Caring for Aging Parents? Here’s the Truth Nobody Talks About
With Caregiver Day on February 20 coming up, about 63 million Americans are family caregivers. A significant portion are caring for an older parent. The majority are women, and many are still working and raising children of their own. At the same time, 75 percent of adults age 50 and older want to remain in their current home for as long as possible. That desire is even stronger among adults age 65 and older and those living in small towns and rural areas.
Independence is not the problem. It is the point.
But independence does not cancel out vulnerability.
When many of us with older parents were born, the average American lived to about 70 years. Today, life expectancy is about 79 years, and the population over age 85 is continuing to grow.
Many of us never realized we would be helping our parents into their eighties or nineties, managing chronic health conditions, including dementia, and doctors’ appointments, all while juggling our own busy schedules. Now that is exactly what many of us are doing. Longer lives have been a gift. They have also made family life more complicated, leaving many of us suspended between two truths: respect our parents’ sovereignty as they age, and protect them from harm, even when they are not asking for our help.
Over the past holiday season, I felt that tension acutely while reading Mel Robbins’s New York Times article, Life Is Too Short to Fight With Your Family. She writes about the regrets people carry at the end of their lives and urges readers to let others be who they are, even our parents, so we do not lose precious time to unnecessary conflict.
Then I reached a section of her article that stopped me. Robbins wrote: “However well-intentioned you are, you shouldn’t spend Thanksgiving trying to convince your parents that it’s time for them to sell the house and move into assisted living. Let them make their own mistakes, even if you might have to deal with the consequences. Your parents are adults. Give them the dignity of their own experience.”
When I read that, I paused. Because that was exactly the dilemma I had faced.
Like Mel Robbins, I try to follow spiritual principles drawn from many ancient traditions: detachment, acceptance, letting go, and allowing others their own path. These ideas matter to me. I believe in sovereignty. I believe in not interfering with the lives of other adults unless I am asked. And I see myself as someone who tries to honor that, even though I am a work in progress.
But then there is real life. And real life does not always fit this spiritual outline. This is where things get messy.
When your parents are in their late eighties, you live in another city, and you know you will be the one handling much of it when something goes wrong, the idea of letting them make every decision—decisions that affect your life as well as theirs—becomes complicated. The spiritual ideals and the human obligations start pushing against each other.
When my father was 89, he was not doing well in Florida. He worried more about driving and keeping up with responsibilities he had always handled easily. He was not confused, but he looked more fragile. My mother was 86, and her hearing had gotten worse. She also had breathing issues. They were getting by, but it was getting harder. And they were far away while I was in New York with two kids and a full life. I have siblings, but a lot of their care fell on me.
That summer, my parents stayed in a small cottage near my sister on Long Island. My father looked thinner and unsteady. My mother pushed through everything with determination, but I could see how tired she was. They both seemed more vulnerable. It was that quiet fear adult children feel when they finally see what time is doing.
Since they were already in New York for the summer, I pushed for us to visit senior living communities in New York and New Jersey. In my mind, it was the practical moment to explore options. We visited a few places, but my mother refused them all. She wanted Florida. She wanted her home. She wanted her routine. She kept saying, “I just want to go back.” I understood that. But I could also see what she could not. I saw the emergencies waiting to happen. I saw the growing risks.
I called senior care consultants in Florida to understand their long-term care policy and the options available. One consultant listened carefully and told me something I never forgot. She said, “If you think things might get worse, do not let them get on that plane. When things go south, it happens quickly, and the most important thing is having family nearby.” They returned to Florida anyway. They wanted to go home. They insisted they could manage.
I wanted to respect their autonomy. I wanted to honor the spiritual principles I believed in.
But then reality stepped in. My father needed more medical attention. My mother grew more worn down. That Thanksgiving, on Zoom, I was the person Mel Robbins talks about. I was arguing with my mom about moving up to New Jersey. I honestly told her I could not keep flying back and forth. I said they needed to be closer. She was upset. She said she did not understand. And in the end, I pushed harder than I ever wanted to. My father decided he wanted to move, and then my mom finally said yes, even though she felt pressured and heartbroken.
They sold their house in Florida and moved to independent living in New Jersey. The transition was painful. My mother said I had ruined her life when she arrived. At night, I lay awake wondering if she was right. Did I take something from them, or did I give them support they could no longer manage on their own? Did I make their world smaller, or did I make it steadier? And here is the hardest question of all: Should their autonomy always come first, regardless of the consequences?
Then life unfolded in ways none of us expected.
Within a little more than a year, my mother almost died of pulmonary clots. She later went through breast cancer. My father broke his hip. Because they were nearby, my siblings and I were able to handle everything. We found the right doctors. We managed emergencies. We kept them supported. They made new friends—a rare and beautiful thing to do when you are ninety. They spent time with their children and grandchildren. My mother no longer had to cook. My father no longer had to worry about driving. There was a medical center and a drugstore right in their building.
After this experience, I see the nuance. Maybe there comes a time when the decision becomes a family one, and not only about our aging parents’ autonomy. I still believe in independence, but there are harsh realities that come with leaving aging parents without family nearby. I cannot imagine getting that call a few times a week and saying, “Take a cab to the hospital. You chose this.”
Maybe love sometimes means staying close.
It means walking beside someone as life becomes more complicated and offering steadiness when they need it most, even when they do not see it or want it. Sometimes the most meaningful dignity we can offer is companionship. Sometimes the truest expression of love and grace is making sure no one has to face the last part of their life alone.
So, I did not let them. I pushed them. I insisted. But I did it with an open heart and a desire to fulfill my obligations and give them the help they needed. My mom is now ninety, and my dad is ninety-three. These days, we meet in New York City for dinner with her walker and his cane, neither of which they needed in Florida. We can never know what would have happened had they stayed in Florida.
Even after everything, I still wonder: Should my parents’ sovereignty have come first, no matter what, and did I steal some of their dignity? I only know that love led me here and maybe love trumps every thought and every spiritual theory, bringing us back to the honesty of the moment and the quiet clarity of what truly matters.
Allison Carmen is a Sunday Paper contributor and author of The Gift of Maybe and the host of the podcast, 10 Minutes To Less Suffering.
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