Coming back home had a sweet and bitter taste.
Coming back home used to be flavored by a familiar taste which was accented by cherished memories. However, this time those memories are more bitter than sweet, for they remind of who I used to be and emphasize the fact that I will never be that person again.
Adaptations had to be made to my parents’ house. The bedrooms were upstairs, and there was no way to get me there. The bed had to be set in the living room so I could sleep there. A house that was designed to accommodate a family has turned into a hut once a wheelchair user arrived.
The houses’ layout was too cramp, and there was no way that the remodeling to fit a person in my circumstances could be made without an extension. There was a problem though; the legislation does not permit changes to be made to the exterior of the building.
One thing my mother did not realize when taking me home is that she was signing up for a crusade. With that, battle to get permission to make the necessary changes to the house to accommodate me had big effect on the outcome of my life.
We live in a small community and the social services never had a case like mine before. They simply did not know what to do and how to imply the services. Every necessity of mine became an uphill battle for mom. Sometimes it felt like a fight for the fundamental human rights.
I still cannot comprehend how she managed. Leaving for work early in the morning, rushing back home at lunch break to see how I was doing or going to one or other office to fight for my rights.
Coming back home at the end of the day to take care of me and going to sleep with one ear open so she can run to me if I would need assistance in the middle of the night. Waking up next morning to take care of me before leaving for work.
Such an awful routine for a woman who already had done her share and should be enjoying her life with my dad.
She managed though. She won all the battles, completed her crusade and life got better. My mother is my hero: a real modern time Heroin!