It's About That Time: Our Parents Are Getting Older

Navigating care facilities, ornery loved ones, and coping with terminal illness feels inconceivable, but everything has its time.

My friends and I are going through it. Whether it be their own health issues (fibroids be damned!) or their parents’, being in the 40 and up club has proven to be both freeing and dutiful. We are at the age where our parents and grandparents are experiencing falls and declining memories, are in and out of rehab centers, are ornery and some compliant, and are all together introducing new challenges that we knew were inevitable, but damn if it still doesn’t feel too soon.

I hadn't quite turned 40, when I realized that yeah, my parents (really my dad) were getting older and I wasn't getting any younger. And as a true blue millennial, I was still deep in my job-hopping, city-hopping, career-hopping bags and just all around not being "settled". So the realization that I indeed would have to care for my parents sooner rather than later during my (long-ass) phase of intentional instability, was daunting. At the time, the seemingly domino effect of parental caregiving hadn’t yet been tipped. But I apparently was going to be the first amongst my closest friends to experience it. And I unfortunately had no clue what to do or expect.

My father was diagnosed with sarcoidosis in his twenties, and while he had occasional flare-ups from his disease that would last for a few months at a time, his disease never quite felt terminal until he and my mom remarried in their late fifties. Another story for another time, if my mother ever okays that.

My father was easy, if a dying loved one's willingness to admit their fate could be described as such. He knew he was dying. He couldn't really ignore that fact. There were internal and external reminders daily. The permanent scarring in his lungs, which caused him to wither away. A man standing at 6'2, weighing nearly the same as his daughter. He could barely climb one step without needing to catch his breath. And he couldn't eat much without coughing. He couldn't really ignore it. So, he planned for it. Planned for it in ways that were both surprising and relieving...and expected. He was still a professor at the end of the day.

So it wasn't too unexpected when he checked himself into an assisted living (care) facility on the outskirts of D.C. Before that, he was at home under my mom's care, and a home health aide, who would drop in every other day to care for him. But it wasn't enough, and even though my beautiful mother is the mothering kind times infinity, she isn't the caregiving kind. There is a difference. And not being the latter is nothing to be ashamed of. Not all of us are cut out to bathe another grown human, despite how deep our love may run for them. And. That. Is. Okay.

My father determined he needed to be in a care facility that provided 24/7 care. Even though my father’s illness had become terminal and was ravaging his body, what he needed most was help with the daily activities of taking care of himself, making the option for a nursing home less necessary. As a distinction, nursing homes provide a high level of medical care. My dad’s care facility was less than 40% occupied at that time, so his 24/7 care was truly 24/7. He was running the nurses and health aides ragged, I’m sure of it, even though when we’d visit, the staff sang his praises.

Because my father voluntarily moved into a care facility, he had a positive experience. He also had a positive outlook, and low expectations for anything beyond what the staff was paid to provide. He wasn’t expecting Melba’s soul food from the cafeteria, and he knew they wouldn’t be playing A BROTHER FROM ANOTHER PLANET for movie night. He was there to ease his suffering, if just a little. Plus, my father continued teaching and running his business until right before he passed. He was too preoccupied with “life” to worry himself about what the care facility lacked.

And yes, some care facilities be lacking and slacking. I have now intimately experienced three close loved ones living in assisted living facilities, and as expected, there's a range of experiences. But most provide a standard level of care. They provide indoor activities for the residents, like bingo, trivia games, movie nights, as well as restaurant and grocery store outings. They include three LIGHTLY salted meals a day, with snacks provided on demand. They have a nurse on site 24/7, and schedule weekly doctor check-ins for the residents. Depending on the region, are the staff mostly Black? Yes. Depending on the region, are the residents mostly white? Absolutely. But these facilities are a safe option for those families who are able to afford it, and have no alternatives.

I’ve had conversations with strangers and associates of all backgrounds who've shared their unwillingness and disguised judgment around the practice of placing your loved one in the care of another, as if our obligation to take care of our loved ones can only look one way. In many cases, providing the best care for a loved one means placing them in a care facility, or even a nursing home, depending on the need. Culturally, it may not be someone’s desire, but sometimes we have to do what’s best for the person and the family, and ourselves. Like probably taking heed sooner despite a loved one’s constant protestations that they’re “fine,” and not waiting until after the second minor stroke and third degree burn before moving them into a care facility.

Again, my father was easy. However, my maternal grandmother, who passed last November, was NOT. After she had a bad fall in her Southwest Houston home during the pandemic, her children moved her up North to an assisted living facility. And she protested her being there almost until the day she passed. My grandmother was absolutely content in her beloved Houston home, and would have preferred to die there surrounded by all of her mostly unused Waterford crystal dishes, hundreds of angel figurines, dozens of cookbooks, and piles of unworn clothes she purchased during her many trips to Dillard's.

My grandmother rarely had a lovely day while residing at the care facility outside of Philly. Her children would have to listen to her repeated lists of complaints daily. The food was disgusting, not enough salt. And why don’t they have oxtails? All of the residents are white. Which was mostly true. She was bored. Even though the activities coordinator would send literal evidence of my grandmother engaging in karaoke, and winning EVERY SINGLE TIME at trivia. My grandmother just wanted to go home; which is a completely normal response when faced with the nearness of death. But it wasn’t in her best interest, nor was it in the best interest of her children. If you knew my grandmother, this would make sense.

After my father passed, my grandmother would mention in almost every conversation with my brother and I how our father was her best friend. I don't think he felt the same way. No shade. But seeing them both in care facilities, the same care facility chain (Sunrise), and watching them inch closer to death, was sobering. As we age out of young adulthood, we come to expect the homegoings, the celebrations of our grands, but not our parents. The drive to and from Sunrise, while my dad was still alive, required courage. To see an otherwise spirited and grateful 62 year-old man, frail and hunched over his desk and coughing incessantly in his small apartment-like space, was a mindfuck. He was too young for this. But, he was also deeply suffering. That cognitive dissonance of not wanting your loved one to suffer, but not wanting them to die is like a trip around the world.

And all you can do is just be grateful for the time you had, the memories you still have, and the loved ones remaining.

Our matriarch, my mother, is still going strong. She is very healthy, save for the really bad sweet tooth that I, too, have inherited. She's able to keep up with her toddler grandsons. She goes for walks. She paints. She dances. She's healthy. And has repeatedly told me that when the time comes, she will happily move into an assisted living community, if that is the best option. My brother and I are grateful for her cooperation. Though we still nag her about digitizing her affairs, something my father did before he passed. He shared a Google Folder with us, and in that folder was a spreadsheet of all of his accounts, passwords, copies of important documents (driver’s license, etc.), life directives, photos, and so much more. So while it was the worst moment in our lives, we at least didn’t have to concern ourselves too long with the cruel endless work of wrapping up a loved one’s affairs. We were free to grieve and be present for one another. Because that’s really the hardest part, right? Knowing this person you care so deeply for, is dying. So how do you make that process a little less painful…for everyone?

TALKBACK

Hey, Honeys! Are you currently experiencing caregiver fatigue, or considering the best options for an aging loved one? Do you just need to vent about an ornery parent? Or want to share your own experience in caregiving, and navigating care facilities? We are here for you and all of it! You never know when your story may touch someone else. We look forward to you sharing!

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