The move

If you have never moved your 88-year-old parents from the home they have lived in for decades into assisted living, you just don’t know a good time. The worst of it happens long before the move. 

My mother, as she readily admits, is set in her ways. Aren’t we all? But she is additionally (also self admittedly) very independent and rather stubborn. For example, someone suggested a little walk down the hall yesterday to stretch her legs and she no. When asked why not, she replied, “Because I don’t have to.” Okay then. But then five minutes later she announced she was going for a walk.

I 100% get this. Don’t tell me to go for a walk like I need help deciding what to do. I’ll do it only when I want to. Totally reasonable to me, and she is very sweet about it, so it’s all good.

Daddy had a stroke back in August that affected the balance center of his brain. Now we’ve learned that even when a stroke is in just one area, the effects also show up in others. 

He spent a few days in the hospital, then two months in “rehab,” which had its ups and downs. For us, the stay in rehab was more a gift of time in which we could formulate a plan. And you know what they say about plans.

Mom and dad had a plan that worked well until it didn’t. Then we had a plan. Then it changed. It morphed. We revised. Modified. It became more malleable than silly putty. 

We gave home care a try, and while effort was made, it ultimately wasn’t going to work for a lot of reasons. The brothers who lived nearby were on call 24 hours a day and it just wasn’t sustainable. These things are never simple. 

We decided to begin the search for assisted living. The first place we visited made me cry. The halls were narrow and dark, the walls were painted a depressing greige . . . I left thinking, “There is no way I can ask my parents to live here.” 

Then one day at their home I had a conversation with one of the home health aides. I mentioned we were looking into assisted living and told her which one we had looked at first and she said, “I would never put a family member there. It’s terrible.”

I said, “Hmm,” and waited for her to continue.

Without prompting she gave me a list of the best places locally and kept going back to the one at the top of her list. As she was talking, I was writing notes in my phone. 

The TL; DR version is that her first choice wound up also being our first choice, and the big move was made this past Saturday. 

You can’t imagine the amount of unrest that comes before an event like this, and I’m not even talking about the 88-year-olds. 

We guessed at everything. How will they react? (Beautifully.) Will they fully grasp what’s happening? (With only a few repeat explanations, yes.) How will they transition? (So well I am still amazed.)

The last few months have been so hard for them, each for different reasons. Dad had the stroke and spent all that time away from home. He is the one who deals with the resulting deficits. He is the one who suddenly needs more help with routine things—the man who has always been the helper, always met others’ needs. 

Mom spent every day (except one) of two solid months sitting in his room in either the hospital or rehab. Always out of her element, out of place, trying to be there but unable to help. She suddenly had me living with her all week, then being alone on the weekends. Depending on her children for every thing. And if you think this is easy at 88, you’re dead wrong. 

Once Dad came home and they had in-home care, it was a whole new ballgame. Back in their own little bubble, but with strangers always in it. Get out of my bathroom. Out of my kitchen. Everybody go away so I can play my piano in peace. 

My mother particularly felt the burden of responsibility for Dad’s welfare, but at 88 and with her own issues, was unable to perform the care he needed. 

My parents have been independent all their lives. Transitioning to being dependent is no small task and hasn’t been without enormous hurdles for both of them. 

So here we are in assisted living. They knew it was the right choice but as you can imagine, they were apprehensive. So were we.

After two full days we know this: my father loves the food. So far he has accepted all the help they’ve offered, and the staff are quickly learning exactly what his needs are and the best way to approach all of them.

My mother is a little slower to adjust, which we kind of anticipated. The hardest thing for her has been letting go of responsibility for my dad. For almost 68 years she has cared for him, and now suddenly we keep telling her to ring for the aides. There are pull cords in two places in the apartment, and they have all told her to call them for any little thing she needs help with. She hesitates because she doesn’t want to bother anyone, so we keep reassuring her that this is what they are paying for. “Pull the string” has become our mantra.

Could you change a habit, a whole way of thinking, in two days? Imagine how hard that must be. 

But last night she did it and got to experience the relief of other people taking over. This morning she pulled the string all on her own, without any of us there telling her to do it.

The weight is lifting, tiny bit by tiny bit. The pressure of being caregiver and cared-for is slowly going away and they are getting to be a couple again. Such a sweet gift.