Like it or not, we are characters in a story of which we are not the author. The changes in the plot can be breathtaking. There are many times when we rejoice that God is in control, and some when we wonder whether anyone is. But usually we are comforted by the thought that the success of the story at least does not depend on our own fitful attempts to be creative or brave or faithful or wise.

When my mother came to live with us, for example, we thought that God had in mind a mutually profitable arrangement. She had the money to afford a good old-age home but was reluctant to go to one. We had the space to accommodate her but not the money for the renovations that would make it possible. Her money applied to our space would allow her to live with us for the short time she was expected to live and thereafter would provide us with an extra suite for any number of uses. Of course we were glad to have her and she was pleased to come, but the good will on both sides was nourished by the soundness of the arrangement when considered just as a plain old business deal. We are a family with a strong Scottish heritage, it may not be necessary to add.

It was easy to work out all the details with my mother at that time because, even at 89, she enjoyed a mental competence and sharpness of memory that were not just remarkable for her age, but enviable at any age. Her problems were physical, with scoliosis seeming to twist and shrink her day by day, a tricky heart threatening mischief at any moment, and poor circulation in her legs leaving them swollen and unreliable. Still, none of her ailments prevented her from energetically supervising her own move from her distant home while we looked after renovating ours. As soon as the renovations were complete the move was made, and one day later the guest of honour arrived by plane.

When we picked her up from the airport we were the frazzled ones, while she appeared calm and eager to see what we had waiting for her. Moments later, enthroned on her own chair, she was surveying her old favourite furniture in its new surroundings with evident and voluble satisfaction. If we had been asked just then we would have confessed to a certain pride in having helped bring about what we were sure would be a perfect sunset to a long and worthy life. I might not have admitted, but certainly I felt, that we had also done rather well in making a personal pro-life statement. After all, it is not really so difficult to take in granny. You simply have to use your head and everything falls into line.

Within two weeks of my mother’s arrival, however, things looked rather different. For reasons which may have been stroke-related, though no evidence of a stroke has ever been uncovered, my mother underwent a total change of personality. It began with vivid and violent hallucinations. Next, this woman who as long as I could remember was everyone’s image of a kind and dignified old lady, told me with startling vehemence one day, “I don’t want to be good anymore.”

She was a life-long Calvinist who had always been blessedly assured of salvation, but now she was certain only of being eternally damned. The person whom we intended to accompany toward death appeared already to have died, and another far less pleasant person had usurped her body. We were uncertain whether we had any obligation to this familiar-looking stranger.

Despite a lifetime spent in churches, she wanted nothing to do with clergymen. I consulted with some psychiatrist friends and then with the local psychiatric hospital. They agreed to have her come for examination, assuring us that in all likelihood, if they could observe her for a few weeks, they could devise a regimen of medicines that would enable her to lead a normal life again. We agreed on a six week trial.

At the end of that period, the hospital was clear on only one thing — they wanted to get rid of her. They had eliminated the possibility of stroke, Alzheimer’s, or normal dementia being a factor. But they could give no positive diagnosis or prognosis. They could neither identify her ailment nor predict its course. They offered only a drug that would restrain the violent spells to which, for the first time in her life, she was prone.

Her return home was quite unlike her first arrival. Optimism was replaced by tentative apprehension. Some violent episodes before her hospitalization had done permanent damage to the room and its furniture. The scars were patched up but seemed to me at least to portend trouble to come. We wondered what sort of care would be expected of us now and how long we would be competent to give it. However, the transition to the new status quo was made easier by tapping into the homecare resources of the Medicare system and supplementing it with whatever private care we were able to find. We were different, though. We saw before us the monotony of heavy daily duties, punctuated by health crises, ending only in death.

In the short term, these expectations were confirmed. There was some rapid physical deterioration, some hospitalizations, no mental improvement. Partial loss of continence came and we began to consider seriously the possibility of finding a full-care facility for her.

Was that the right thought, or only a cowardly one? We never had to find out, because the plot changed again. The physician we had consulted about my mother’s heart and circulation had found exactly what her bodily ailment was, and before half a year had passed, had restored her to a degree of health she had not enjoyed for at least a decade. On the mental side, however, her physician offered no comfort. He was unimpressed with anything he heard from her psychiatric advisors. “It’s very simple,” he would say. “She is senile. She will get slowly worse, but there will be no improvement.” We were so impressed with his understanding of bodily ailments that we thought he would likely be right about her mind as well.

We were all wrong again. About midway through her second year with us she started to improve mentally. There were still days, sometimes weeks, in which she would barely speak or give any sign of normal mental activity. But there were also days when, for a few moments, she would talk pleasantly, even smile, and seem to draw easily on both a short-term and a long-term memory. Those moments grew to hours, sometimes to days, and gradually became the norm. Her worst lows today are higher than her best moments of a year ago. Two years into my mother’s stay with us, it is just beginning to feel the way we first imagined it would be.

But now we have changed. I am not cocksure any more. I would not tell anyone that granny-care at home is easy or obviously the correct thing for anyone else to do. I venture no theory about how things will go from here or how long we will be able to continue.

But both my wife and I feel we want to hang onto this opportunity for as long as we can. It has brought us so much in return for so little grief.

When we used to think that we were in charge, we thought that granny care was like child-care, except without the compensating hope of improvement. We were wrong. The joy in this business does not rival childhood’s spring, but it provides the mellow, unexpected satisfactions of Indian summer.

Saint Josemaria Escriva said that the trials of patience need not vex anyone. If we let them, they can sanctify us instead. My mother’s dependency has given us an inkling of what he meant. We do not now begrudge the moments lost in learning this simple truth.

Shakespeare’s mature plays, Pericles, The Winter’s Tale, The Tempest, and a few others deal with themes of reconciliation and redemption. They take the long view of life and show how goodness may arise unexpectedly out of all its seemingly random and even tragic twists and turns. If my mother has helped us understand these plays a little better, she has contributed no small thing. But she has done more. She has shown us that we are ourselves part of such a story.

Graeme Hunter teaches philosophy at the University of Ottawa. He and his wife and their two boys live with Granny in Ottawa.