Missouri is a state rich with interestingly named towns that evoke a sense of nostalgia and connection: names like Versailles, Rome, and Cairo bring the world a little closer. Other place names, such as Licking, Peculiar, and Tightwad, add a layer of humor to the landscape of this state. In moments of restlessness, I often find myself recalling these names, a game I once played with my parents while gazing at the rolling waters of the Mississippi.
Awoken in the stillness of night, the only sounds I hear are from the air conditioner and distant trains. The clock reads 2:30, and returning to sleep seems impossible. I realize I am not in my urban apartment filled with city noise; instead, I’m in Paris, Missouri, a small town with a shrinking population. I tell myself that this is only a temporary stay—until Carol, who assists in caring for my mother, recovers from surgery, or until my mother can transition to an assisted living facility. The uncertainty looms large.
From the hallway, I hear my mother’s voice, “Who turned the air conditioning up so high? I’m freezing!” There she is, my ninety-year-old mother, with her curlers tousled and a chuckle escaping her lips for no apparent reason. She walks into the room, where I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to sleep. It’s a space filled with remnants of the past—a quilt adorned with stars and signatures of long-gone relatives, and memories of my grandmother’s house, known for its many chimneys and cherished garden roses.
The light flickers on in the hallway, revealing my mother’s nighttime wanderings. She moves about in her thick socks, checking her surroundings and preparing a late-night snack. Her thoughts seem to chase her in the dark—dreams that awaken her and memories that haunt her. After she retreats to bed, I attempt to light her path with lamps left on to guide her through the night.
“Are you awake?” she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“I am now,” I reply, as she inspects my room, her concern evident. She scrutinizes my activities, perhaps suspecting I have secrets I’m hiding from her. It’s a role reversal; I’m supposed to be the caretaker, yet I feel like I’m the one under scrutiny.
Her independence is a fierce defense against the vulnerability of aging. Just last week, she murmured about attending a sale in her sleep, demonstrating her unwillingness to relinquish control over her life. Carol, who has worked in nursing homes, often observes that the elderly can become irritable with those they trust the most, a reflection of their struggle with identity. My mother’s occasional sharpness seems more a mask for her embarrassment over needing assistance.
“Did you sleep well?” she questions, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I assure her, even as I wait in my clothes for a possible emergency.
The local newspaper, which chronicles community happenings, has been erratic in its delivery lately—a crisis for my mother, who demands order in her life. “Did someone from the church call?” she asks, her anxiety palpable.
As we reminisce about her younger days, I see glimpses of the vibrant woman she once was, standing at a streetcar stop in St. Louis, bustling with dreams. She often reflects on those times, but rarely reveals how they shaped her life.
“My only dream was to have a cozy house filled with nice things,” she once confided. It’s a testament to the life she built, even if it wasn’t the glamorous one she might have envisioned.
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In summary, caregiving for an aging loved one can often feel like navigating uncharted waters, filled with both nostalgia and the challenges of their changing identity. As they grapple with their vulnerabilities, we must balance our roles as caregivers while cherishing their memories and individuality.