Ah, how I’ve waited for the day when my mother could walk unassisted. Now that it has finally arrived, I realize that independence isn’t nearly as grand as I’d imagined.

My mother, who’s been unable to care for herself for almost a year, has literally taken her first steps toward independence. She walked from the den into the kitchen without her walker. Granted, she did some “furniture walking,” the term therapists use when people hold on to pieces of furniture as they walk, but even that is a major accomplishment.

When I watched her do it, I imagined not only her independence but mine, as well. Ah, now I can have more time to myself, go out occasionally, even plan a weekend trip. Oh yes, they were visions of grandeur.

She stood in the kitchen, a big smile on her face, and looked around.

“This is a nice kitchen, isn’t it?” She spoke as if she’d never seen the kitchen before.

“It’s a wonderful kitchen, Mother. Remember last year when we remodelled it?”

She looked a bit perplexed. “It’s always been this way. I used to cook Thanksgiving dinner in here.”

I didn’t argue, even though I knew that we’d renovated last year when Mother ran her car through the garage wall and into the kitchen. She wasn’t hurt, but the kitchen required a total makeover.

Suddenly, something caught her attention. “Where’d that ugly thing come from?” she asked pointing to the toaster. “You didn’t throw away my good one, did you?”

“The old one was on its last legs, so I relieved it of duty. It’s out on the back porch.”

“There wasn’t a thing wrong with that toaster,” she said and frowned. “I probably can’t even work that new fangled gadget.”

I walked to the toaster. “It’s simple, Mother. Just put the bread in and wait for it to pop up. I’ve already set it to “dark” the way you like it. There’s even a slot for bagels, and a special setting for English muffins. You like those sometimes with your eggs in the morning, don’t you?”

She just shook her head and grabbed onto the counter to turn around. She mumbled something I couldn’t quite understand.

“Mother, I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?”

“You threw out my toaster. After all these years, you threw it away. I loved that toaster.”

I sighed.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, ready to fire up the stove and start the bacon.

“I’m starving,” my mother said, “but who could eat anything being so upset?”

She balanced herself first on the island counter then on the two overstuffed chairs in the den. She plopped down in hers and pulled the tray table toward her. “I’m just too upset to eat.”

“Won’t you at least have some coffee?”

She shook her head and scowled at me.

But after a few minutes, she relented, the new toaster forgotten…or so I thought. She had a lovely breakfast, her usual, of bacon, eggs, and toast, though she said the toast tasted funny. She thought it might be poisoned.

Later that afternoon, as I was coming upstairs from the laundry room, I heard what sounded like someone rummaging through boxes. I ran up the stairs and into the den. Mother wasn’t in her chair. I saw movement on the back porch, so I rushed out there.

She stood, her walker nowhere in sight, amidst a heap of discarded pots and pans, old dishes, and opened black garbage bags, the contents spilling out onto the floor.

“Mother, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be out here. You could’ve fallen.”

I could hardly believe all the mess on the porch. How had she managed to empty out so many boxes by herself?

“Mother, can you hear me?” I stood in front of her. “What are you doing out here?”

“I came out here for something,” she said. “I need to sit down, Sister.”

“What were you looking for?” I asked and slid an empty lawn chair close to her.

“Look!” she cried. “There it is on the shelf up there. Get it down.”

I scanned the shelves until I saw it—the toaster, her old toaster. Thank heavens I’d given it a thorough cleaning before I put it out on the shelf.

“Hurry,” she said. “I want some toast out of a real toaster.”

Back inside, I found a few inches of empty countertop space and plugged in the old toaster. Then, I made Mother two slices smeared with lots of butter, just the way she’s always loved it.

She ate one slice and grimaced. Then, she threw the toast back onto the plate.

“What’s the matter, Mother? It’s just like you wanted it, isn’t it?”

She screwed up her face.

“It tastes like dog poo. Tomorrow I’m going to Wal-Mart to buy a new toaster. Will you take me?”

“But, we have a new…”

I didn’t finish the sentence.

I could take her to Wal-Mart, get a wheelchair, roll her through the store, and let her pick out a toaster.

After all, she’s independent now.