Then I set out to find a whole new set of resources. I discovered that our town provided a free service called the "GetAbout" van for seniors who needed transportation. My sister 17）pitched in with frequent visits and trips with Mom to the city. And all those friends whose laughter I heard through the wall…they were only too glad to help. Life took on a sense of new normal. Soon I could hear the teakettle sing on the other side of the wall. Once, after an afternoon with her friends, Mom came to me, giggling. "The girls had me sit on the floor. They wanted to watch me get up on my own. They couldn’t believe I was so 18）limber." I could hear the 19）note of pride in her voice. Would I have gotten down on the floor in front of my friends just to prove a point?
"You know," Mom continued, "losing your sight isn’t so bad. When you can’t see the wrinkles, everyone looks beautiful!" I looked at her and wondered if I could ever be so accepting of such a 20）scary thing as losing my eyesight. What I once saw as Mom’s disorganization now seemed to be an incredible 21）flexibility, a gift for rolling with life’s punches, of adapting.
A few weeks before Christmas in 2002, Mom complained of shortness of breath. The 22）internist sent us to the 23）cardiologist who sent Mom to get an 24）echocardiogram. In the examination room I guided Mom’s thin arms through the 25）gaping holes of a huge blue paper gown. How tiny and frail she looked. When had she gotten so old? I wondered. Mom had 26）congestive heart failure. She wasn’t a good candidate for 27）heart valve replacement surgery. "But with proper 28）medication," the cardiologist said, "she should be able to live another two or three years." Two or three years, I thought in dismay. That’s so little time!
Each morning I peeked through the blinds of Mom’s back door and watched her tiny shoulders and chest rise and fall as she slept. How I dreaded the morning that I would find that she wasn’t moving. Daily I 29）braced myself for that moment, knowing it had to come. I told myself it would be a 30）blessing if Mom could simply die peacefully in her sleep. Yet I dreaded it. But what was it I dreaded? Her death? Or that sense of being dissimilar that I was still trying to shake?
On a Monday night in August our family gathered around Mom in her hospital bed. Her grandchildren hugged her goodbye. Mom nodded. She was still with us. Mom’s lips moved ever so slightly. I bent my head closer. "Help me," she whispered. "We’re here, Mom," I squeezed her hand tightly. Her breathing was so slow. "Help me," she said again. Help you? I looked to my sister and Tom. How could we help her? We’d done everything the doctors said we could. Then, suddenly, I understood. Tears ran down my cheeks. "We’re here, Mom. I love you. It’s all right." Her breathing grew 31）shallow. Breaths came farther apart…