Before I always thought that old age would come unnoticed, that one day I would just wake up and realize that I was 68, retired, a widow, the mother of a grown son, and all of this was normal. My life will be quiet and measured like many elderly people in Horn Lake, the small town where I’ve lived most of my life. I’ll read books, go out with girlfriends, maybe get a cat or two, and no one, no one would look at me like I was a porcelain figurine, ready to crumble at the slightest touch.
Everything changed. One April day last year, I was working in the garden, pruning rose bushes, when suddenly the world swam around me and my right hand refused to obey. I remember looking at the pruning shears clenched in my palm and couldn’t understand why my fingers wouldn’t unclench.
And then a neighbor found me, called an ambulance, and my life was divided into before and after. MicroStroke. Two words the doctor said with such relief, as if he were telling me I’d won the lottery.
You’re lucky, Mrs. Trembley. We made it in time.
Your recovery will be complete. But you need to take care of yourself. Take care of myself.
Had I known that phrase would become a chain reaction curse, I would have asked the doctor to never ever to say it in front of my son, Randy. Randall Trembley, my only son, has always been an imaginative child. As a child, he was afraid of everything, the dark, loud noises, strangers.
James, my late husband, worried that the boy would grow up to be a coward, but I saw his caution as a sign of sensitivity. Now looking back, I realize it wasn’t sensitivity, but fear of losing control. And over the years, that fear only grew stronger.
By the age of 42, Randy had become a master of control. In his house, everything was in its proper place. Breakfast was served at 7:00 a.m.
sharp, and his evening walk with the dog began at 7:00 p.m., regardless of the weather. He married late at 39 to Laurel, a woman who seemed to share his passion for order and predictability. And all was well until I became a problem that needed fixing.
After my micro stroke, I spent only 3 days in the hospital. Randy wanted me to move in with him and Laurel, but I refused. My house is all I have left of my old life with James.
Every corner of it holds memories. On this wall here hangs the painting we bought in Santa Fe on our 20th anniversary. In this chair, James read the evening papers.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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