It all began in the early summer in Georgia, during the final months of my mother's life. I was formally exiting the old norm of being housed to a new life of unpleasant surprises.
After the initial terror of episodes of "dementia", mother really began to find her way. She gradually spent less time within the limits of our perception and was more frequently in quiet conversation with others, to the left, right or through me.
I took refuge in a semblance of structure, securing the money to pay the final month's rent (through the Salvation Army) while also researching shelters and homelessness services.
In late August, 2012, mother fell and broke both of her hips. I was not there. Her husband had called my elder brother and his wife and they all later told me how piteously she cried and begged to not be taken to the hospital. Perhaps in one of her quiet conversations, she had seen and discussed a foreshadowing of the end.
I had done intake and moved into a very large, dirty, darkly educational shelter in Atlanta. The place was year-round and well-situated. I spent the days in libraries researching ways of self-help--and in making myself useful at the shelter. I had food stamps and there was still a little money in my bank account, so I periodically bought and delivered toilet paper to the staff, which got me raised eyebrows--and quietly bestowed perks. Such gestures added to the structure that helped me cope.