It will come as no surprise to anyone that an 87-year-old is not excited about moving. In fact, in a perfect world, all of us who are lucky enough to live into our 80s will already be settled into a vibrant community of seniors, with lots of activities, a communal dining area, and the opportunity for increased care as needed.
And that’s where my mom has been for the past eight years. She might occasionally tell exasperated tales about her neighbors or the food, but for the most part, she had found a situation that was good for her. It was near one of my sisters and her teenagers, who could drive for her—mom reluctantly gave up driving last fall— and run errands as needed.
But times change and things happen, and the best laid plans, etc. My sister needs to move, leaving my mom without local support. Which means my mom needs to move, too.
At the same time that she has continued to be as upbeat and positive as always, she has also managed to make it clear that she is not happy about this move. After spending most of her life in Texas, no one thought she was going to be able to tolerate the weather in Montana. My other sister lives six hours away in Louisiana, and she found a beautiful senior community that is in some ways a better fit than mom's current place. We hope she will love it. But this isn't easy for anyone, and especially not for mom.
She's having to do it while in a fair amount of constant pain. She can still walk with a cane, and she has a walker, though she mostly uses it to transport things she can't carry. But she isn’t exactly mobile. Arthritis in her ankles, knees, hips, and, well, everywhere, means that most movement is painful for her. She feels best when she is in her recliner.
But she rarely complains, and as she frequently reminds us as she slowly moves to do something one of us could easily accomplish, she needs to keep moving.
She’s right. She does. I have to stifle my instinctive “helpful” response to do things for her and let her do it herself. As any number of people before me have noted, it’s remarkably similar watching your toddler defiantly struggle to do something herself (me do it, mama!) when you could, in an eyeblink, do it for her.
Slow down, I remind myself. It’s not about getting things done, it’s about spending time with her. Which isn’t going to be an option forever, lord knows.
But unfortunately, sometimes when a move is imminent, it is about getting things done, and I’m afraid my temper didn’t always match my good intentions. Over the week I recently spent with her trying to help her pack, my good humor and patience wore down from abundant to nonexistent. I was not always my best self, although I think I managed to hide that from her. My texts to my sisters became increasingly, uh, salty.
I have no wisdom to impart here. I know almost everyone our age is going through this, except those of us whose parents are already gone, who probably wish they were still going through it. My mom and I have never been close--we are both alike and as different as two alike people can be-- and we've always had a hard time understanding each other's priorities.
But she has been there for me at various different times in my life when support was fairly thin on the ground. She hasn't understood me, but she always tried to do the right thing by me, whatever she thought that right thing might be and however crazy it made me. I'm old enough now that I can appreciate the effort.
And we have our moments. We drove up to the bank one afternoon since she needed to close out her safe deposit box before relocating to the city where my other sister lives. I pulled up to the point closest to the bank and said, in my most annoyingly cheerful voice, "OK, you hop out, and I'll be right in!" She turned back and glared at me. "I'm not hopping anywhere," she said, and although she didn't follow it up with young lady as she might have fifty years ago, I heard it. And suddenly we were both cackling with laughter.
Because what else can you do.