I sent Mom a food package. It’s not stuff I make. Let’s not be rude. I’ve ordered from Omaha Steaks, as once before. She lost power for days in May’s end, thanks to a windsorm. Mom always kept their box freezer and two refrigerators stocked enough to supply exploring parties coming by who need replenishing. With the power gone, so are her provisions. So I sent a small package of prepared food.
She and her boyfriend are often oblivious about what’s going on directly outside of the house. One of the standard operating rules has become, if you send a package, let Mom know when it’s delivered so someone will go out and bring it in.
Her package arrived today. I notified her via a text. I received no response back and haven’t had responses to any of the last three texts. I reach out to my sisters. Mom lives in Penn Hills, just outside of Pittsburgh, PA. The sisters live within twenty minutes of her. I explain my side and ask for a Momrep. Like me, none have heard from her. Youngest sister reaches out.
Mom responds: “I haven’t been out of bed today. I don’t feel well and I have my legs hurt so bad when I try to move. Frank can’t tae care of me. He gets too dizzy. I need dry diapers right now so it’s terrible.”
I read this and grit my teeth. Mom is 89. Frank, her live-in boyfriend, is 95. We’ve been trying to get them into assisted living for years. They won’t go. Nor will they accept assistance like nurses and caregivers. Now it’s a mess and another crises. The two of them are now averaging three crises a year. This is just June and this is already the third one fo 2025.
One sister heads over there. She reports, “Mom is on the edge of her bed getting a pad made up in her brief. Her gown is wet. She’s changing it now.”
We’re on a group text. Questions are raised and answered. “Yes, she’s eaten today but didn’t take any pain pills until now. I’m cleaning her up and having her taken to the hospital.”
We’re all relieved to hear that. They can take care of her in the hospital. We’ll sleep a little easier but it’s just one more moment in a wearying, debilitating series.
Getting old isn’t fun. Taking care of someone getting old isn’t either. Especially when you’re far away and there’s not much you can do.
Michael Seidel, writer 
this is hard, so hard. my husband and I are still moving, he’s 81 and im not quite 80, but we are growing more careful about what we do, when to start, stop, or get out of the way. It’s when your dignity begins to go, that it begins to hurt inside. someone has to dress you (because you don’t bend so good, now) or clean up after you peed all over your shoes, or they start bringing you food and expect you to eat it in front of them…
In a way it’s good we don’t have siblings or kids, by now they’d be on our case regularly about burning wood, mowing the fields, eating properly cooked meals…
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So sorry to hear this about your Mom, Michael. I remember my sisters and me dealing with similar issues with my parents. They tried to cover it up whenever they knew one of us was coming over, but still… I hope things improve even if it is just accepting some home health aides.
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Yes, they’re like cats, hiding and pretending everything is okay until it’s gone too far. We — the children — are into all kinds of what-next discussions. Our words mean little; the two obstinate elders are the issue.
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So very sorry, Michael.
Your situation sounds really rough. Maybe your sister on site can talk to the social worker in the hospital. Sometimes these trained folks can be persuasive with patients. Good luck!
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Thank you, Annie. We’re hopeful on that same front. Fingers crossed, knock on wood…
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