Leading a quiet life...

"I lead a quiet life."
"Little Walt isn't afraid of me like your girls were." (Walt is my brother's two year-old.)
"The days are getting shorter."
These are a few of the rote phrases that lately comprise my mother's conversation.
She'll soon be 87 and lives alone in the condo my father and she retired to around twenty years ago. My brother and I worry about her living all by herself, (Dad died in '95) ,and have been trying to sell her on a move to an assisted living facility for at least the past five years.

"No, those places are for old people", she responds. She is also adamant about not moving to California so that my wife and I could keep an eye on her.
"I'm from Illinois, and I belong here", is the reaction to that suggestion.

This dilemma, I realize, is one shared by many of my generation. The constant worry that her dementia will result in an accident with the oven, the stairs, or even the mailbox is tough to shake. My guess is that it all ends badly.

Steve, my brother, and I talk frequently on the phone about how to resolve the situation. He lives forty miles from mom and he and his wife make sure that she has groceries and anything else she needs, but an emergency would involve the better part of an hour to respond. Not good.

There is no good answer.

She's lonely and wonders why she doesn't hear from old friends. (Most are dead.) And, I think, given time would react favorably to friendships available in assisted living. But, would a move from familiar surroundings only hasten her demise? There is something to be said for knowing where the bathroom is in the middle of the night.

Like I said...there is no good answer.

It's Sunday and nearly time to call and check on her. Lately she doesn't hear the phone and we leave a message, though I don't think she knows how to play them.

It's hard to get old in America, but it beats the alternative.

Or, does it?