The Winter of Her Life
This isn’t the kind of photo you expect at this time of year, but I just returned from visiting my 95 yr. old mother in her personal care home and it reflects the mood of many who live there. Don’t get me wrong, my visit was delightful, but I can’t help feeling it’s all wrong.
In my zeal to live a more adventurous life and enjoy a warmer climate, my husband and I moved our young family to the west coast decades ago. We had decided the winters in Winnipeg were too brutal. Besides, my fingertips could not stand another icy challenge. But my mother and father remained. They did not follow, although they had mumbled about the possibility.
And despite my pleas and encouragement over the years, they stayed where they had settled. Now, my mother sits with other elderly staring at one another or the walls or her flat screen TV. I call her twice a day and see her quarterly. It’s not perfect, but somehow we manage.
In years past, the elderly lived at home. Some still do either with home care or with their families. But with the aged living longer on average, the solution is often to warehouse them. In my mother’s home, the care is superb, even though the surroundings seem grim. Not like home at all. The hallways remind me of a hospital. There are promises to make it more home-like, but money is tight. In her room, we’ve tried to recreate the decor she had in her own place. It’s a challenge, given that you’re not allowed to re-paint the walls or change the drapery. Still, my mother isn’t a complainer and feels she is being treated like a queen. I guess, it’s because she was the self-sacrificer, the one who labored the hardest for her family. She appreciates being waited upon now. She’s a treasure. It’s just a shame our family treasure is so far away.
The second last time I saw my father in his care home environment, we had a good visit. The next day I visited him again, and he didn’t know who I was although he chatted politely anyway. He died of a stroke before I saw him again.
It had been his and his second wife’s choice to move there and he was content until the confusion of Alzheimer’s ate away at his confidence. I sometimes wonder if different decisions might have had different results… but, although we had discussed it, they would not relocate to where I and my family lived. There is dignity in independence, even when that independence is only in making a decision.
You are blessed to still have your mother at 95, and she is blessed to have you caring enough to visit regularly. Not all families have that kind of relationship. 🙂
Thank you for your beautiful comments.