Life of Wry

I can speak out of both sides of my mouth on this one… this business of assisted living. The 58-year-old version of me feels pretty darn resolute about the idea of aging in place, that is, staying in one’s home, thriving on one’s own sense of independence and surrounded by familiarity and serenity.

But there was no question, sitting down today with the 93-year-old version of June, that assisted living is the place to be, at least for June, at least now. She sat in her favorite chair (the motorized one that can be raised to help her stand) in a sparsely (though totally adequately) furnished apartment, thermostat set to 74 (but thermometer registering 78), sun streaming in. She fell contentedly to sleep a couple of times as we spoke. We’d put a load of laundry in (just down the hall!), re-hung the clock, reset the levels on her hearing aids, hunted for a couple of misplaced items and then settled in to chat. Before nodding off, she said (a couple of times), “I really like it here.”

She gets a lot of exercise walking the halls, she loves the food, she’s started to reach out to a couple of folks.  It’s quiet and easy. She’s happy. I’m happy for her.

My mom? Come hell or high water, she’s never leaving her house.

For me, us?  I just can’t imagine being anywhere but home. But I allow that there may very well come a time when simple and accessible is best. Not passing judgment at all.