My mother is a presence in my blog, I know, and usually when I write about her, it's with a sort of amused affection because she's just so HERSELF and just so larger than life.
But lately I've been thinking about that year I was sick--how I spent part of that time in the hospital and then in bed for seven months. She was barely 30. She had just moved from a home she'd loved in Salt Lake to a town she didn't like much (that would be Provo). She'd just had a new baby. And the Coach had a new REALLY STRESSFUL job.
She was already isolated, and my illness isolated her from making new friends even more. And yet she took such tender care of me.
I think of the young woman she was sometimes in the early of each morning when I step outside to see what this day might bring and thank her quietly for the opportunity I have to do just that.