I have a scar on my chest. The remnant of an in-grown hair that I dug out. Years ago, when I first noticed it, it felt like an inconvenience, but I knew if I waited long enough it would disappear. Years have passed, and I've realized that it is a part of me. If it does go away, it will probably take years to do so.
At some point, Mom started falling. She had episodes where she would freeze, her strength would vanish, and she'd crash into the floor. If she got hurt, it meant a trip to the hospital and often an extended stay in a rehab facility. At-home occupational or physical therapy would follow. It was hard work for Mom, but when it started she would tell me how she knew that she would work through this time and she would get better and have the life she was used to living. But the cycle stretched on for years, and it started to feel as if there would never be a return to normalcy. When it started to become difficult to get Mom motivated to exercise, I asked her why she didn't do it. She told me she was depressed and feeling sorry for herself because she knew that exercising wouldn't make her better, it would only slow down her deterioration. What had seemed to be temporary had slowly crept over her and taken over her life.
When I think about Mom, the helplessness that creeps in can be suffocating. At the same time, I have a feeling in the back of my head that this will all go away one day and life will go back to normal. I'll come home for Christmas and Mom will be there, brimming with joy to see me. We'll open presents, and maybe I'll have gotten her something that brings tears of joy to her eyes. It feels like if I wait a little while longer, my life will find its way back.