My brother and sister-in-law went to Rome recently, and I didn’t pay too much attention to when they were leaving, where they were staying or when they’d be back. So what, you might ask? What does this have to do with us, your New Old Age readers? Well, stick with me. The logic is a bit strained, but I suspect this will ring true.
Travel can be disruptive for families caring for an aging parent. (Alan Zale for The New York Times)When my mother was in precarious health, I always knew where my brother was and vice versa. We exchanged detailed itineraries before trips, even weekend jaunts, something we’d never done before. We touched base at departure. We touched base every day or two when we were out of town. We touched base again when the plane put down on arrival home.
“The eagle has landed,’’ was our shorthand for “I’m back. You don’t have to worry that all hell is going to break loose on your watch. You’re no longer in this alone.’’
When I was out-of-town on business, it was distracting to have my cell phone on all the time, and I worried that answering it was rude to my interview subjects. I warned them immediately that we might be interrupted. Usually, I got as far in the explanation as “My mother…” and they knew where I was headed.
Within a certain age band, we all had parents who were, literally, a moment away from a potential crisis: A fall. A stroke. Even when nothing bad was happening, it might. Knowing that was exhausting. Everyone had a story. (See Part I of a two parter on family caregiving by my colleague Jane Brody, who discusses many of the same issues we discuss here.)
So, the tether that connected me and my brother also connected me to others I spoke with. With each preemptive “My mother…,” I was drawn into a circle of commiseration. It was comforting, in the way it was comforting to know my brother was never more than a speed-dial away.
When we were both in town, the one unbreakable rule of our collaboration, even in its stormiest moments, was to stay in touch. My brother knew when I was at home, in the office, in the car, out for dinner, at a movie and vice versa. Cell phones remained on at all times. Whoever we might be talking to, the other one’s number on caller ID always took precedence. In simpler times, we had spoken rarely, so this was not a slight adjustment of communication patterns but rather a sea change.
Most of the time it consoled me. Take the days when my mother chose the worst possible time to call about something annoying but not earth shattering, say lukewarm coffee at the assisted living place or a surly aide at the nursing home. She’d never been a complainer or a pest. Now she was both, agitated by helplessness, and she spared neither of us. Between the calls we’d call each other and vent. Who else could we comfortably ask, “Is this ever going to end?’’
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