“The thought of having to take care of my parents paralyzes me”
It’s a thought we’ve all had. But few of us know the answer. What do we do when faced with the inevitable reality of having to care for our aging parents?
For the parents of those now nearing their 40s, the answer was straightforward: the task would typically fall to the young women of the family, be they daughters or daughters-in-law. In some instances, sons would shoulder the responsibility, especially if they were an only child. If finances allowed, a hired helper, often from abroad, would be enlisted to assist with the more challenging aspects of elderly care.
However, today’s transitional stage presents a different set of circumstances. The generation following today’s 60-somethings was raised in a different social context. Conversations began to revolve around self-fulfillment, personal choice, education, and carving out an individual path that doesn’t necessarily adhere to the traditional “children by 30, living in a family apartment, and Sunday dinners with the parents”. While many still follow this path, the societal expectation has lessened, particularly in urban settings.
“I don’t know if people intentionally have children with the expectation of future care in return. But I do know that I want my parents to live as long as possible, even if they transition from being providers to needing care. Not because love is reciprocal, but because for me, it is an absolute.”
Today’s millennials have pursued education, strived for personal fulfillment, and continued living, despite facing one crisis after another. This is a generation that has accepted the responsibility of paying bills and living in the aftermath of a “golden age” in which Greece was portrayed as a land of wealth, opportunity, and hope. Now, as they reach or surpass their twenties, they realize they have another responsibility to manage: their parents are aging. So, what’s next?
LiFO spoke to four individuals, either approaching or past the age of 30, about their feelings on their parents’ aging and the potential need to care for them.
Nikitas, 29
My anxiety about my parents’ advancing age runs parallel to my own anxieties about adulthood. When I witness them struggling with simple daily tasks, physical movements, or using technology for the first time, I realize that I am transitioning from being protected to becoming a protector.
For the first time, I’m truly confronting the relentless passage of time, compelling me to evolve and leave behind a cherished aspect of my life – the lingering illusion of an extended childhood. This illusion abruptly dissolves when faced with the frailty of my aging parents.
Not long ago, I read an interview with Renos Charalambidis where he expressed that caring for his elderly parents was the accomplishment he was most proud of. This came up during a conversation with a friend who shared that in Greece, parents often expect their children to repay the care they once provided. My friend, who chose to live far from her parents due to a history of domestic violence, sparked a thought. I’m not sure if parents have children with the expectation of future reciprocation. But what I do know is that I want to be there for my parents for as long as I can, even as they transition from being the providers to the ones in need. Not because love should be repaid, but because to me, love is an absolute, immeasurable entity.
Ersi, 34
I wouldn’t necessarily call it stress. Stress, I believe, stems from situations we think we can control. Aging parents, however, are beyond our control. As my father grows older, his features become more pronounced, his lips thin, he loses his youthful plumpness, and his face becomes more angular. Yet, he refuses to acknowledge any of it. The more he resembles an imaginary straight line, the stronger my instinct becomes to confront him about his denial. But my frustration ebbs away when I see him struggle to rise from a chair. As a child, I used to imagine him passing away. I believe, albeit it may be an unpopular opinion, that all children, once they grasp the concept of mortality, enact the loss of a loved one. This “acting out” is, I believe, a way to cope with the initial encounter with the unspeakable pain of loss.
The image of my father and the mixed feelings of love and sadness remain vivid in my mind, as I genuinely weep and ache for him. It all boils down to this – watching your parents age forces you to contemplate their mortality. But it’s different with my mother. She has a disease that has progressively weakened her over the years. I’ve witnessed her in such a state of physical dependency that now, as she ages and becomes more frail, unlike my father, I can’t envision her passing away. A woman who has endured her ailing body for so many years seems to me as if she will live forever. Unlike with my father, I’ve never imagined her end. I believe my mother will pass away unexpectedly, perhaps while ironing, without a chance to say goodbye. The pain this foreknowledge brings is indescribable. It feels as though my mother has always been mature, but has now become more measured, while my father, who never seemed to grow up, has suddenly accelerated his pace. My mother’s growth is steady, my father’s reactionary. Retirement is a blessing for one, a symbolic tombstone for the other. I’ve learned through observation to love from a distance. Not to prevent causing pain, but to avoid letting past hurts take too much from my present – because that’s all we really have.
I seek answers in literature and children’s books about how to handle life’s challenges. I’ve come to realize that I cannot avoid pain, and no matter what I do, there will be losses. But perhaps, if I read widely and deeply, I might appreciate the fortune of losing in the right sequence and, more importantly, maintain the desire to keep playing the game of life.
Ioanna, 37
My own future feels so uncertain that the prospect of caring for my aging parents paralyzes me. Even if I were to devote my life to their care, the instability in Greece, from basic punctuality to public healthcare, means that all resources would likely need to be funneled into private care. I’ve seen firsthand from the older women in my family how much effort and dedication eldercare requires. I’ve also seen the disrespectful treatment they often receive in nursing homes and from some home care staff.
It feels like a choice between ensuring a dignified and humane life for your loved one and sacrificing a significant part of your own life. It’s as if you’re forced to weigh whose life holds more value. You find yourself as one unit among many, each battling individually for the best outcome. In the end, you’re left wondering if the care you can provide will be adequate for the lifestyle your elderly parent could have had. It’s not just physical needs that must be met – social interaction, interests, and hobbies are also crucial. Life can’t be reduced to the mere extension of biological functions.
Right now, when I’m barely managing to keep myself afloat, the thought of a parent’s rapidly declining health is terrifying. Some parents understand this and those who can afford it try to save for their own care. This thought is somewhat comforting, though it doesn’t solve everything, and it also fills me with guilt because it suggests they see their future selves as a burden. While the idea of losing a parent is incredibly daunting, the stress of providing adequate care for them when they become dependent is even more frightening.
Helia, 29
I was raised in a family that could have been straight out of a television commercial. I know it’s not the norm, but I had a very happy childhood. I have vivid memories of my childhood filled with travel: my mother at the wheel, my father munching on crisps in the passenger seat, and our family en route to France. Picture a road trip with a seven-year-old, that was me. Then there was Samothrace, where my father would playfully splash me with waterfall water while my mother laughed. After school, I’d come home to a meal waiting for me on the table. As a child, it seemed like magic how dishes were always clean and my clothes always found their way back into the closet, freshly ironed. I naively believed that Mrs. Dawn, the woman who came to clean our house, did so out of love for us and not for a paycheck. My parents were always fit and healthy, their presence radiating warmth and light.
At 26, while I was working in Sweden, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I returned to Greece last year, accepting a job that pays a third of my previous salary, with less opportunity for advancement. One of the main reasons for my return was to be closer to my mother as her health declined more rapidly than we had anticipated. I don’t live with my parents, nor am I her primary caregiver, but I wanted to be there for her — to accompany her to doctor’s appointments, share a cup of coffee, or simply go for a walk. If the need arises, I am prepared to take on their full-time care. Fortunately, my parents are financially secure and have the means to hire a caregiver. I anticipate that if that time comes, we will jointly share the caregiving responsibilities with a professional.
I don’t want to overstate the situation. My father is doing well, and there’s hope that my mother may recover to some extent, or so we’ve been told. I had worked hard to establish a life abroad that suited me, so it’s not anxiety that I feel about caring for my parents. It’s more a sadness for the life I’m leaving behind, and a hope to return to it if circumstances permit. I’ve considered the emotional toll, and know that the guilt I’d feel if anything were to happen to my mother while I was out of the country would be unbearable. Despite my parents’ insistence that I live my own life, I feel a strong sense of responsibility. They gave me the world, and the least I can do is be there for them when they need me most.
