When I get older, losing my hair....

My mother is 78 and extremely fit and healthy (she says, touching wood quickly).
She lives in a small village where a car is a necessity; there is one bus a day into the nearest town and one that comes back at an inopportune time. She has been a widow for over twenty years now but has a strong network of very good friends who support each other, and her social life leaves me breathless.

But recently she had to have a hernia operation and wasn’t able to drive for a month. It nearly drove her bonkers (it tested our relationship when we went up to look after her for a week, too, but the less said about that the better).

So while Mum is able to drive and get around and be independent, all is well. But what about when she can’t drive, or if, God forbid, she should become ill? Should she come and live in Cornwall? My brothers live near London, and both have children and I can’t see her wanting to go and live with them. Or vice versa.

Himself thinks it would be a good idea, if and when the time comes, for my mum to buy somewhere nearby. ‘I’m quite happy to go and make her breakfast,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to worry about me in that respect.’

But she has so many friends in Devon, would she want to leave them? I’m not sure that she would. But what should they all do, when the time comes?

Should she come and live with us? Given that we live in a one bedroom flat, we would have to sell this, she would have to sell her house and perhaps buy something together.

Himself looked after his mum until she died at home and thinks this is only the right to do. ‘We should look after the oldies,’ he said firmly. ‘They’re family.’

Filled with guilt at Himself’s unselfish attitude, I discussed this with several friends. We all agreed, with a certain degree of shame, that having our mothers to live with us would be a disaster. Not because we don’t love them but because we don’t think it would work, and that would be disastrous.

We need our independence, just as they need theirs. The idea of a granny flat has its appeal, but I would hate for my relationship with my mother to break down. We are close but having looked after her for a week when she was unwell, I can see the problems that could arise.

I would hate her to wish she hadn’t made the move, for us to resent her and her needs. I can foresee a Pandora’s Box of complications.

A friend of mine said, “when we get old we should all sell our houses and buy a big place with a big garden. We could turn it into flats or just have a room each and share the kitchen and living room. We could have our privacy yet always know that someone was there. And medical care when we needed it.”

I think that’s a great idea. But what about my mum? What would/will you do with your parents when the time comes?

The Last Step

Our elderly friend has been moved into the residential home a month earlier than planned, thereby completely throwing him. We got wind that this might happen last week, so I rang him to find out. The poor fellow was so confused and disorientated he couldn’t make any sense and passed me onto the daughter (thinking it was his wife, who died 15 years ago).
The daughter said, ‘Oh, he’s been falling every day, so I had to do something.’
I pointed out that he’d been falling every day for the past two years.
She didn’t reply but said that he was moving into the home the following day.
‘Just as well I rang, then,’ I replied. Very pointedly.
She spluttered a bit at that, but said that she’d ‘had to put her foot down,’ before adding hastily,‘but of course it was entirely his decision.’
Really?

Anyway, he’s there now and at least he’s safe and well looked after, but we got back from the carnival on Saturday night to find an incoherent message on our answerphone. As there wasn’t any point in talking to James, we rang the home back and left a message saying that we’d call again. He rang on Sunday morning at 8am wanting to know if we could come and see him.

We arrived at the home later that morning with some trepidation. The manager met us and said that James was sleeping well which is usually a good sign, but when we got there he was very agitated because his daughter had brought a whole load of files of bank statements when in fact she’s taking all that over now. It took 3 of us an hour and a half to persuade him that the daughter should take them back, so I hope she does.

On the bright side, he has a lovely sunny room overlooking fields with cows and a stream, and it’s very peaceful and rural. If you’ve got to go somewhere, this place has a friendly atmosphere and the people seem content and well cared for.

James was like a little boy in many ways, clinging and confused.
‘Will you come down – er – down?’ he said, getting into even more of a knot.
We realised he wanted us to wait and walk him downstairs to the dining room for lunch so we did, only to find we were half an hour early.

The staff were lovely and kind and escorted us all to the lounge where the residents sat in high backed armchairs, waiting. And waiting. I gulped and wanted to grab him and bring him back here (though in a one bedroom flat this is somewhat impractical). So I gave him a big hug and, feeling like traitors, we left.

He’s lost his confidence, you see, because he finds it so difficult to speak. ‘But James, there must be other people who find it difficult talking as well,’ I said. ‘And you can talk to us.’

‘Yes, but you’re friends. And I’ve known you for a long time,’ he said.

And he looked at me with such trust, I felt honoured to be his friend.

Noisy villages and ageing

It's very noisy at my mother's house, surrounded by fields and orchards, deep in the Devonshire countryside. I woke early to let Mollie out and was struck by the early morning racket that us townies don't have. The raucous squawk of a pheasant across the fields; the rusty gurgle of next door's hens; a pigeon's persistent coo. In the eaves outside our window, a family of sparrows twitter from their nest; above it all a cow's long drawn out bass moo. I opened the door and was struck by the heady rich smell of summer roses; the fresh aroma of dew on grass, cool and wet against hot feet.

Upstairs, Himself was also awake and threw his book on the floor. 'It says it's his debut novel,' he said (pronounced 'day boo'). 'He should take up windowcleaning.'

At times like this I want to hold time still. On the outside he's 66 but inside I know he's really a six year old boy, and I want him to stay like that. I never usually think about our age difference (18 years) but sometimes it hits me and I panic, want him never to get any older. I shut my mind to that grey area, try not to think about that bit of our future, for what's the point? I look at my mother, nearly 80, who looks like a young girl at times. I watched Himself as we listened to Just a Minute yesterday and thought, yes, there's that six year old. What is age, after all?