Some thoughts on caretakers

Jordan and me
at her St. Patrick's Day birthday 

Jordan left today for five nights in Austin with her big sister. They plan all kinds of activities from pedicures to party shopping, culminating in my son-in-law’s fiftieth birthday party Saturday night. And let’s not forget the John Mayer concert Thursday in Austin—my girls will go to the ends of the earth to hear John Mayer, but that’s another story.

My nose was a bit out of joint that I wasn’t invited. I somehow have the bad senior parenting idea that I must be included in everything. I remember when I first realized that as adults, they were talking to each other without going through me. Wait! I thought I was communications central. Now they all four talk to each other all the time, and I rarely know what’s going on. As for this trip, both girls said this was simply not the right time for me to be in Austin, and though I want to make a big fuss and give them a guilt trip, I know they are right. I can’t—and don’t want to—do all that running around. And though I’d love to celebrate B’s birthday, the party would be loud with a lot of people I don’t know at someone else’s house, so I couldn’t sneak away whenever I wanted. No, I’m better off at home.

But for me it raised the caretaker question. Jordan is unofficially designated as my caretaker, and yet she’s not only leaving me for almost a week, she has tasked me with feeding her boys Christian and Jacob, a task I willingly take on. But my mind lingers on the thought of how much I need a caretaker.

Granted, I am in my early eighties (I can still honestly say early). Still, I live alone (though help is only yards away), I can handle the routines of daily living, I am still writing and publishing, I socialize with friends albeit mostly on my patio or in my cottage, and I routinely cook meals for four on a hot plate and a toaster oven. I have an active life of my own. Not too shabby.

On the other hand, there are things I can’t do for myself. I don’t drive so I can’t go to doctor appointments, I can’t mop up a spill on the floor (though I try from my seated walker), I sometimes can’t get clothes down from my closet (why did the closet designers put those bars so darn high up?), I need help in the shower to make sure I don’t fall. If I want a dish from the top shelf of the cupboard, I have to ask Jordan.

So it’s a mixed bag—and I admit I probably could not live alone without assistance. On the other hand, I don’t want to go to assisted living for a lot of reasons. I love people, but I don’t want all of them around me all the time. Right now I have the perfect mix of solitude and vibrant company, I want my dog to be able to wander in and out. And a silly, picky point: I get claustrophobic alone in self-service elevators, so the high-rise where most of my friends are is not a solution for me.

But there’s more. I relish the company of Jordan, Jacob, and Christian. I love our dinners together, my garden that Christian and I sometimes agree about and sometimes not, the friends they bring to the house who inevitably come out to give me a hug and maybe sip a glass of wine, the joy of watching Jacob grow and become his own person.  I love being part of their lives and having them in mine.

And in anticipation of this week, I realize that Jordan is what—or who—holds it all together. Yeah, sometimes she’s too busy with work to talk about menus, and I get frustrated. And sometimes, she’s frustrated that I need to ask for help on little things—and big, like finding the exact pan I want to cook something or feeding Sophie a pill. But without her, we are a bit adrift, without an anchor.

Tonight I had my two neighbors for our usual Tuesday night happy hour, and then I served the boys Big Mac salad. Jordan had given me explicit directions on how she did it—she does what I decry and tailors each plate to individual taste. I was raised that you eat what was set before you and there were no exceptions, except in case of allergy but I can’t remember any allergies from my childhood. Dislikes, yes; allergies, no. So tonight I let each “boy” serve himself, and Christian did most of the dishes. We’ll be all right this week, but we will be glad when she’s home again.

And I’ve already planned a couple of dinner for next week—four nights, including some out—so she doesn’t have to worry about that, because I know she’ll hit the deck worrying about her business that’s been neglected.

Have fun, Jordan and Megan. Happy Birthday, B. And Christian and Jacob, thanks for stepping up to the caretaker’s role. I know you’re there if I need you. I love you all a lot.