Realignment
For nearly eight years, Mrs. Perils’ mother has lived with us. Back in 2002, my father-in-law, who had suffered some pretty severe dementia for several years and for whom my MIL was the sole care-giver, had just died. In the weeks that followed, we came to realize that his severe dementia had masked a slight but burgeoning case of her own. I remember the moment when I got my first inkling.
My in-laws lived in the Ohio town where Mrs. Perils and I grew up, and I would swing through there on business trips to visit my own parents. I usually tried to set aside an hour or so to pop in on my in-laws. On a trip shortly after my FIL died, I visited with my MIL, and we had a pleasant chat, as always. As I recall, during the course of this conversation we dwelt a bit on Charlie and his memory issues, and at some point my MIL was talking and hit an air pocket, something trivial, but more serious than simply trying to find the right word or remembering the name of an author. For an instant, we exchanged a glance of realization; then we laughed a bit and moved on, and I flew back to Seattle as I always had.
During a later visit by Mrs. Perils’ sister, however, we discovered that things had worsened: my MIL’s mental state had been exacerbated by depression, she’d been eating sporadically and housekeeping had deteriorated to a state where we felt it was dangerous. Mrs. Perils and her sibs proposed a grand tour, prolonged visits with each of them in Tennessee, Idaho and Seattle, with the unstated intention that she would not be returning to her house. The wheel stopped in Seattle. We had the best situation - empty-nesters with no household strife, and Mrs. Perils with enough spare time to tend to the (at that time) minimal care-giving.
Our original intention had been to move her to an assisted living facility whenever we found one to our liking, and we toured a couple. My MIL has always been a cheery and positive person with a good sense of humor, however, and we were enjoying having her around as a sort of extended holiday. We tabled the move to assisted living, and life began to take its course. At one time in the ensuing years, we had 3 generations of us in the house, as our son, then later his girlfriend, bunked out here.
My MIL’s physical and mental state has undergone a gradual, but predictable and manageable, decline over the years (those of you observing me may say the same), until the last 2 - 3 weeks, when things started to lurch and plummet. We had discussed in the past that there would be a limit to what we would undertake, but really had no idea what that boundary would look like. We very definitely found it last week, when I was out of town and Mrs. Perils was getting only an hour or two of sleep at night.
Acting on a recommendation of a friend, we viewed an adult living center on Monday, and liked what we saw. We are fortunate that they had a couple of slots available. A nurse came to the house to conduct an evaluation Tuesday morning, and we moved my MIL to the facility after dinner that evening.
Mrs. Perils had explained to her several times what we were doing and why, and each time she had accepted the explanation; but then, an hour or so later, she would ask, “where am I going?” or “am I going somewhere”, and the words “we’re taking you to your new home” formed with difficulty, and shimmered in their strangeness.
The afternoon was a stew of emotions as we made preparations. One was guilt: on my end, for the paltry number of times I actually sat down in the living room and engaged her in conversation, as opposed to flashing through with a quick “hi” or mugging for a cheap laugh; Mrs. Perils, I believe, wondering if she were being too quick to pull this trigger in case the week’s weirdnesses were something temporary.
Another was sadness, especially as we prepared to leave the house: there was her blue duffel bag, which I hadn’t seen since we’d taken her with us to the Oregon coast 4 years ago, packed and by the door; there was our cat, Rico Suave, her almost constant companion at her perch on the living room sofa, whom she was likely seeing for the last time; and there was the slow trip down the stairs off the porch to the sidewalk, which she and Mrs. Perils had taken twice a day for 8 years on their ever-shorter strolls around the neighborhood, also probably for the last time.
And, I have to admit, there was also exhilaration, at freeing Mrs. Perils of the despair of the past week, and of the sudden and unlooked-for prospect of a new stage in our lives.
I look back on the past 8 years and try to assess what we (well, mostly, Mrs. Perils) accomplished. As Mrs. P has said, elder-care is not like raising a child; instead of a tremulous gift to the future, it is a managed degeneration with only one possible ending. I like to think we afforded my MIL a quality of life that she would not have had in a long-term care institution: a cavalcade of normal life swirling around her as our friends, our neighbors, our son and his friends came and went. I’ll count that as an accomplishment. (Click to enlarge)
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Oh, Phil. How well I know that difficult path, and how inevitable it seems for our own unsteady futures. Here’s to a new chapter for all of you. May her new home be cheerful, welcoming and surround her with the comfort of loving care. And may your own empty-again nest soon fill with an abundance of time to do with as you wish — more solo years to find yourselves again, and maybe even to reinvent the future.
Give Mrs. Perils a big hug from me, OK?
Maybe it’s time for a second honeymoon for you two — Maui??
How hard that is - terrifying and sad and freeing all at once. I’m with Carroll about the second honeymoon. Time to concentrate on taking care of yourselves now. You are both amazing, loving, giving people!
Phil,
You and Betsy have been such marvelous caretakers since I have “known” you.
Your blog is beautiful and touching and explains why you both have been so
wonderful in your actions. I know the decision is a difficult one but I am sure
you have made the correct one.
YOu both have my greatest admiration.
Do Take that Vacation…
Phil, I know you and your wife have been the most magnificent hosts to your MIL these past eight years and your wife has been a dear friend and daughter and faithful companion to your MIL. As tough as it is, I hope these new arrangements give all three of you some peace and comfort. I’m with the others; another honeymoon should be in the cards.
Beautifully written, Phil. My heart goes out to both of you.
Such a touching and beautiful post, Phil.
Blurry-eyed here.
MIL’s been lucky to be with you and it’s wonderful that you & Betsy could have her with you for so long. Hang in there.
Thanks, you guys! There’s still an air of unreality around here. The Seattle Times ran a couple of investigative articles about adult homes over the weekend (great timing. We’re cancelling our subscription) that were kind of alarming, so we’re being pretty observant. Betsy spoke extensively with our acquaintance who had placed both parents at Betty’s home, and we still think it’s a good place.
This was a wonderful tribute, Mr. P. Thank you.
Oh Phil what a beautiful post. You and your wife have been very fortunate to have that time with you MIL and I know in her heart she knows and appreciates every moment with you and your family, what a precious gift for any mom
This story evoked the story of a close friend’s mother so vividly I was almost back in the room with her a few days before her death. She was in a similar place, and when I went to visit her the last time she lay asleep [not really sleep, but the unconsciousness that envelops a person in her last days, often for hours at a time] throughout my visit. Her cat perched on the bedside table watching over her the whole time. [Your mother in law might like to have a cat with her where she is now, and many places allow this.] That cat was the only person with her when she died.
T.
As my mother walks the same long road, I appreciate this post more than you know. My sister is her primary caretaker, and nothing I can do or say can thank her enough for that. Wishing you peace in knowing you did the best thing for as long as anyone could.
Estela & Julie - thanks. I know we’re all headed to the same place, but there seem to be infinite iterations to the journey as large systems and infinitesimal brain pathways fail us. It’s fascinating and terrifying.
Teresa - hadn’t even thought about that. I think I’m remembering a “no pets” bullet point as we worked our way through pages of the contract. As we got to the end of the contract reading, I looked at my MIL and said, “We’ll only have to do this once a day, before dinner,” which got me a pretty good laugh.
This is beautiful and sad Phil. Hope everything works out for you all. I’m sure the last 8 years for your MIL were exceptional.
My hats off to you! As you told us tonight & again from reading this, I realize how difficult this has been for you both. You have been so supportive all these years, and now it is time for everyone to move on. Many emotions fill your heart, but you are doing the best thing for everyone right now. Good Luck!
All said — well written, well lived.
I hope the next chapter is as rewarding as the last. Good idea to keep a watchful eye…many places are very good, and some are not. MIL has come to a place in her life where she needs more than any children could possibly provide. You and the Mrs. have provided her the love and comfort she’s needed, and you still can. Visits are great, and maybe you can take the cat with you? I’ve taken my various pooches into nursing homes to visit the grandparents, and they are loved by all.
Phil, with you all the way with this. Different circumstances, different protagonists, but the same deal when my mother began to slip towards dementia. It is difficult to find the right place when the time comes, but your initial instincts are probably sound. The key is obviously in the quality of the people doing the direct, day-to-day caring. When we moved my mum into care, it was clear from the start that the carers were vocationally motivated, not merely time servers in between gigs. My mother was loved in a quiet, practical way and I knew that whatever the priorities of the business that ran the home (the voracious BUPA, notorious for their bucks-out-of-pain philosophy), she was in exactly the right place with exactly the right level, measure and quality of care. I wish all of you the best of circumstances at this time and up to the end.
thanks again! Tara, I’m not sure we’re allowed to bring pets, and, at his age, Rico Suave is almost as high-maintenance as my MIL;-)
Dick - I followed your journey with your mother closely, given what we were dealing with. Was her end-of-life care part of the British health system, or were you dealing with private entities?
Cecilia - thanks for that - it means a lot.
Beth - coming from you, I’m flattered!
“Well, while I’m here I’ll do the work — and what’s the work? To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.” — Allen Ginsberg
Well done, Phil and Bea. You’ve also helped ease my greatest fear somewhat, for my loved ones and self. May your own days be long in the land.