By Nancy Jones
My mother took the best years of my life. When I was 39 years
old, and she 69, she announced quite matter-of-factly during
my visit to her home in Worcester, Massachusetts, that she
now knew how she would cope with her recent first heart
attack: "I'm moving in with you." It was a simple
declaration; not really open for discussion.
The year was 1976. I was married and living in New York
City in a small apartment with my husband and l0-year-old
son. I visited her frequently in Worcester, where she had
lived all of her life. It was also the house I associated
with "home" even after I married. Living in New York City
where my husband had his business and my son was going to
school, I always felt quite lucky to be able to return to
Worcester. My mother had provided our get-away vacation
house, and we would go there whenever we wanted to escape
the noise and heat of New York City. Evan, my young son, had
enjoyed years of non-city living there and summers at Cape
Cod.
My first thought after my mother's blunt announcement
was, "Where would we go now?" It's funny how the most
picayune thoughts clutter your mind when momentous things
are happening. When my father died of a massive heart attack
in 1948, I was only 10 years old; and although I adored him
and would miss him terribly in the years to come, my first
question to my mother was, "Well, who's going to feed us
now?" I meant the question quite literally since he had been
the cook in the family. Every weekend while my mother did
housework, he did the cooking, preparing the most sumptuous
meals.
I remember how alarmed and irritated my mother was with
that question. "What's that got to do with anything?" she
snapped, no doubt preoccupied with her almost unbearable
loss. Now again, when my life was about to be turned upside
down, I was asking another seemingly irrelevant question:
“But what will we do for a vacation home?” When the shock of
what we were both saying to each other ceased to
reverberate, my mother explained what was behind her
epiphany. "I probably will live only another year or two
considering my ill health, and since you have an extra
bedroom in your apartment, I'll move in with you. Why
shouldn't I spend my last years helping my daughter? I’d
rather save my money and give it to you.” This declaration
was coming from a woman who had vowed to all her friends
that she would never, ever live with either one of her two
daughters. "It would put too much of a strain on them." When
I think back on this episode in my life, I wonder why I
never thought to suggest another housing alternative. I
think that I, too, believed she would not live that long.
And how could I deny the poor woman her last request? When
my mother was born in 1908, life expectancy was not more
than 50 years, not the mid-70s of today. Many of my
relatives had died before they reached 60.
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