How it started, How it's going

Five days, three prayers and my parents' decision to downsize

Hello everyone!

Transitions are one of the most challenging aspects of Sandwich Season—children growing up and preparing to leave … or not leave … and parents growing older and needing more help.

So many conversations at this time of life revolve around when aging parents might downsize or move into a situation that offers supports. It’s an emotional topic, and one in which building consensus can take years.

Side note: When a reporter interviewed me a couple of months ago, she asked, “When would you say people should start talking with their parents about making a move?” Without thinking, I blurted out an answer: “The moment you pop out of the womb.”

But even that might not help. In my experience, the conversations we had a decade or more before it was time for my parents to move went very differently from when the need arrived.

This post shares our path to a new living situation and my prayer life at the time. The experience wasn’t direct or easy, but it happened. And my dad told me this morning how thankful he is that he and my mom moved when they did. (Also, he approved my sharing this post.)

All my best to you and yours,

Sarah

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Recently I saw an Instagram reel of a disheveled-looking bear crawling out of a cave.

Blinking sleepily, it peers around, pauses and gives a full-body shake. A clump of fur drops to the ground. The person who posted the reel added a quippy caption likening the bear to themselves, waking up after a “quick” nap.

I laughed. But then, as I watched that tired bear footage a couple more times, I saw myself. This bear reflected my version of “How it’s going.”

You’ve likely seen those social media posts where people share two photos that sum up a snippet of their life story—one pic illustrating “How it started” and another showing “How it’s going.” For example—

How it started: A glamorous young couple clinks champagne flutes together.

How it’s going: The same couple, sporting some wrinkles and a few more pounds, stands surrounded by five smiling children.

Or—

How it started: A young man pats a skinny, listless-looking dog.

How it’s going: The same dog, fat and happy, wears a party hat.

So here’s my How it started/How it’s going Sandwich Season experience, in bears:

How it started (January 2023):

Photo credit: Ann Blouse on Unsplash

How it’s going (January 2024):

You can see the video on YouTube.

Clearly a lot has happened since January 2023. That was when I experienced something that buoyed me in such a way that I felt like the calm, collected bear in the first picture: My prayers were answered—bam, bam, bam.

Three prayers in five days.

The back story

I had started working on my parents, encouraging them to downsize, several years earlier, around 2017. I think Mom had already received a possible dementia diagnosis. She was still doing well, but things were beginning to shift.

For one thing, I noticed that one of her great joys—spending part of the winter as a snowbird with Dad in Arizona—was causing her more and more stress. Packing clothes and household items to bring with them, the long car trip from Minnesota, the repacking and closing up of their Arizona twin home, the long drive back … It seemed to have evolved from a series of minor logistical challenges into a monumental task she dreaded.

“Why not sell the place?” I asked. “You could always rent something nice and fly down for a month.”

No one was interested in that … until a couple of years later, in 2019. That’s when Mom and Dad decided they were ready to be done with owning a home Arizona.

Jon, Max and I had been joining them in Arizona for spring break for years. It was our chance to get some respite from the cloudy, wet winters of Washington state, where we then lived. We would dry out in the desert sunshine, exploring a nearby art colony, hiking in the desert and swimming in the neighborhood outdoor pool.

Spring break 2019 brought something altogether different: an empty-out-the-snowbird-nest and get-it-on-the-market project. After several crazy days, we returned to Washington, mission accomplished.

In 2020, when we decided to move from Washington back to my Minnesota hometown, I saw another potential downsizing opportunity. In one of my early phone calls about our upcoming move, I asked my parents if this might be a good time to get a condo or look at retirement communities. Maybe we would buy their house.

No, no, no, they said. We’re going to age in place.

OK.

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Jon and I found a house online, and the three of us moved in that September, a couple of miles from my parents’ home.

As it was still pretty early in the pandemic, I felt protective of my aging parents and thought we shouldn’t share germs, so we didn’t see them a whole lot. But they seemed fine. Fine-ish, anyway.

Mom had given up driving and seemed happy to spend her days at home. Almost too happy, actually. My socialite of a mom had begun claiming that she preferred the company of animals to people. She spent her days mostly with Miss Kitty, her beloved rescue cat, by her side. And Dad, of course.

It was becoming clear, though, that in addition to cutting way back on socializing she also had largely quit her regular home activities. A consummate homemaker and entertainer, she was cooking less and less, and never baked anymore.

Dad had always been their primary wage earner as an English professor, spending his days at the college and his evenings and weekends grading papers and writing books. In retirement, he still had side projects and at home became their primary grocery shopper. But now he was asking me for basic recipes and cooking intel. He also had questions about laundry and other household tasks, things that Mom would never have let him do in the past. Not that she was selfless, but no one else could do these things as well or as thoroughly as she could.

Their patterns were changing. But no one, especially my mom, wanted to talk about it.

Not sure how to help them, I joined an online workshop series to learn about caring for people with dementia. I suggested to my parents that we visit a gerontologist. I pushed for an updated neuropsychological exam. I encouraged my parents to engage various local supports. I nudged them to check out local retirement communities.

But Mom had a consistent response that still echoes in my mind.

“I’m FINE,” she grimaced, eyebrows arching, green eyes flashing, dental bridges shining bright. I understood why Dad did not want to rock the boat.

But as the months slipped by, her stories and conversations got increasingly repetitive, and her life revolved more and more around her bed. Her once expansive orbit that took her to friends’ homes and movies and concerts and drives to enjoy the changing seasons had collapsed into a flat ellipse that took her from bed to kitchen table and back. The farthest she ventured was downstairs with Dad to watch television in the family room.

As Jon, Max and I began visiting them more, their house felt less and less like their home. My mom, a passionate lifelong de-clutterer, had let their ship devolve into disarray. The place felt stuffed. It smelled stuffy. I poked at them with increasing urgency about making a change.

Sometimes I cornered Dad, or invited him to stop by our house on the pretext of dropping something off or picking something up. I asked him point blank how things were really going. I suggested we bring in help. I suggested we start looking at options.

Finally, we had a conversation in which Mom and Dad gave me the go-ahead to start checking out retirement communities and gathering information—as long as I didn’t expect them to act on any of it.

That was enough for me to get started.

I placed calls and made appointments, keeping Dad apprised and sometimes, when Mom was at her most congenial, mentioning to her what I was learning. But it seemed that every positive response they gave me came with a caveat: Any change would take place in the distant future.

Meanwhile, I watched their life unravel in real time. Mom was functioning less and less as an adult. Dad was looking more and more exhausted. We got Meals on Wheels started and a home help agency in place for some months, but toward the end of 2022, Dad canceled them, saying he could handle things. I disagreed. Truth is, their favorite helper had left to care for a member of her own family, and Mom didn’t connect with some of the new staff. I begged my dad to call the agency back. They ended up on a waiting list.

Things were coming to a head. I worried about my parents all the time. I tried to convince them that the best thing would be to get ahead of their needs, to choose a retirement community, rather than waiting for a crisis to erupt.

If they needed to move suddenly, I imagined aloud, then one or both of them could get sent out to—I grabbed the name of a random rural community—Cooperstown, North Dakota, for heaven’s sake. I told them, mostly tongue in cheek, that I would not drive that far to visit them. They laughed.

But Cooperstown is an hour and a half away.

A series of prayers

On Sunday, January 8, 2023, I prayed and prayed hard. Feeling absolutely helpless, I sat alone on our living room sofa and wept. God! We need help!

Minutes later, I checked my email and found a message from my dad:

Hi Sarah,

This morning I broached the subject of moving into a retirement home. Neither one of us like talking about it. But it's probably about time—and your mother didn't say flat-out no. Don't think I told you, my doctor suggested going into a retirement home would be a good idea, given our ages and your mother's dementia. He said he's concerned about me. But one non-negotiable: Mikala (my parents’ new cat) must come along! …

Stunned, I just sat there, catching my breath. My prayer had been answered, at least partially. Dad was on board—I even had it in writing! I felt a spark of hope.

Of course it wouldn’t be a straight line to progress. When we talked later, Mom expressed how against she was about making any move. She was FINE, they were FINE, everything was FINE.

I felt as if I had been swatted back to square one.

On Tuesday morning, January 10, I took another run at my request. Please, God, let my mom see her need of a move.

At 9:52 a.m. the same day, I received a text from my brother, who lives in Iowa:

Had a really good talk with Mom and Dad yesterday. And Dad volunteered that they are planning on moving to a retirement home … So he really seems to be internalizing the reality of the situation, which is good. … Oh, and Mom didn’t flinch at it at all, said it was best.

What? This was news. Another prayer answered.

I was ready. I had been preparing for this, having visited a couple of retirement communities on my own, including one where I checked out a two-bedroom, two-bath unit on the fourth floor. It was nearly brand new and included a balcony and a gas fireplace that could be enjoyed from two rooms. Mom and Dad would love this, I thought.

But the apartment was a long walk from the elevator. Mom had grown so weak that I couldn’t envision her making it that far to go down to the dining room. And she was not exactly the walker or wheelchair type. Have you seen the British comedy, Keeping Up Appearances? That title could have fit any number of episodes from life with Mom. From her vantage point, it would be hard to keep up the appearance of being FINE if she needed assistance.

The other retirement community I had visited had wonderful common areas, engaging social programs and an almost festive vibe. However, the only unit that was expected to be available anytime soon was a smaller apartment—one-bedroom, two-bath. I hadn’t seen it, as its current residents were still packing to move out. Regardless of what it looked like, though, I thought this community would be the best one for Mom and Dad.

Already I wondered, would I be able to talk my parents—who were not wild about changing anything in the first place—into downsizing from a four-bedroom house into a one-bedroom apartment? I seriously doubted it.

I made my third and final request in this series of prayers on Wednesday, January 11.

Please, God, give us clarity, and help us discern what is best.

The next day, Mom, Dad and I went to check out the one-bedroom apartment. We had been told that the current residents were still packing, but I felt it was important to continue our momentum. As we approached the unit, I was relieved to see it was not far from the elevator.

Then our guide opened the door. My heart sank. The view out its third-floor window included a busy street in the distance with some businesses, parking lots and a water tower. Inside, it was cluttered with half-filled moving boxes and baskets of clothes, and it felt crowded with furniture and large framed photos from another family’s life.

Checking out an apartment

Would my parents be able to see past its current state to envision themselves and their décor there? Or would they choose the newer place with the looooong walk? Or—and I could hardly bear this thought—would they take a wait-and-see approach, putting their names on a waiting list for future openings.

I watched my parents carefully. They didn’t seem concerned about anything I was noticing. They looked around gamely, smiling and nodding, listening to our guide, who they had known socially for years. They trusted her. But I know my parents. The smiles and nods, the appearance of mulling something over—it can be pure politeness masking a big Are you kidding me? once we were alone. Oh God, be with us.

After the tour was over, and it was just the three of us once again, they continued to mull. They had an appointment to tour the other place, the two-bedroom with fireplace and balcony, that coming Friday, two days away.

So I continued to do what I could do: worry that they would opt for the shiny, larger place. (Did I pray too? Maybe. But my clearest memory is of the worrying.) My gut told me the community with the smaller apartment would be best for them.

Then, on Friday morning, January 13, I received a surprising phone call from my parents. When I hung up, I found this email from the woman who had shown us the one-bedroom apartment:

Hello, Sarah! I have been meaning to connect with you all day … But things just keep moving along so quickly, and yesterday late afternoon I got a voicemail from your dad, asking where he would be able to practice his trombone, without bothering anyone. … Anyway, I thanked him for their time with us yesterday and he went right in to how they enjoyed themselves here so much and many of their friends live here, so they cancelled their other tour and have decided to come here!  …

I had had a hard time believing what I’d heard from my parents in our phone call moments earlier. But this email confirmed it.

I had told our guide earlier about my worries over my parents, and my recent prayers. Her email concluded:

WELL DONE on your part being such a caring and supportive and involved daughter! You helped them move through this process at an unusually rapid pace. It seems that your prayers were received. You clearly have a direct line. 😊

In that moment, I felt at peace.

If you’ve read other posts in my Sandwich Season journey, you are well aware that I did not remain long in this state. You know that this past year brought hospitalizations, hospice, my mom’s passing, my dad’s stroke, the challenges of their move, my dad’s move, my family’s move, the struggles of helping our son, even our dog’s near-death experience. Just yesterday, I learned my dad has Covid, and I admit I did a bit of verbal fist-shaking, telling God that this is just piling on.

Some might say the past year has been a dumpster fire for my family. Certainly I’ve spent parts of it, including the past couple of weeks, feeling a whole lot like this:

But amid all the chaos and ambiguity, I continue to take comfort in my memory of that one week last year when the answers were clear. I felt like that fluffy bear on the warm rock, paws folded, taking it all in, feeling truly fine.

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Mom & Dad making preparations to move into their apartment

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