Paint it all white

If you've spent time with Mom recently, you're aware of how adamant she is about fixing up her home. "I'm ordering bamboo floors for the main floor and the upstairs," Mom says. She's excited about all the changes she wants to make. "We're going to have all the woodwork painted white and I'm thinking of changing the color in the kitchen," she continues. She's written every detail in her notebook, complete with drawings, costs and phone numbers to the people who'll get it all done.

Her computer sits on a tray table inches from her right arm. She works on it often, looking for new furniture and deals for the house. She goes back and forth from the computer to her notebook, refusing to stop. If you're in the room with her you'll feel more like a viewer than a participant. It's evident to me how much she cares and how hard she's fighting. She's deeply passionate (a much better term than really obsessive) about the thoughts in her brain and reaching a conclusion quickly.

"Feb. 9th is the end of the cell die-off," she says as she scribbles more thoughts in her book.

I attempt to order a round end-table and new light from Overstock.com via cell phone. Mom visits with her granddaughters. Emma tells Mom about a story of a boy in her classroom having a seizure. Emma held his hand and told him she'd get help. Mom's proud of Emma.

She leans more to the left. We see things differently than Mom does, but we don't say anything. Healing doesn't look like this.

"Dad's getting me some narrow walking shoes so I can walk," Mom says. We smile and tell her we can't wait to walk with her.