My mother has been on my mind endlessly since I visited her two weeks ago for her 80th birthday. The celebration was as it should have been, with faces old and new, good food, nostalgic surroundings and fond memories. But afterwards, staying with her for a week at the family home in northeast Australia, I began to feel that her life isn't as rosy as our regular phone calls and e-mails make it out to be. She is fit and healthy and has a handful of close friends, but is increasingly barricading herself from a world she no longer understands.
The isolation is as much physical as mental. My mother lives alone in the home my father built and in which the family was raised. It's virtually identical to when I was growing up; where age or wear and tear has required replacement, a close-as-possible replica has been found. With the past kept so lovingly alive, it's hardly surprising that such surroundings are out of step with what exists beyond the front door.
Visitors find the home charming, but to me, it was alarming - literally. As much as it is a time capsule, it's also a shrine to hi-tech gadgetry. Hidden among the trinkets are sensors, locks and panic buttons, the fundamentals of the latest in security systems. Move without invitation - try to open one of those forever-closed windows to let fresh air flush out the dankness or make an early-morning bathroom trip - and there is a chance a light will mysteriously come on, an alarm will go off or, if the invasion is of a grave enough nature, police will be electronically alerted.
Someone who lives alone wanting to feel safe and secure is understandable. The media is full of stories about danger and violence. My mother is independent and strong-willed. Her hearing is failing, but she's still bright and alert. Arguments abound, though, when you suggest that there are better ways of getting through her day. Open a door and it will be promptly closed; suggest that she change an iota of her existence and it will be shot down by reasoning so convoluted that further discussion is pointless.
I feel my mother is a prisoner in her own home. Trips outside are during daylight hours only and relatively brief. She never goes on holiday, fearing that the burglars perceived as ever-lurking will strike shortly after she gets into a taxi with her suitcase. Social activities she once enjoyed have been curtailed. Strangers are treated with suspicion.
We want our aged parents to have the best possible retirement. I left my mother with trepidation, wondering and worrying. I've sought out books on elderly care and turned to online help columns. There's no shortage of advice but, in this case, none applies.