My mother takes a walk
[NOTE: For earlier posts about my mother, see this one about her stroke, this one about her recuperation, and this one about her move from the New England town where we’d both been living to the New York City community where she’d lived most of her life.]
My mother’s been in her new place in New York for a year and a few months.
At first, she didn’t like it. She complained that the food was dreadful. The people, likewise; and that included both staff and residents. Her room itself was beautiful, and she stayed in it most of the time, not wanting to mingle very much.
I had worried that she’d have trouble with the adjustment from an independent living situation with personal attendants, where the other residents were all pretty spry and fairly alert, to an assisted living facility where the other residents were in various states of decrepitude and the aides far more overburdened.
And I was right. It was tough, but there weren’t many alternatives. She wanted to live in this area, and there were very few such facilities around. She did not want to live with my brother. She couldn’t live alone. She couldn’t afford personal attendants round the clock.
The advantage of the move to assisted living was that help was now available twenty-four hours a day. The disadvantage was that she had to call and wait, always a big problem for my very anxious and impatient mother.
But slowly, she got used to it. The food was still bad, but the complaints came far less frequently. She didn’t make any close friends, but my brother and I noticed that whenever we took her downstairs a bunch of people greeted her as though they were happy to see her, and she returned the favor. She still stayed in her room a lot, mostly reading. But she now almost always described herself as “content.”
I figured that’s not half bad at ninety-four.
But one puzzling aspect of my mother’s life was that, although she can use a walker well enough, she never seemed to have any interest in relying on her wheelchair less.
When she’d first had her stroke, I thought she might always remain totally dependent and wheelchair-bound, needing aides to even get from bed to wheelchair. Within a month or two, though, it became apparent that a walker was in her future. And after a few more months she’d become proficient enough that I was almost certain it would just get better and better, and that she would be using the walker all the time or maybe even graduate to a cane.
But no. It was perplexing, because as time passed it seemed clear to everyone that she could have done it. Why be dependent on a wheelchair, and at the beck and call of other people (something she clearly didn’t like), if you have a choice?
The answer seemed to be fear. The wheelchair had become her home, her safety, her base. Any suggestion that she change this fact was met with anger and/or hysteria. Cajoling didn’t work. Neither did tricks, bribes, understanding, patience, or threats. Trusted and favorite aides couldn’t convince her, nor could I, nor could any other friends or relatives.
A year after her stroke, when things hadn’t changed and I was worried she’d lose even the skills she had so laboriously picked up in rehab (I thought I could see her left leg getting weaker, and her back more curved) I had a talk with her. I appealed to her motherly instincts, her love for me.
“It would make me so happy, Mom,” I said, “if you would just try walking a little more. Just a few steps more each day, and see what happens.”
“No,” was her answer.
I tried again, appealing to her vanity. “Mom, you know all those people who have so much grit and drive, they just won’t give up? They’re determined to try their best to get better and more independent? I would be so happy if…”
“Well, that’s not me. I’m not one of those people.”
My mother said it with such finality, such firm conviction—even though I’d always assumed that she was one of those people—that I gave up. That was the day I stopped mentioning it.
Acceptance was the name of the game. After all, the woman was in her nineties. Too old to change this pattern, too old to push herself. I had to stop driving both of us crazy.
Once in her new place she walked even less. Now she had a studio apartment instead of a one bedroom, and the distances were shorter. She used the walker in the apartment but nowhere else. I’m not even sure the other residents knew she could walk; all they saw was another white-haired woman in a wheelchair.
But the staff knew she was able to use the walker. And a couple of weeks ago when my brother visited her, one of the directors stopped him on his way out. She wanted to talk.
She asked him whether he’d noticed my mother acting any different lately. Or had she perhaps mentioned some difference? No, my brother hadn’t noticed anything. The director told him that a few months ago the staff had decided to encourage my mother to walk more. She didn’t say what approach they’d been using, but apparently the program wasn’t going along all that well, although there was some mild improvement.
Then one morning with no warning whatsoever, the director said, my mother had appeared at breakfast. By herself. This had involved a long walk down a hallway, a wait for the elevator, and another walk from elevator to dining room.
The entire staff—and the residents too—were stunned. What had happened? My mother calmly announced that she had decided she wasn’t using her wheelchair anymore.
And to date she’s not reneged on her promise. Now she walks everywhere. Slowly to be sure, and with the walker; but under her own power.
I couldn’t be happier about this development, although I’ve decided not to talk too much to her about it. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
So, what happened? The best theory I’ve been able to come up with is that, when my mother reluctantly walked a bit more at the staff’s urgings, something clicked deep inside her—a sort of body knowledge that she actually was able to do this. That, coupled with her innate impatience, probably did the trick. I think she just got tired of waiting around for the attendant, and decided that—like the Little Red Hen—she would (and could) do it herself.
Even at ninety-four, it seems that my mother still has a few surprises up her sleeve.
The Little Engine That Could: I think I can. I think I can.
On the other hand you could say that her get up and go that got up and went has returned.
Good for her.
It may also be that she decided that she wanted it for herself. When someone badgers you for something it’s hard to decide whether you want it for yourself or not–whether you really want it. While this is more commonly seen among adolescents, I suspect it affects married people as well. Making that decision is one’s own little bit of freedom, and one reserves it for one’s self. Call it rebellion, call it being true to yourself, call it demanding to exercise the last little bit of freedom left to you.
Wonderful!
And I think njcommuter may have something — certainly I noticed much the same with my mother and grandmother. When you’re completely helpless and dependent, you cling to any vestige of control and autonomy. I’m very glad to hear your mother chose the more genuine way to self-reliance.
I know it’s crazy, but your story made me want to cry. Goofy, huh? I’m so glad your Mom got up and did it. That’s awesome.
I wonder if njcommuter is right. As she has always been the independent sort – it could have been everyone (meaning family) “telling her what to do” that made her dig in her toes and say no – it was one thing she could control. I could see thoughts like “well I conceded and moved to this place and that’s all I’m giving them!”
In any case, I’m glad to hear it.
Who says genes don’t count!
Uncanny, I was attracted to your site because I identified so much with your “political conversion” story, your identity as a therapist, and the diverse and thoughtful nature of your articles, and the commentary of the participants. Hearing about your mom is stunning because I can tell a very similar table about my father, now 5 years into “assisted living” and his relationship as a loner with both the lousy food and people in his “group” as he puts it; he began using a cane after surgery 6 years ago, about 2 months ago he stopped using it except for very long walks, he turned 95 this last January. Assisted living, and the people around him saved his life, and mine…
I am sending your story on to my siblings, my mother has been becoming more imobile every year and is moving from the nursing home (for rehab) to assisted living. Our minds are wonderful, but they often create the barriers that we can’t hurdle, jump over or crash through, encouragement is often seen as meddlesome. All we can give unconditionally is Love.
Perfected democrat: Does your father live anywhere near NYC? Maybe we could arrange a match—they sound like kindred spirits.
Hi Neo, nice thought, but, Denver…. In reference to “William Earl Dungey Says: Our minds are wonderful, but they often create the barriers that we can’t hurdle, jump over or crash through…”; We are definitely trapped in ourselves, and this becomes applicable well beyond the “geriatric”. Perhaps you could explore specifically the “closed mind” as related to human nature and the “self-destructive. There must be direct links to violence, and more broadly, cultural, religious and political violence, as well as the passive acquiescence of horror. By the time a Hitler or Saddam and their “followers” are finished, they have destroyed and degraded not only the lives of the innocent, but their own as well. Why would “rational” people (and I’m sure they are) make that kind of choice?
Answering my own question: Greedy miscalculation, I suppose, and then in you’re in too deep…” But I have to think it’s deeper than that.
… “deeper than that”, or there is no hope; perhaps there isn’t…
Lovely post. Unfortunately when my Mom suffered her last stroke, she never recovered her will to keep going, get stronger. You are a lucky daughter.
My mom is 70. She suffered a brain hemorrage two years ago, and is fully recovered now.
Mom worked 45 hours a week before her hemorrage. She’s a very tough, get up and go person. Yet, after, she stuck with her wheelchair longer than necessary, then she stuck with her cane longer than necessary. I asked why, and she said “security blanket”. She didn’t want to be caught in a long walk, or in a long stand, where she would get tired and not have her wheelchair or her cane to help her. It was fear of unknown circumstances. The wheelchair and the walker were her security against the unknown.
Our parents seem to teach us stuff till the bitter end. My mom still teaches me and shes been dead 10 years.
Neo such a nice piece ever I read in your blog.
I wish your mother all the best and I pray for her to be good and well Insha’Allah.
What a heartening story of your mother. Guess it sometimes takes a while for those seeds that are planted to grow to fruition. At least that’s how it is in my life.
Very uplifting story, neo.
My mother (86) seeks out and cultivates disability. She can walk, but doesn’t and won’t any more than she absolutely has to. She has been that way for over 30 years, and now has so little muscle tone that she has trouble even with a walker. Getting other people to do things for her – even things she doesn’t especially want done – is one of her great joys of life, kind of like getting a dog to do tricks. As a consequence, all of her friends and neighbors (she’s still in her home) avoid her like the plague.
I have (stubbornly?) refused to accept the “she’s too old to change” perspective, and subtly try to force her to walk a bit more (“this looks like the closest parking space”), as well as adopting the passive aggressive “slow service” strategy of your mom’s assisted living home, both in hopes of getting her to do more, not less.
I live in hope that she will have the kind of “road to Damascus” epiphany your mother had.
I am very very happy to hear it. My father refused to do much or any activity and his decline was marked from that point on.
And my compliments to your mom on her excellent decision.
We can talk about our national and global victories and defeats, but it’s the small personal victories that really count.
I wish your mom, and you, the very best. Thank you for the story.
I thank you for sharing that wonderful story, and I thank your Mom for demonstrating resilience and spirit. Our family is struggling with parents who are sliding downhill and won’t move closer to the family so that we can keep them out of assisted living (which they would hate) and give them more time with the family. This story came at a good time for me. Thanks.
Everybody can do more than one usually does. The only problem is motivation. We all prefer comfort and leisure, so do not push themselves hard enough. To make extraordinary effort is hard in any age, but for very old this is especially hard. I was amazed when my father in his eighties built a new country house almost without any help, only by using powered tools instead usual hand tools like saws and bench axes. But after four years in trenches at WWII, he developed a habit to do everything himself. Hardly I would be able in his age to do the same. His generation is called great not without a reason.
I think she just got tired of waiting around for the attendant, and decided that–like the Little Red Hen–she would (and could) do it herself.
And therein laid the key. If someone feels safe and comfortable in one spot, then they won’t like moving to another spot, even if it is better. However, if things become too uncomfortable or annoying, then people suddenly acquire this desire, this motivation and will, to get something done.
The same applies to warfare. When things are good, people get complacent. When things are bad, people get motivated to get stuck in or help out or improve upon the status quo. If their shopping at the mall is uncomfortable and what they see on tv isn’t, then the mall will be their natural choice.
What a charming story, and so well written. Thank you for sharing it, and your blessings. Reading it made me miss my parents a bit more, but gave me a deep, warm feeling in my heart as well.
Thanks.
Trey