Annals of Long Term Care

When my mother opens the door, I feel as if a bucket of cold water is being emptied over my head. No “Hello, glad you could come,” greets me, only her pent-up resentment of having to wait, being alone, getting old and infirm. I am met with a verbal barrage of criticism and anger.

“Why did you come so late? Why didn’t you bring the children? I don’t like your haircut!” There is not even time to answer one question before she blurts out the next one.

My mother lives in a comfortable apartment in a retirement home. She, as with many older people, has lost track of time. She forgets that I visited two days ago. She does not understand that sometimes I am in a hurry due to my efforts to balance the demands of a full-time medical practice, family, and friends. My older sister, as well as my father, died many years ago; my younger sister and my mother have not spoken for decades, so I am the sole caretaker. I admit that at times this is not very rewarding, and that I have to remind myself that loneliness and apprehension about the future are my mother’s constant companions. When I pick her up to go shopping, I have to concentrate on the task ahead and not on the words she spews out:

“Well, I don’t suppose you have time to stop for a cup of coffee,” after two hours of shopping for a new blouse. It is hard for me not to respond with sharp words and get into a fight.

One day, at lunch with three of my women friends, we start to talk about our widowed mothers. Much to everyone’s surprise, we share similar experiences. Our caretaker roles are not gratifying, and we are used as doormats by our frustrated parents. An idea comes to me as we eat and is eagerly accepted by my friends: Each of us will take someone else’s mother out to lunch once a week. Then and there we set up a schedule and agree to meet in four weeks to report back about the success or failure of the mother exchange project.

The following day, I visit my mother and she greets me with a smile!

“Your friend Joyce called. She is going to take me to lunch next Wednesday. Isn’t that nice of her?”

I was delighted that the scheme we had devised already had a positive impact on my mother’s disposition. Meanwhile, I made a date for afternoon tea with Joyce’s mother, Nancy. I am apprehensive when I go to pick her up. She is obese, unsteady on her feet, has had several falls, and refuses to use a cane. I drive up as close to the front door as I dare. I do not want to mow down two artificial daffodils planted one on each side of the steps. Nancy opens the door before I ring. I know she has been watching out the window for me. Dressed in a purple cape with a perky pink hat on her grey hair, she obviously gave thought to her attire. I compliment her.

“You look like spring, Nancy.”

She smiles and wobbles into the front seat.

“Where are we going? How much time do we have?”

I drive to my favorite, quiet café, which has no steps and where we can sit and talk. We find a table close to the door and order cake and tea. Before long, Nancy is telling me about her childhood on a farm in Poland. She lived there between the two world wars with her large family: three brothers, three sisters, her parents, and grandparents. She remembers many interesting details and talks nonstop. Nancy and her husband are the only members of the family who emigrated to the United States. She is the sole survivor. I listen intently and interrupt her story only with,“Really?” “Fascinating,” and “Is that so?”

Two hours pass quickly and, much to my surprise, I am enjoying myself immensely. Nancy thanks me profusely as I leave her off at home and we hug goodbye.

On the appointed day, my friends and I meet over lunch and report about our visits. We can hardly believe that the charming, bright old ladies we took out to lunch are our grouchy, demanding mothers. There is positive feedback from the mothers as well as the daughters.