In God’s Hands

I put my head down on the steering wheel. A flat tire? Really? I was picking up a pizza for Mom. She rarely cooked anymore. I called AAA, and then let Mom know it would be a while.

Driving back and forth to Indianapolis every weekend to see her was taking a toll on me. It wasn’t sustainable. It was time to have a conversation with Mom about moving.

After her heart catheter procedure, her cardiologist threw out a lot of medical terms, but the one that stuck with me was “heart failure.” Even with medication, her energy level was never going to be the same. She needed help to continue living independently.

Over lunch, I broached the subject. Mom took it in quietly. After a long pause, she told me she knew it was probably for the best. She had raised three children on her own after my father’s untimely death over 60 years ago, and she was nothing if not resilient.

We made a plan. I’d check into senior housing for her, and she’d call her apartment complex to see if she could get out of her lease early. I was slowly becoming the parent in our relationship, but I didn’t mind. After all the years she had looked after me, it was the least I could do.