The Years We Almost Didn’t Have

Sometimes what feels like the beginning of goodbye becomes an unexpected season of grace.

There was a season, over ten years ago, when it felt like Mom and I lived at hospitals more than at home.

In a three-year period, she was hospitalized six different times. She was confused much of the time, struggling physically, struggling mentally, and honestly… there were moments when it felt like we were slowly losing her.

One family member visited during one of the harder stretches when she was at home between hospitalizations and gently suggested it might be time to consider a nursing home.

There was no malice in it. No lack of love. They were concerned about Mom, and I think they were concerned about me too. From the outside, I understood why...it looked overwhelming.

At the time, Mom needed a lot of care. More than most people realized.

What many people didn't fully see, though, was Mom herself.

You see, long before dementia became part of our lives, Mom had two very deep fears:
- losing her mind
- being left in a nursing home

I couldn't stop the dementia. I couldn't promise her perfect health or perfect clarity. But I could make a decision about where and how she would live as long as it was safe for her.

And because God had placed me in a position where my work was flexible enough to allow remote work and time off when needed, I had the ability to try.

So we did.

And then something unexpected happened.

During our sixth hospitalization, I pushed for Mom to remain on antibiotics longer than doctors initially planned — 3.5 days instead of only a few hours — even though they still hadn't clearly identified an infection.

And unexpectedly, Mom began to improve remarkably.

Almost overnight.
Not perfectly.
But genuinely.

Her confusion eased significantly. Her memory improved. Her strength improved. Her personality became clearer again. We were able to travel again. She became more independent. For years, she was again able to care for herself in ways that had once seemed unlikely.

It felt like we had stepped out of survival mode and back into living.

Looking back now, I honestly believe God gave us more time.

Not forever.
Not without difficulty.
Not without future hard seasons.|

But real time.
Good time.
Meaningful time.

More than ten years we very easily could not have had. Those years mattered more than I can fully explain.

We laughed.
We traveled.
We irritated each other sometimes.
We watched shows.

We had ordinary days that did not feel extraordinary at the time — but now I understand they absolutely were.

One of the things caregiving taught me is that people often look at situations and make decisions based only on visible workload.

But love does not measure weight the same way.

Some of the hardest seasons for me emotionally were not when Mom was home needing care. It was when she was somewhere else — in hospitals or rehab facilities.

Even though the physical responsibilities were lighter during those times, the emotional and spiritual burden felt far heavier.

And the constant travel back and forth to spend time with her outside the home took its own physical toll too.

Home mattered.
Presence mattered.
Together mattered.

And honestly, deep in my heart, I believe hope mattered too.

Mom had made her fears about nursing homes clear long before dementia entered the picture. We had talked about it enough over the years for me to know how deeply that possibility weighed on her.

I truly believe that having home to return to helped keep her fighting.

Not perfectly.
Not forever.
But meaningfully.

I honestly do not think her spirit would have survived long if she had felt permanently placed somewhere she feared. I believe she would have quietly given up.

Instead, she had familiarity.
She had comfort.
She had family.
She had reasons to keep coming home.

And by God's grace, she did.

While caregiving was not easy, I do not regret those years for one second.

Now that Mom is gone, I think about that season differently than I once did.

At the time, it felt exhausting.
Uncertain.
Complicated.

Now it feels like grace.

Because what I once thought might be the beginning of goodbye became more than ten additional years of memories, conversations, frustrations, laughter, road trips, ordinary moments, and simply getting to still have my mom here.

Not everyone gets that kind of gift.
I know that.
And I thank God for it.
Every single year of it.