seemed to be withering rather than improvin g. Over the weekend, her Mom, sister and brother-in-law, on a marathon visit would engage her joy. Then returning from a bathroom break, she'd open the door, suddenly so pleased and surprised and full of welcoming smiles all over again. However, today she rallies unaccountably. Initiates conversation she can't even finish. Pushes me physically toward the elevator on a stroll through the hall. Let's blow this popstand, whatever it may be.  She is strong and stable enough to come home in the next day or two. To that end, we reconvened the famous clearness committee to figu re the possibilities for 24-hour care (at least for the time being). Personally, I believe being home will ground her in place and time, allowing the brain to more safely reroute it's signals.  I'm six days into a fast. I know it's counterintuitive when I need strength for Jeanie and the girls, but intuitive nonetheless. As a form of prayer, it seemed most in accord with my sense of powerlessnes s. And a way of honoring the emptiness already in my gut. When I've felt tired and weak, its really been from sleeplessness. If anything the fa st has lightened and energized me. I'm verified in the late night impulse. And when that woman finally walks up the stairs and in the door here, I will feast in ways more than one.  Downstairs (I'm writing in the attic) the girls are noisily dragging furniture - their way of preparing space for Jeanie's Mom, Grandma Bea, to come for a longer stay. Earlier, I found Lucy quietly crying in Grandpa Sam's sermon-writing morris-chair by the front windo w. "Just too many changes!" she explains. O sweetie, you don't have to give up your room. But, of course, I've barely touched the real change. "No, it's Mom needing so much help and care." We hold one another and cry in complete agreement. Later on the phone, Jeanie freely holds up her end of a conversation with both girls. And now the furniture gets energetically pushed.  I don't know. Usually, to be frank, I wait for an upturn of some sort (like this morning) to write you all. But I don't honestly know if what we get is increments turning a corner or simply what we get. But you know what, dear friends? What we get is Jeanie Wylie through and through. Even sluggish and weighed under, it's she. So far, even at the worst, she knows she's loved. Even at worst, she loves from somewhere so deep it can't be covered over or knifed away. With nothing more than that (but thank God blessedly more) we can live.  Til the darkest glass clears, Bill  Soar We Now Two simpatico notes from California: "You are chronicling a via crucis of the most intimate kind, and your words, like dropped tears, pave the way for all of us to follow. Tomorrow, I'll fast with you." "I will think of you especially during Holy Week and know you will be relating to the passion and suffering in a most personal way. I can only hope for you the resurrection too. I love you."