Saturday, April 15, 2023 | 2 a.m.
When my mom turned 70, her life expectancy suddenly shrank. My dad had died eight years earlier, and she had lots more she wanted to do.
As Mom approached 80, we began to talk about what her next chapter might look like — the “someday” most families must face, when aging parents need changes and help. These talks were in direct contrast to the trips she took and the volunteering she did, but we both knew life and health can change in a moment. Plus, she was becoming lonelier, especially when the weather was bad.
The second-to-last winter she lived alone, Mom slipped in the driveway. She was fine, but our “someday” conversations increased.
The following spring, Mom and I decided to do in-person research. We would look at apartments, condos and small single-family homes with micro yards near where she lived, my hometown, and also in my current town, where I was still launching kids. We added one more to the list for my stomping ground — a house with an in-law suite.
We did the hometown round first. The apartment was a fail. “I find this depressing,” Mom said, as we walked down a dim hall to a decent two-bedroom. The condo was a maybe. The little house was a no — too much work, even if there were only 11 blades of grass and a one-foot sidewalk to broom. Crossing things off the list was progress.
After more touring, we headed to the local coffee shop to go over our notes and discuss our impressions. As I approached the table with a tray of tea, I casually asked, “So, Mom, what do you think? What did you like the best?”
“The in-law suite.”
I stopped short of the table, shocked silent. Mom had always said she would never live with any of her kids, she didn’t want to burden them. She knew what it meant, having had her own mom move in for her last couple years of life. I thought the concept of “never with a kid” included me, and I said as much.
“I know. I did feel that way. But, now, that’s what I like the best.” Her eyes widened with doubt and glistened with worry. “Well, OK then,” I reassured her, “That’s what we’ll look for.” The loneliness factor had trumped her resolve.
As we sipped our tea, we discussed how she would have to move up to my area, unless she was going to pick my brother or sister for cohabitation. Nope. It would be me. I assured her I would start looking for a house with room for all, and she told me what she hoped to have — lots of windows with a nice view (take basement suites off the list) and two bedrooms with her own kitchen (nix sectioning off a portion of a house).
Her wish list felt like a tall order, but she was willing to wait for the right place. Two months later, I found it: A three-bedroom colonial, with an attached two-bedroom suite with a full kitchen and separate utilities. The living room windows faced a treed sideyard and the bedroom windows looked straight into pine trees. It needed some cosmetic work, but otherwise it was perfect.
It took a year to purchase, move my family, remodel the suite, and clear and sell Mom’s house. Family helped, but it was a difficult time for Mom. Finally, her moving day arrived, six months after her 83rd birthday.
When she walked in, her suite looked like the home she had just left that morning. The furniture fit perfectly, her piano was along the interior wall, her recliner faced the TV in the corner, and her bed was completely set up. Even her art was on the walls. We all teared up at her delight.
The first few months held some friction. I was 42 with four young adult children in the house. Already I sensed I’d slowly become my mom’s parent, and I felt pressure to be her entertainment, too. The stress of upheaval was hard on Mom. Sometimes, all of us were just plain grouchy.
It took some honesty to understand Mom didn’t expect me to entertain her and for her to remember to say please and thank you, rather than give orders. We all adjusted. In general, Mom was happy, and so was I. The “I’ll never” in-law suite was the right choice after all.
Twelve years later, my mom passed away, 25 years past her 70th birthday, which was obviously the beginning of a long exit ramp, not a door to the end.
Today, Pew Research reports more than half of adults in their 40s (54%) are sandwiched like I was — between aging parents and dependent children. Many families are living in multigenerational houses.
Mom and I managed on our own sandwich pretty well, and if I had the chance to do it again, I would.
Someday, when my wife and I can no longer live alone, my four kids will have the chance to sandwich with us too. All we need is lots of windows with a good view and our own little kitchen.
Leslie Kouba is a columnist for cleveland.com.
