September42010
First no rollerblading, now this
At some point in their 40’s, my parents decided it would be a good idea to give baby-making one more try. They already had a handful of pretty good kids, but I think over dinner one night someone mentioned how awesome they would be at parenthood if they did it again. Sometime later, I was born. That future elementary school anomaly: the girl with the old parents. My folks listened to old music, had old fashioned values and didn’t blend well with young suburban parents. My mom abstained from sparkly sweatsuits and my dad didn’t drink. My house was trend-free and I regularly ate stewed tomatoes and brown rice for lunch.
I wasn’t as mortified as one might think; my old parents were pretty much over micro-managing tiny humans, so I grew up doing my own thing and not too worried about what they were up to. I benefited from their financial stability and the fact that they weren’t wild and clueless. There was never any funny business at home. That place was boring as hell, and safe as could be. I learned a lot about decades my peers had barely heard of — the 1940’s and 50’s were just a parental anecdote away.
One thing my wise and all-knowing parents didn’t mention, though, is how quickly they’d become old for real. Just about as soon as I figured out how to pay rent on my own, my guardians and indestructible rocks aged seemingly overnight. Sick, forgetful, unexpectedly stuck in old habits. Too tired to drive. Falling asleep while they drove!!! These realizations were shocking.
Even more shocking: mortality. After undergoing major heart surgery last summer, my mom was reduced and helpless. And pissed about it. And at my house. That I had just learned how to pay for. I crashed through, perhaps one of the world’s worst caretakers, and we made it out on the other side with a new relationship. A relationship predicated on a new reality: adult child, senior parent. I know a lot about conditions now, and medications, and spend a lot of time worrying about them both. My dad’s relatively low key revelations about health problems send me into a spiral of dread because I’ve googled them and I know all the conditions they precede. Sometimes I even advance my worries to the 2020’s, when my parents will need live-in help, or forget my kids’ names.
I want to be a good daughter. It is a priority in my life. There are people in this world that count on you, and you come through for them. My old fashioned parents raised me to think this way, and I want to make them proud. But it is hard to know what to do when all I really have is the desire to do good. My parents are unmarried and live in two different places. They don’t like each other much. What’s going to happen when they need me? In particularly vulnerable moments, I imagine a compound where we’re not a happy family but we’re a harmonious community. The fact that this fantasy is pretty deluded makes me worry even more. No, really, what’s going to happen? What am I going to do when I’m needed? I struggle with houseplants and my dog. I’m only marginally ok at taking care of myself.
Older, seasoned parents raised a good kid. They knew what they were doing, and it showed. Now what happens when an overgrown child has to take care of them?
