When We Realize Our Parents Are Growing Old

​After my father passed away, a friend of my mother’s said to me, “Christie, why don’t you take your mother to Europe with you?”

At first, I dismissed the idea.

My mother and I got along wonderfully, but we were very different people. I loved traveling through Europe, lingering over cappuccinos, visiting museums, and enjoying good food and wine. My mother’s tastes were much simpler. I wondered if she would find my habits extravagant. I wondered if we would enjoy the same things. Mostly, I wondered how it would work.

Months later, an opportunity arose to visit New Orleans, a place my mother had always wanted to see. I decided it would be a good test.

At that time, Mom seemed remarkably strong. 

At 84 she walked every day. She swam regularly. We all thought of her as energetic and capable of handling anything.
Looking back, I realize the trip itself must have been challenging. She traveled alone by shuttle from Tucson to Phoenix Airport and met me there. My mother had rarely traveled by herself. She had always traveled with my father.
But the trip was a success. We had a wonderful time.

Encouraged, we planned something more ambitious: France and Italy.

Mom flew to Oakland. The next day we boarded a flight from San Francisco to Paris. She was tired from the journey but remained cheerful and adventurous.

Then, on perhaps the third day, everything changed.

While visiting the Musée d’Orsay, she suffered what appeared to be a medical episode, possibly brought on by being off schedule with her medications. An ambulance took her to Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, where she spent the night.
The staff were kind. Mom was a good sport, as always.

But it frightened me.

For the first time, I realized that my mother might be vulnerable.

Until then, I had thought only about practical things. I booked ground-floor accommodations so she would not have to climb stairs. I knew she was no longer running around the block. Yet I still imagined her as fundamentally unchanged.
The incident in Paris forced me to see something different.

Fortunately, she recovered quickly. We continued our journey through the Loire Valley, the Dordogne, Provence and eventually Nice before crossing into Italy to visit places my sister Lynda had loved for so many years.
Those days became some of the most precious of my life.

I drove. Mom often dozed in the passenger seat. Then she would wake and begin talking. She told stories about her youth, old boyfriends, dances she remembered, and experiences I had never heard before. We weren’t simply traveling together; we were getting to know one another in a new way.

I noticed other changes as well.

Although I had deliberately chosen places where she could continue her beloved swimming, she rarely showed any interest. She tired more easily. Little by little, I realized that changes were occurring, even if neither of us wanted to acknowledge them.

The following year we traveled to Sedona.

By then she had acquired a cane. I remember being surprised by that. My mother had always resisted anything that suggested limitation. Yet there she was, carrying a little cane and using it without much fuss. Together we enjoyed the red rocks, the beautiful desert light, and Sedona’s unique atmosphere.

Again, we had a wonderful time.

The next year we did not travel together. Instead, my sister accompanied her to Oregon to visit my youngest sister and family near Bend. During that trip, my sisters noticed something that the rest of us had not fully recognized: Mom was falling frequently.

Soon afterward, matters became urgent.

Back in Arizona, the falls increased dramatically. She was taken back to Oregon, where doctors diagnosed normal pressure hydrocephalus. Fortunately, it was treatable. After surgery to place a shunt, she improved remarkably. She regained mobility, transitioned from a wheelchair to a walker, and much of her memory returned.

The experience taught me something important.

Sometimes it takes a crisis before we truly recognize the reality of aging.

At eighty-five, certain things are simply going to happen. Not because someone has failed or become weak, but because aging eventually catches up with all of us.

Our parents need us to notice.

They need us to stay involved, to keep in touch, to step forward when help is needed.

I find myself thinking about this now from the other side.

For most of my life, my children saw me as energetic, capable, and independent. And for the most part, I was. But in recent years I have experienced my own series of health challenges and setbacks.

My daughter Ariel witnessed many of them firsthand and helped me through difficult periods. My other children, however, did not fully see how much these events affected me until recently, when circumstances required them to step in themselves.

I think they understand now.

Not that I need to be pampered. Not that I need people telling me what to do.

But I do need what every aging parent needs: concern, attention, communication, and occasional help.
And they have been wonderful.

We talk more. We check in more often. They pay attention.

I am deeply grateful for that.

The lesson I learned through my mother is the same lesson I hope my children carry forward.
The people who once cared for us, protected us, and seemed capable of handling anything do not suddenly stop being those people. They are still themselves. They still want independence. They still want dignity.
But a time comes when they may need us in ways they never needed us before.

Being present. Paying attention. Answering the phone. Showing up.

Those things matter more than we realize.

My mother taught me that.

Now life is teaching the same lesson to my children.
And someday, I suspect, life will teach it to theirs as well.

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