A Reintroduction of a Good Enough Daughter

After posting blog entries here since June 2008, I thought, for new
readers, it might be a good idea to reintroduce myself, my mother, and
our story. (Jane Gross, author of the New York Times' blog the New Old Age, posted a version of this entry on January 22, 2009.)

I am 57 years old and have two sons, ages 20 and 16. I have a fine job that I have held for almost 15 years. About a year ago, when my 90-year-old mother took a series of falls while living in Phoenix, it was my job as the only daughter and a “professional in aging” to fly to Phoenix (from my home on Bainbridge Island, Washington) and do whatever was necessary to make everything right.

My mother lived in Phoenix for over 60 years. When I arrived at her home, she made clear that she wasn’t about to move or to accept help. Realizing that I could not wrap her in bubble wrap and ship her to my hometown, I took a deep breath and decided to do what I could. I visited with doctors and talked to friends and neighbors. I brought in the home care workers (against protest), “equity loaned” the house, and fixed and fixed and fixed. I did whatever I could do to make the situation safe, while complying with my mother’s adamant decision to never leave her home.

Four falls, four hospitalizations, six months, and 30,000 frequent-flyer miles later, I made the decision: Mom had to move near me. The latest fall took my mother into a nearby rehabilitation center. It was crummy at best. I guess the rehabilitation services were probably up to par, but the facility was late-60s architecture, and though the staff were pleasant enough, they always seemed busy doing something other than actually taking care of a resident. I walked into my mother’s room, and she said, “Get me out of here. I’m ready to move to Bainbridge.”

I quickly donned my geriatric case manager hat and began to plan the move. I had plenty of work to do. I had to pack up as many of my mother’s things as I could and ship them to Bainbridge and find a rehabilitation center near my home that had an opening. It was a whirlwind experience. Thank God for my friends Jo and Kathy, who helped me work out all of the details.

I thought it would be less stressful to have Mom near me. It did not exactly work out that way. I made daily visits, conducted chart reviews, talked with staff, and reported to my brothers and to my mother’s 100 friends, all while working and trying to pay some attention to my family.

I soon became slightly insane.

My Dear Husband recognized that I was going over the edge. My mood was unpredictable. I became demanding and emotionally needy. He sat me down and suggested that my recent weight gain was related to caregiving stress and that I should consider something, anything. I listened to him and realized that something had to give, and it was not going to be my health or sanity.

I had to give up the idea that I could make it all right, that I could make my mother feel good about leaving Phoenix, that I could magically make her walk independently again. I decided that all I could do was be a good enough daughter—not perfect, but good enough.

My mother is on her way to her 91st birthday. Dementia is definitely part of the picture, but other than that, she’s in pretty good shape. She may live for years. In the past year, I have learned that there is no such thing as a perfect caregiver or perfect daughter or perfect son. Just when we think we have a plan, just when we think we have it all figured out, everything changes: a fall, a no-show paid caregiver, an irate sister or brother, a placement option that doesn’t work, or a medication that turns everything upside down.

I think we should try to do the best we can, when we can. We should strive for good, sufficient, satisfactory, helpful, healthy, or okay—never perfect. Perfect does not exist in the world of family caregiving.

By Sara Myers
The Good Enough Daughter Blog