I Moved My Aging Parents Nearby So We Could Finally Be Close, And It Backfired In A Way I Totally Didn’t Expect
Courtesy Of AuthorIt seemed like the perfect solution. My parents were approaching 80, and the winters in Shokan, a rural town near Woodstock, New York, were becoming intolerable for them. The extreme cold and snow made them miserable. Shoveling snow in February and taking care of a lawn in the summer was getting beyond the scope of their abilities.
I also worried that they were far from any medical facility if they had an emergency. I talked to them about moving closer to me in California. They finally agreed to look into it. Since the cost of real estate was prohibitive for them, they began looking at retirement communities. Neither of them had mobility limitations and got around easily. They didn’t need assistance, but it would be a bonus if the community provided it.
So in August 2017, they found and purchased a home within a beautiful community in Anaheim. The little village provided independent living, as well as assisted living and a special dementia care wing for those who needed it. They also featured an art studio, a lounge, and plenty of socializing.
My husband and I joked that we should put in our own application. I was elated. They would now be 45 minutes from me, versus the eight-hour cross-country plane trip.
I moved my aging parents closer so we could finally be close, and it backfired in a way I didn't expect
Photo from Author
Cracks in the veneer
All went well at first. I visited them almost every weekend. My mom and I went shopping at the local mall, which she loved. Dad tagged along. After a couple of months, I could tell something wasn’t right: My parents hadn’t unpacked all their belongings yet. That wasn’t like them. My mom was not one to live in chaos.
They started complaining about their lives there. I didn’t think too much of it at first. I knew it would take them time to adjust, but as the weeks went on, I realized they were not happy — especially my mom. My dad wasn’t thrilled about some of it, either.
The main issue: In a community such as this, you’re expected to participate in their events. For instance, the staff created and put on plays and entertainment. Since my dad was able to get around when others had physical limitations, he was asked to be part of and lead some of these events. He felt obligated. It seemed more like a job than a fun thing.
My father was an extrovert, though, so he went along with it to keep the peace. Still, I could tell he was getting resentful. My mom, however, was angry about all of it. As someone who prided herself on her cooking abilities, she was unhappy about having a kitchen she couldn’t use. Since all their meals were prepared for them, it took away one of her biggest joys in life.
Then there were the cliques. As a young girl, I was bullied by a group of mean girls, which was so bad at times that it shaped me even as an adult. I’d never expect this to carry over into retirement communities. But it did and, apparently, does.
Every Friday, you were required to wear something red in honor of veterans. First: what was that about? My mom and certainly my dad didn’t wear red. It’s not a color they liked. And it ticked off my mother when she got the side-eye from others when she refused to fall in line with this tradition.
This side-eye situation carried over into their socializing in the lounge, where groups of people — cliques — huddled together and didn’t associate with my parents. Then there was a time when one of the staff burst into my parents’ home when they hadn’t picked up their mail one day.
The mailboxes had an alert that sent a notification to the staff when a community member didn’t check their mail. They had a key and simply walked into my parents’ home. Granted, it was for safety reasons. But my mom saw it as a major intrusion on their privacy.
A breaking point
By December of that year, my parents were just about done. They were visiting my husband and me, helping set up our Christmas tree, when they dropped a bombshell: they were moving back to New York.
“Dad, it’s only been four months!” I said. “You haven’t given yourself time to adjust.” I knew once my father made up his mind, it was futile to argue.
“Linda,” my mom said, “I’ve been with your father for 60 years, and this is the first time I can say I’m unhappy.” I remember other times when they’d hit rough patches. But whatever. I was crestfallen.
“Why back to New York?” I asked. “Why not look for something closer here? We could look for a different community in California.” My dad shook his head.
It was useless. They’d made up their minds. In fact, my dad told me later that they knew within two weeks they’d made a mistake. He even tried to buy back their old house in Shokan, but the new owners wouldn’t even consider it. So that was that.
After seven months, they were back in New York in a different town, but near their old place
Gijs Coolen / Unsplash
The kicker? My dad told me after they moved back that their friends “cried” they were so happy to have them back. I had no words. I was flooded with anger and sadness.
To my surprise, they didn’t stick around there either. In 2019, they moved to Arizona. I was beginning to question my father’s mental health because of the toll this must have taken on them. (My husband and I moved from Connecticut to California at age 40, and it took us weeks to recover.)
Sadly, when 2020 hit, and we were on lockdown, I only visited them once in February before it all fell apart. My dad got cancer. I lost him that August without being able to see him. My mom passed the following year.
The biggest irony of all? We moved from California to Arizona in 2022, about 15 minutes from their last home. I think of them whenever I drive through their old town, wishing we could’ve hung out and laughed together as we did in the past.
I’m glad we had the time we did. I just wish it had been longer.
Linda Melone is a writer specializing in health, fitness, and aging after 50. A former personal trainer, her work has appeared in TIME, AARP, Shape, Self, MSN Health, The Huffington Post, and other national publications.
