Burst Bubbles

Two weeks before Mom’s 87th birthday, she moved from California to Illinois to be near me, her only living child.
Mom had been a widow for four years. She’d lived in the same town, had the same friends, picked blackberries from the same bush, for thirty years.

I painted a lovely imaginary watercolor of how life with Mom would look. My husband, Kevin, and me taking her out to dinner, playing board games after lunch on Sundays, and spending hours watching Jeopardy together. I was determined to help Mom adjust to her new life and have fun doing it.

But when Mom began to decline—osteoporosis, Alzheimer’s, hearing loss—Kevin and I realized how unprepared we were for the adjustments we’d need to make. My pretty, colorful painting was in tatters.

Over the next few years we learned which restaurants accommodated a walker, which games had simple rules, and how to talk to Mom without going hoarse. I wrestled with God daily while he showed me how to let go of my illusions and recast my expectations. It’s exhausting work, but Mom is happy.