My son Kevin came up for the weekend. I was delighted to see him, but I suspected it was more than a desire to see his dear, old mother that brought him here.
I was right.
He had joined ranks with his sisters to approach me with the idea of moving to a retirement center or an assisted-living establishment. He and my daughter Robin suggested we do a senior-residence tour on Sunday.
Now, I am very happy with where I live. I like my neighbors. The maintenance men bail me out of disasters from a blown fuse to a leaky faucet.
I can walk to stores for groceries or almost anything else I might want, and I like gazing out at Lake Washington.
I know my children would never insist I move against my will. But they're such smooth talkers, I feared I might just find myself giving into their blarney.
* * *
I had an old-fashioned stereotype of senior residences as one step up from the old-folks home. I was in for a pleasant awakening.
We visited places on First Hill, Capitol Hill and Downtown, as I said it was essential that I be able to take a bus downtown and walk to the market, Tully's and similar points of interest.
All of the residences were pleasant. They all had non-threatening lobbies, roof gardens, good-looking dining rooms with good-looking food, libraries, sitting rooms and other amenities.
But what really impressed me were the residents. They didn't look as though they were confined against their will.
Rather, they looked very content with their lot, chatting with each other, reading the New York Times in the library, watching the ball game, heading out for a walk.
A far cry from my picture of old folks tottering along, looking rather disheveled, with an ear trumpet in their ear.
I was impressed.
But I didn't want to move. In spite of all the niceties, three meals a day and once-a-week cleaning, I still preferred my empty refrigerator and sometimes-untidy home.
And I felt quite capable of doing what I wanted to do by myself with the assistance of my walkers, a collection of canes and Access bus service.
I saw an impasse raising its ugly head.
After the tour, my progeny dropped me off at my house to regroup before I joined them for dinner. I spent the time pondering, "What to do? What to do?"
If it would ease the children's minds, it seemed only right that I move. But for me, I wanted to stay right where I was as long as I could. I sensed that we were quite far apart in our solutions as to what to do about Mother.
When I arrived at the house later, David, Robin and Kevin were in the kitchen discussing the afternoon's tour. David asked me how I liked the various spots. With all the enthusiasm of a prisoner discussing the charms of his cell, I replied "OK."
Then, realizing I was being rather childish, I added that I thought they were all very nice places to visit, but I wouldn't want to live in one of them, at least at the present.
To be sure that I recognized the plus features of moving to a senior residence, Robin pointed out the many advantages of them: meals served three times a day, help when needed, laundry and cleaning, all kinds of activities from going to the symphony to a weekly trip to the market in the house van, excursions, new friends and bridge partners.
It was very persuasive. But I wasn't persuaded. I didn't want to move.
* * *
We were on the verge of one of those dreadful "my way or no way" arguments that tear families apart.
Then Robin challenged me, "If you'd slow down, be careful and ask for help instead of trying to do impossible things by yourself, you probably could stay here for ages, and we would not be so worried.
David joined in, "Take cabs when you need to, not stand in the cold and rain waiting for a bus." Kevin added, "Don't do two things at once or try to carry stuff down those narrow steps to the basement. Ask someone to help you."
I agreed to their terms. We decided we'd try the plan for six months and then re-evaluate the situation. Now it's up to me.
We all breathed a sigh of relief. We had reached a compromise. No one had raised a voice, laid down the law or stormed out of the room. Instead, we had compromised. No one had won, and everyone had won.
Would that we all would compromise more often.
Roberta Cole can be reached via e-mail at robertascole@ hotmail.com.
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