The hospital, a scan, that word: Parkinson’s. With a company and a household of her own to run. Groceries, cleaning, cooking, arranging the medication, she did it all. Mary, her oldest daughter, did so much for her. Little by little they took over the household, since she couldn’t manage it anymore. Then her children started to visit more often. She stood by the counter in the supermarket with her wallet in her hand and suddenly didn’t know what to do anymore. On quiet days she always knocked on their doors for a chat, or to play cards. They stop by a lot and sometimes take her to their homes for a visit. Fortunately her five children are still around. She loved him very much and still misses him. He had died seven years ago, after 56 years of marriage. In her old house she had lived for 18 years with her husband Martin.

She can see her old house from here, but that seems unreal: it feels miles away. Suddenly, there she was, in her new apartment in the nursing home. She doesn’t remember a lot of things from that week. Mary and the other children talked with her about her moving to a nursing home, and suddenly it had to happen within a week. For the first time now she feels what that means. “Never move old trees” – that’s what they say. She really wants to feel grateful, but instead she feels sad. The building is quite new, it smells fresh. The little cabinet, and her bed, in which she had slept with her husband since they had married. A lot of her things she had to leave behind. Her apartment looks quite spacious, yet it’s half the size of her old house. A lot of green and a small pond with birds. For three months she has been living here now, in an apartment with a living room, one bedroom, private bathroom and a kitchen corner. She is 90 years old and sits quietly in her armchair in her apartment in the nursing home.

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