At 80 and 81, my parents are officially at the age where I worry about them on the regular. I worry they’ll fall down the stairs—again. I worry they’ll crash their car—again. I worry they’ll have an accident or cause an accident—again. They live independently in the same house I grew up in, which is not baby- or elderly-safe, so I worry constantly about their safety.
That’s why last week, when they decided to take a midweek road trip to Springfield, Massachusetts (from Long Island) to see my oldest play lacrosse, and planned on driving home that same night IN THE DARK, I knew I had to go, too. To force them to spend the night in a hotel rather than drive home, and to babysit.
To my surprise, it wasn’t as bad as I expected—but it wasn’t without incident, either.
I had booked a hotel room for us that was less than a ten-minute drive from the lacrosse stadium. They arrived three hours early (of course) and were able to “put their feet up and rest” in the hotel for awhile before having an early dinner. The plan was for them to meet me at the stadium just before game time, as I was driving separately from Pennsylvania would only arrive 20 minutes or so before face-off.
That plan sort of worked.
After my mother breached security at a local high school to use the bathroom(!), they were involved in a car accident on their way to the stadium from the hotel. UGH! This is why I worry.
Thankfully, no one was hurt. They were apparently stopped for oncoming traffic and hit from behind. The result was a damaged car and some jitters, but nothing requiring medical attention (although a forced, harsh exchange was needed to determine that much).
The rest of the trip was better.
My parents successfully surprised my son, his team won the game, and despite their inability to whisper before sunrise while I was still asleep, we didn’t kill each other sharing a hotel room.
Plus, no one fell out of the “very high” plush beds, and I was able to keep my 172-week Peloton streak alive, thanks to the hotel gym. A true sanity-saver and win-win all around.
Now for the real talk …
Raising elderly parents is hard AF, even if you’re not sharing a hotel room with them. It’s an emotional roller coaster. We want the best for them, but it often feels like arguing with toddlers while herding kittens. It’s frustrating, sad, and anxiety-inducing. It’s also laced with guilt.
I know I bitch about my parents a lot and use many of their age-related episodes as blog fodder, but deep down, I cherish every minute with them. Well, not every minute. I can do without shared car rides. (If you know, you know. And if you don’t, read my Saint Denise post to understand what it’s like to drive any distance with octogenarians.)
I want them to live forever, but I’m not naive; I know that’s not possible. The best I can hope for is that they stay safe, happy, and “in good health” (as my grandma used to say) for as long as possible. That requires real talk and compromise—on all our parts.
Are you listening (reading), Mom and Dad?
—LJDT
Loved reading this, reminds me of when my parents were still with me..
I worked with your Mom in RVC and she is a funny and loving lady.
Hi Grace miss you.