Sandra’s Saga: Chapter 11 Stronger at Home

“We do not remember days, we remember moments”. ——- Cesare Pavese

My mother always used to say, “Strength doesn’t only live in muscles, Sandra. Sometimes it’s in the decision to try again.”

She forgot she ever said that. But I remembered.

And now, after months of small changes—better food, physical therapy, more music and laughter—I saw her trying again. Not just existing. Trying. And I decided it was time to give her a new kind of support: a daily routine, built around the life she still had inside her.

No hospitals. No lectures. Just home. Just love. Just us.

The Routine We Built

It started simple.

Mornings began with her favorite music—classical piano or slow jazz—and a tall glass of warm lemon water. While she sipped, we did what the therapist called “bedside energizers”: toe taps, leg lifts, shoulder rolls. Ten minutes. Gentle. But consistent.

Then came movement time. Instead of calling it “exercise,” we called it “the flow.” Sometimes it was seated stretches with resistance bands. Other days we danced, swayed, or practiced sit-to-stand transitions using the arm of the couch. We even tried a few adapted yoga poses—I’d demonstrate my version, and she’d laugh and do hers. It wasn’t pretty. But it was progress.

And every afternoon, she helped prepare a small part of dinner—washing vegetables, tearing greens, stirring a pot. It gave her purpose. And I swear, food tastes better when it’s made by many hands.

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My Husband, the Quiet Anchor

I’ll admit, for a long time, I carried most of the caregiving weight. Not because he couldn’t help, but because I never quite asked him to.

Frank, my husband, is a steady man. A former high school math teacher with a knack for crossword puzzles and a deep love for oatmeal raisin cookies. He wasn’t one for drama or declarations. But one night, after watching Mom shuffle across the living room with her walker and a proud little smile, he said softly, “She’s getting stronger.”

“I think she is,” I replied.

He nodded. “You know, I can take over the morning routine on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Gives you time to write. Or breathe.”

I blinked. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said. “We’re in this together, remember?”

That simple sentence nearly undid me.

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The Travel Dream Becomes a Plan

Dilma came by one weekend with a stack of travel brochures and a grin too wide for her face.

“Think of this,” she said, flipping to a photo of a lakeside villa just two hours away. “Local. Peaceful. Wheelchair accessible. Perfect for a test run.”

We looked at each other—me, Dilma, and Frank. My husband raised an eyebrow. “You planning to take your wild friend here and leave me behind?”

“Never,” I said, nudging him. “You’re driving.”

Mom, from her spot near the window, chimed in. “If you go, I want photos. And I want a souvenir. Something sparkly.”

That was it. The green light.

But first, we’d do a few more weeks of our new routine. Get her even stronger. Let Frank practice being her solo caregiver on those test days. Create a rhythm that worked.

For the first time, I didn’t feel torn between obligation and adventure. I felt prepared.

I am Sandra. I’m building bridges—between past and future, duty and desire, caregiving and living. My mother is stronger. My husband is beside me. And this next chapter? It’s not just mine anymore. It’s ours.