The first good day

On the three week anniversary of the last good day I had with my mother (the last normal conversations, the last time I was certain that she knew who I was), I had the first good day with my family. Aside from a brief few moments this morning, there have been no tears and I’ve tried my best to focus on the positive memories and not the sadness of the past few weeks. I know there is a long road ahead and I expect to have more tough days. For example, I keep seeing Mother’s Day displays and for now I am doing my best to ignore them.
Today was spent shopping and eating with my family. It might seem like an ordinary day to you but it was extraordinary to me because most of my weekends and weeknights for the last six months have been spent in or in transit to and from hospitals or rehab centers.
But my mind still drifts back. It’s hard to accept this new reality as I found out tonight when, out of routine, I went to the phone before supper and was ready to dial it for my mother’s typical evening chat. Then I remembered.
We take for granted the ordinary days. I am thinking tonight, as I sit out on the deck typing this, that my mother was only outside a handful of times in the last six months. Aside from ambulance transfers, she was only in a series of different rooms and none of those rooms were home. I wonder if she was even aware when she was moved for the last time two weeks ago tomorrow, briefly out in the sunshine one last time.
We should appreciate our days in the sunshine. I do because I keep thinking about how the sunny days are numbered for all of us and today I do not take that for granted but I know that one day I may forget this feeling and that is probably supposed to happen as a part of the process of healing. I just don’t know. How will I know how good a normal day is if I forget how I felt when I wasn’t having them?

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