They usually meet up after I drop them off and I like to have an excuse ready so I can leave quickly.
Sometimes, however, it’s unavoidable and I don’t want to seem distant or rude, so I’ll stay a while to chat, as long as my patience holds out.
Moneybags Moira is the one who cheerfully says ‘Yoo-hoo, is it time for a quick coffee?’ It makes me want to get in my car and handbrake to go out the exit. She just has this way of making me feel inadequate. Whether she’s glowing after a yoga class or with a fresh blow-dry, you’ll never catch her with gray roots or rocking a ‘Crocs and sweatpants’ combo.
Then there’s Michelle, or Search Engine Shelly, as I like to call her. Do you have any problem? She has already researched it and has all the answers. Even if you’ve read a little about the background, hers will be better and will probably reveal that your data is outdated and amateurish.
Throughout my childhood, she reigned like a duchess with a checkered pinafore over her once orderly and cheerful little house.
Then there’s Sanctimonious Sue, who makes me feel worse. You will never, ever see her expressing relief at having left her “manager” and enjoying some time to herself. In fact, he says he misses her when they’re apart. ‘I won’t know what to do with myself!’
You’re probably assuming that I’m bemoaning the operation of school, that nerve center of political intrigue and social confrontation, which young mothers navigate daily. Well, the truth is, I left that particular torment behind decades ago.
No, today I am what is known as the ‘helicopter daughter’. Having left my own, now grown, children behind, I close in on my 88-year-old mother: too involved, too protective, too competitive.
Unable to walk unassisted due to a crumbling hip, spinal problems, and many other pains, Mom relies on her walker. In addition to being profoundly deaf, she shows signs of dementia (forgetfulness, obsessions, and extreme anxiety), although she has not received a diagnosis. It means he needs almost constant help, almost all of it provided by me.
Surprisingly, I found a new community of alpha offspring, all trying to work the system and get the best for their aging parents, with the same zeal as those ‘delicious mummies’ who terrified my 30s.
From the stuck-up ‘sycophant grannies’, the super-rich who have converted a latrine into their garden at enormous expense, to those who manage to get the best physiotherapists and the most sought-after specialists.
And even in the main Blue Badge parking spots outside the community center, where we meet after dropping off our parents for a retirement social event, there’s a new tribal network out there.
The phone calls began. The batteries in the TV remote had run out, what should I do? The greenhouse roof was leaking, what should I do?
I’m in my mid-50s and took early retirement from my accounting job last year, and since then my widowed mother has become my job.
It is a position to which I dedicate myself with the same level of diligence that led me to reach the highest positions in my career, with a six-figure salary and a comfortable pension.
However, the imposter syndrome that plagued me then has followed me into this role and still judges me. Did Mom run out of hot water because her boiler wasn’t serviced? My fault. Is Mom in pain because she hasn’t received the right medication? My failure. There are nights when I come home and all I can do is sob.
When I pull up in front of his house, I’m already checking off the list of things I have to do. There is the cleanliness; I like to give the place a good once over before the cleaner arrives. And meal preparation; I found a great fish recipe online that I want mom to try.
Salmon is high in omega-3 fatty acids, which are important for brain function and also rich in protein for muscle development. I make a note to mention it to Shelly, knowing full well that she will reciprocate with a better one. Keeping busy is a useful distraction from the sadness I feel watching my mother’s gradual decline into the inevitable.
Throughout my childhood, she reigned like a duchess in a plaid dress over this once neat and cheerful little house.
I can still imagine her dancing to Elvis with a duster in her hand, while a Victoria sponge cools on the kitchen counter.
Every day when I walk in, there is a part of me that clings to the hope of finding her there, still dancing. However, there is another part, one of which I am deeply ashamed, that secretly hopes that upon entering I will discover that he has passed away, peacefully in his sleep.
My heart skips a beat with shame and pity when I find her watching television at full volume. Sad, resentful – but loving – eyes meet mine.
She seems so diminished, sinking deeper into the faded cushion covers every day. Your once strong and agile body is failing; Even his smile has given up. She loves him being here, and yet she hates him. She needs me and hates needing me. I run her life like a project manager, making the hour-long round trip to her house three times a week, and she resents every one of them.
I don’t get much support and even though I have an older brother, when it comes to taking care of Mom, I’m like an only child. He lives abroad and turns up every few months with a tan and a bottle of sherry to be welcomed like the prodigal son.
For many years, our parents did not need any support. They both sailed into their 70s and were thoroughly enjoying their retirement. Dad was a factory foreman and mom was a secretary.
With a little extra money for the first time, they were able to enjoy holidays abroad, trips to see West End musicals and meals out. Then, when they reached 80, it was as if they had reached the top of life’s humpback bridge, only to discover that their brakes had failed.
Dad went first; A stroke took him quickly and fortunately with minimal loss of dignity, at 84 years old. His mother took care of him until the end. Only then did I discover how much she had trusted him; He had never paid a utility bill in his life.
The phone calls began shortly after. The batteries in the TV remote had run out, what should I do? The greenhouse roof was leaking, what should I do?
I tried my best to teach her, but she wasn’t interested. ‘Oh, your father always does that,’ was her response to every attempt to get her to help herself.
Then, two years ago, he tripped in the yard and broke his femur. My job was fantastic and allowed me all the time I needed to oversee her rehabilitation, but as is often the case, Mom was never the same.
With her mobility severely impaired, my brother and I were faced with a choice: we could sell her house and invest the money in an assisted living property, or we could try to keep her in her own home as long as possible. And when I say “we,” I mean “I.”
Mom wanted to stay home. He has lived here for more than 60 years; My parents bought the house when they were newlyweds and have many friends in the area.
Plus, I considered it a challenge. He had done a fantastic job with my children, striking a balance between flying in a helicopter and gently guiding me. I could do this, I told myself. It could help mom regain her independence and self-respect. I would be a good daughter and I would see her smile and dance with Elvis again!
Then I became the daughter of a helicopter. However, in this new role, it is impossible to achieve any balance; Unlike raising children, there are no results or rewards from walking away from an aging parent and leaving them to fend for themselves.
My days are exhausting and unfulfilling. There’s a feeling of “rearranging the sun loungers on the Titanic” and yet I keep doing it, trying my hardest every day, as I know Moira, Shelley and Sue are doing.
I must admit that nowadays I enjoy my mother’s company very little. I know it’s worse for her, but there are only so many meaningless conversations you can have about what’s on TV tonight and who died.
I know, one day there will be an early morning phone call, or I will show up at the house and my poor mother will be gone, and I will be miserable for all my blank stares and the times I lost my patience with her.
When that day comes, I want to feel like I did the best I could. That’s all I can hope for.
The names have been changed.
