Living in the past is not something that I choose to do all the time, but I will admit that I relish reminiscing now and then. As I was digging through some of my older writings, I came across something I wrote about my mother, and our last Christmas together.
It was Dec. 24, 1986, and I was hustling and bustling to get last minute things done. Since Ma had fallen around Thanksgiving and broken her hip, she was not coming to my house to spend the day here as in years past. So I went to visit her at the rest home she had lived in for the past seven years, due to a stroke.
Now, instead of using her walker as before, she was confined to a wheelchair. It was hard for me to see this independent woman confined in this way, and I am sure she felt much the same.
“I don’t feel like myself,” she confided. “I don’t think I will ever walk again. The therapy isn’t working, my arms get too sore.”