The Loss of Independence

My father had retired to the den after lunch, and as his snoring began to rattle the walls of my parent’s apartment, I rose from the table and asked my mother if I could help her clear the dishes.  “Just sit there, for Chrissakes!” my mother snapped…

I had asked the wrong question.  Though I had the right intentions, I didn’t recognize the depth of my mother’s sensitivity about her increasing frailty. In my zeal to be helpful, I ignored the fact that she needed to prove that she could still handle her normal duties.  She was used to being Big Mommy, Queen of the Kitchen, and she wasn’t able to tolerate anything less from herself…

It’s well known that exercise is a tonic for many physical ills, but it was a foreign language to my parents: “It’s not for me-not my cup of tea” my father always said. They only time they got their heart rate up was when they argued with a waitress about a restaurant bill.  Walking was California-style: to and from the car, or in and out of the grocery store.  And with housework as their only exercise, they slowly became more enfeebled and unsteady.  Every time my mother had to drag their laundry down the open-air hallway to the laundry room in 110° Palm Springs heat, it took a little more out of her than she had to give… 

For my mother and father, facing the cruel reality that they’re just not the same people that they once were, was crushing.  Overly prideful, they couldn’t admit that they needed help, and never adjusted to the fact that needing help was actually okay.  My simple question of assistance with the dishes spoke more to my mother about growing old than about helping in the kitchen.  And there were many more difficulties soon to come due to their gradual, but inexorable, loss of independence… 

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