My mom, Jane Barker, is 89. She is cheerful and upbeat. She loves nature and people. She is always up for a walk or a movie, a frozen yogurt outing or a car trip to Colorado. She knits, she gardens, she works crossword puzzles and she is a master at Rummikub and Scrabble.

She exudes gratitude: marveling, on a regular basis, at a plant growing from a crack in the sidewalk. And she exudes grace: living, with her usual sunniness, in quarantine these days to lessen her chances of contracting the COVID-19 virus.

Two weeks ago, our sweet mom with impeccable balance slipped in her apartment while heading out the door for an El Fenix dinner with my brother, Allan. She suffered a hairline hip fracture and underwent surgery the next morning.

Four days later, with her pain subsiding and physical therapy well underway, Mom was deemed ready for a rehab center. She got settled into a corner room with a view of White Rock Lake, the Dallas skyline and, most exciting for Mom, redbud trees eight floors below.

We family members stopped by often, accompanying her to a physical therapy session or two; sitting with her in the dining area; introducing ourselves to everyone who was helping care for her.

Four days in, we received an email from the facility’s CEO about precautions being taken to keep COVID-19 exposure at bay. I read it first, then shakily sent this text to my siblings:

“Oh my gosh, as of 6 a.m. Monday, we cannot see Mom. Oh my gosh. My heart is pounding.”

We were, to borrow a word from a friend, gobsmacked. We see Mom a lot; my sisters especially, because of our schedules and proximity to Mom’s apartment.

At least once a week, between other outings, Jeanne picks Mom up and they go to Jeanne’s house for dinner and board games. Jeanne is also our designated medic, visiting Mom to put pills into daily containers and knowing the dosage, pronunciation and spelling of each.

Susan stops by to take Mom out for lunch or dinner, maybe to see three of her great-grandchildren or to go buy plants. Allan calls every day on his way home from work to see if she needs anything from the store or a milkshake (small vanilla; no whipped cream) from McDonald’s. My time is usually Saturday, when we get frozen yogurt and either go to a movie or to the grocery store.

Plus, Mom thrives on connections with her neighbors: “The nice Mormon boys upstairs”; William, whom she calls when her TV won’t turn on; handsome 80-year-old Vic across the street, who leaves Mom’s newspaper on the porch every morning. She talks to the mailman, to strangers she meets on evening strolls, to the clerk at the convenience store where she walks for cat food.

In our hearts, the idea of Mom not seeing her support system, or us not seeing her, was jolting. But in our heads, we knew Mom was where she needed to be.

So what could we do but gear up and get Mom (and ourselves) ready? My sisters bought Mom some soft comfort clothes. All three daughters independently piled vanilla ice cream into the freezer in her room. Jeanne put a bottle of caramel sauce on the refrigerator door next to one of hazelnut cream, which Mom (with her sweet tooth that still amazes us) pours into her morning coffee and sips while eating a blueberry muffin. I sliced giant muffins into quarters and squeezed them into the freezer among the ice cream cartons.

I brought her a pair of my earrings and asked if she’d mind, during the time we can’t see her, swapping them for the gold necklace she rarely removes. “Oh sure, honey!” she said, reaching around her neck to unclasp it.

I transferred her Dallas Morning News subscription from her apartment to the rehab facility, so she could keep starting her day, as she always does, by doing the crossword puzzle. We brought photographs, photo books of weddings and trips, her Bible, her knitting. We brought spiral notebooks so she could write down what she thought she might forget. We wanted everything to be as normal as possible.

Mom is rarely rattled, and her calm has shown through. Once or twice before the lockdown began, she expressed more surprise than dismay about the situation: “So you can’t come up and see me?” she asked. And then when we shook our heads, she just said, “Oh, wow.”

I will say here that my sisters and brothers and I know we are lucky. Our hearts, our prayers, our fervent wishes go out to those whose loved ones in quarantine are not overall healthy. Those who, for whatever reasons, aren’t as go-with-the-flow as our mom. Those whose timeline spent away from their support systems disappears into a foggy horizon.

We are so very grateful for Mom. She is as up for an adventure now, as a great-grandmother, as she was as a newly hired flight attendant for American Airlines 68 years ago — putting in for a transfer from her Brooklyn, N.Y., hometown to Dallas, where she knew no one.

She didn’t know anyone in rehab, either. But we knew that would be short-lived.

“My initial thoughts,” Susan says now, “were that if the aides, therapists, nurses and everyone she meets engages in conversation with Mom, she will shine. Mom has always bloomed where she is planted.”

Which she has done. When one particular caregiver comes in, Mom quickly pages through her pink notebook to where she’s written how to say, “Hello. How are you?” in the woman’s native Igbo language.

Mom still has waves of pain, but she’s still smiling. She’s never even used a cane, but she’s yet to complain about needing a walker. She’s never gone more than a few days without seeing us, but she’s taken our absence in stride, too. The ultimate good sport, she chooses instead to marvel at how the redbuds are blooming below her window.

What has truly been a godsend is the Facebook Portal my niece Julie set up in Mom’s room. Technology isn’t exactly my mom’s strong suit, so we worried this might overwhelm her. It hasn’t. She makes video calls to ask for help with the crossword puzzle, to tell us how kind everyone is, to rave about the meals.

The world is a strange place these days: unsettled, scary, downright weird. But Mom — by just being Mom — reminds us that we have choices. We can fret about how things are, or we can simply be grateful.

Leslie Barker is a Richardson freelance writer and former health and fitness reporter for The Dallas Morning News. She writes frequently for the Inspired special section.

Twitter: @ohlesliebarker