Transitions

I’m not big on change. I don’t like it when my favorite items get moved to a different aisle in the grocery store. I don’t like having to take a different route to my destination. I don’t like moving.

Neither does my mother. She must have gotten that trait from me. But sometimes life throws a sh*tload of stuff at you and there is no choice but to change.

Some of you might thrive on change. To you, I gently ask, “Have you tried therapy?”

I never knew my mom was afraid of change because she never told me. She’s had a great deal of change in her life, and seemed to just roll with it. But then again, I’m the kid, and moms don’t always share their fears with their kids.

At nearly 92, my mom’s mind is fully intact. She has great stories to tell. She’s a good listener. She’s kind and supportive. She has close and devoted friends and neighbors.

But three weeks ago she ended up in the ER, and spent 5 days in the hospital. Then it was time for Rehab—a change. My mom was nervous about the new environment, the new people. (Mom, I know you’ll read this eventually—thank you for trusting Sandy and me with how you were feeling.)

On the second day Mom and the woman at her table bonded over the horribly overcooked waffles, so hard they could barely cut them. Soon they were eating every meal together, and exchanging cell numbers and addresses.

Today, exactly 3 weeks after her ER visit, my mom moves to a 2- bedroom assisted living apartment. (People comment on how lucky we were to find a great apartment so quickly. Most don’t know that all three of us had been researching and visiting and getting Mom on waiting lists. When this apartment opened up I pleaded with Mom to consider moving now. She said no, but her body had other plans.)

It’s a small building, only 35 rooms. Single story, with a sitting area at the end of each hallway well-stocked with books and puzzles and comfortable chairs. Because Mom’s apartment is right next to this area, I’m calling it her “outer office,” or perhaps her “waiting room.”

And just off the waiting room is a door outside to a small patio with chairs. No one’s likely to use that but the people in the 3-4 rooms near it, so I’ve dubbed it “Mom’s patio.” Hey, folks—you snooze, you lose. No one’s using it, so why not?

I leave in a few minutes to spring her from Rehab and drive her to the new place. Is my mom scared? Oh, yes, and I don’t blame her. Not only is it change, but it’s a permanent one. What if she doesn’t like the apartment? The food? The people sitting at her table? The activities?

My mom is tough. She was raised by two sheep ranchers: her tough French-Canadian father and her tough Montana mother. She’s going to be just fine. It may take her awhile to find her groove, but I know she will.

And I’m sure she hasn’t been paying any attention to this, but she’s showing my sister and me how to age gracefully. I’m heading for my 70s kicking and screaming, but it might be more healthy to accept reality and learn to love the changes.

Hmm. You might need to give me a little more time for that.