Reflections on a Changing Relationship with My Mother

Recently, I’ve found myself lying in bed, tears streaming down my face in the stillness of the night, while my husband, Geoff, sleeps soundly beside me. His silhouette feels like a distant mountain. I bury my face in my pillow to hush the occasional, sorrowful chirp that escapes me.

I don’t typically cry, so these late-night tears come as a surprise. I’m a 59-year-old woman, happily married, with children who are healthy and have their own lives. Yet, when night falls and the world quiets down, I can’t help but think, I want my mom.

My mother isn’t lost; she’s just a quick 20-minute drive away in an assisted living facility. When I see her, she looks like the woman I know: shorter than me, her hair dyed brown and styled in neat curls, with a smile that mirrors my own. She sounds familiar, too, with her choice of words and gestures, but something’s amiss. After a short time, it becomes clear that she feels more like a hologram of herself—stuck in a loop, repeating the same few thoughts:

• “I have nine windows in my apartment.”
• “My cat is the best roommate I’ve ever had.”
• “Did I mention that your husband reminds me of my dad?”

For years, my mom lived independently, volunteering and singing in her local chorale. At 78, she was energetic and appeared to be in excellent health, so it shocked me when she decided to move into a retirement community close to my home.

“A retirement home?” I asked, bewildered. “But you’re doing so well!”

“It’s not a home; it’s a village. Just like living in an apartment, but without the need to cook,” she replied.

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Let’s just say that’s not a loss for the world,” I said, earning a playful nudge from her.

When we toured the facility, it resembled a resort, with activities and concerts scheduled. Still, as we navigated past walkers and scooters on our way to the restaurant, I remarked, “These people are friendly, but they seem… elderly.”

She squared up to me, her 5’1” frame radiating a sweet yet stubborn demeanor.

“My mother was sick all through my childhood,” she said, reflecting on her own past. “I won’t put you through that.”

“This is entirely different! I’m older now, and you’re not sick,” I replied hesitantly. “Well, not most of the time.”

As we left, we encountered a locked door labeled “Assisted Living Wing” and “Memory Ward,” adorned with cheerful cutouts of flowers and butterflies. The amusing thought crossed my mind, and I made ghost noises.

“You, if you keep that up,” she quipped.

It never crossed my mind that she might be hiding something from me.

Then came March 12, 2020. The day after Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson revealed they had COVID-19, my mother’s car pulled into my driveway, her two suitcases in tow, along with food from her fridge and her howling cat, Jello.

“Just until we flatten the curve,” she insisted, hesitant to leave her apartment. “Not a day longer.” She ended up staying with me for a year.

We’re quite different. She’s meticulous, while I’m, well, a bit messy. She’s soft-spoken; I tend to be loud. We clashed occasionally. When I was younger, I despised dresses, so she sewed me pants. When a male teacher said I must wear dresses to school, she asserted, “Either she wears pants, or you’ll see her underwear!” I got to wear pants.

Initially, our shared time during lockdown was enjoyable. We explored the local arboretum and reminisced about our hometown. “No one lives here! Who’s to care?” we chuckled as we peeked into the windows of our old house, and I searched under the porch for hidden treasures.

“Nothing but spiders and dust.”

Daily, I brought her chocolate chip cookies for a “wellness check,” and she welcomed me into her cozy, warm space. I would nudge grumpy Jello off the armchair and chat while the TV blared. It was during one of these visits that I first sensed something was off.

“Mom, watching the news 24/7 is grim.”

“I leave it on for the voices,” she replied.

“You live with me! That’s plenty of voices. If you want to watch TV, how about Netflix?” I handed her the remote.

“It’s too complicated. I prefer the news,” she said, taking a small bite of her cookie.

“Just press this Netflix button!” I exclaimed, flailing my arms. She dismissed me with a wave.

The next day, she accidentally poured laundry detergent into the dryer. “What was I thinking?” she asked. “I’ll pay for it.”

“It’s really no big deal,” I reassured her. I was reminded of the time I confused cereal with the refrigerator and milk with the cupboard; a mistake we all make sometimes.

But as her forgetfulness became more frequent, I grew impatient. It was easier to blame her rather than confront the reality of her condition—and my own fears. I even snapped one day, “You just met with your doctor! Your pain is coming from your spine, not your hip. You need physical therapy.”

“DO YOUR PHYSICAL THERAPY! And can you wear your hearing aids? It’s tiring to repeat myself.”

“I dislike physical therapy,” she replied, “And you’re the only one I can’t hear.”

Our arguments shifted. It felt almost childish, and I began to parrot the words she used with me in my youth, oblivious to the reversal of our roles.

“Do as you’re told!” I’d half-joke as she indulged mostly in chocolate.

“You’re not the boss of me!” she’d retort, crossing her arms.

Then came the incident where she drove into oncoming traffic with my daughter. It was a close call; the other driver swerved just in time. My daughter declared she’d never let Grandma drive her again.

I wish I could say I took her keys after that, but it’s a hard decision to make—taking away your parent’s independence is complicated, especially since they didn’t grow up with options like Uber.

A few weeks later, while waiting in line at Trader Joe’s, I called her. “Thank goodness you called! My phone isn’t working!” she exclaimed, breathless.

“But you’re on the phone now, Mom,” I replied.

“I couldn’t find anyone’s numbers. I was all alone!”

It upset me that she was panicking over something so simple. She could have just stepped out and asked any of her grandchildren for help. The helplessness in her voice shook me.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked when I got home. It didn’t even occur to me that she could change. I didn’t realize these early moments were good days when she still recognized who she was and her family.

The day I took her keys was the day she mistook my daughter for me.

“It was easier to be annoyed with her, easier to look away from what might be happening to her, from what might one day happen to me.”

Sometimes, it’s astonishing how unaware we can be of our own emotions. I remember a time I was walking in a nearby forest and spotted an elderly woman sitting on a fallen tree, leaning on her walking stick.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

She smiled. “I’m just resting. I live up there,” she pointed up the steep hill. She had come from Sweden, marrying an American who later moved them to a retirement home. Unlike my mother, she spoke passionately about current events and books she was reading. I wanted to hold on to that interaction.

“Can I visit you to help with errands?” I asked, then immediately felt foolish. She didn’t need help; she had just walked a mile into the woods!

During the pandemic, my husband worked on a project to hang birdhouses around our yard. One day, a storm knocked one down, and four baby birds tumbled onto the grass—blind and chirping, they reminded me of a tale about a baby bird searching for its mother.

As I carefully placed them back in their nest, a thought hit me: I’m like that baby bird, looking for my mother who is fading away from me. The lovely woman in the woods? She’s not my mother.

Six months after my mom returned to her apartment, I received a call from the onsite nurse about a troubling incident—she had consumed five weeks’ worth of medication in just two weeks. It became clear that she needed to move into assisted living.

That door with flowers and butterflies flashed in my mind. I believe she anticipated this change. She likely knew her mind was slipping and wanted to secure a place where she would not become a “burden.”

One thing she often says in her clearer moments is, “My parents died young. I didn’t have anyone to guide me on aging.”

Thanks to her, I do have some guidance. As her child, I’m learning to be more patient and understanding. I call her every day and visit often. Occasionally, the mother I know returns for brief moments before vanishing again.

In her low moments, she tells me, “I’ve had a good life, but if I could push a button to end it now, I would.” I want to tell her to hang on, that things will improve, but deep down, we both know that’s not the case. Instead, I remind her that she is cherished, listing those who have loved her over the years.

I’m discovering how to love her deeper, perhaps even from a place of gratitude rather than need. I’m trying to be the adult now—supporting her as she did for me. It’s challenging, and in those quiet hours of the night, when the reality of losing my mother looms over me, I allow myself to cry into my pillow.