*”I feel awful, come right away”: How elderly parents can unravel the lives of their grown children*
Once, my daughter’s teacher had a mother—an elderly woman who was perfectly capable and didn’t need constant care. Yet, she made it a habit to call her daughter regularly with the same plea: *”I don’t feel well, come as quickly as you can.”* Those words were a command, and each time, they meant the same thing: drop everything and run.
The daughter went, no matter the hour—late at night, early in the morning, even in the middle of the workday. She went because she was a good daughter, because she felt she had no choice. Then she’d return to work, teach her lessons, go home—only to be summoned again. This went on for months, maybe years. Until her body gave out.
First, an accident—she fell and broke her arm. Then, barely recovered, another injury, this time a broken leg. But even that didn’t stop the mother: as soon as her daughter showed any sign of strength, the cycle began anew.
By autumn, she was back at work, in the classroom, trying to reclaim her life. But before she could fully recover, her mother started calling again. *”I feel terrible. Come now.”*
And the daughter went. Again and again. Until one day, she collapsed with pneumonia. She died in hospital—young, kind, beloved by her students and colleagues. No one could believe she was gone. Children, parents, coworkers—all wept. Only her mother, it seemed, didn’t grasp that she had lost the one person who always answered her call.
A mere month after the funeral, the old woman resumed her habits—this time with her younger daughter. But where her sister had been gentle, this one took after her father—stubborn, direct, with a spine of steel. She didn’t come running.
Still, her mother pressed. She called, moaned, accused. *”You don’t love me. Nobody cares. No one will come until I’m dead.”* Finally, the younger daughter snapped.
*”Molly was always there—wiping your tears, carrying your bags, fetching your medicine. And where is she now? Buried. I want to live. So I’m at work. I’ll come later. And if you’re really unwell—call 999. If you can dial my number, you can dial theirs.”*
Fifteen years have passed. The mother is still alive. The ambulance has come—more than once. Doctors have helped. But without the nightly vigils, without the drama and demands. She lives as best she can, and maybe—just maybe—she calls with complaints a little less often.
Sometimes it seems that, in old age, some people lose their inhibitions. Instead of protecting their children, letting them live, they chain them—not with iron, but with guilt. The culprit isn‘t illness, but resentment, selfishness, spite. *”I feel awful, come right away.”* And then, one day, there are no children left.
If I ever grow old and frail, I hope I keep my wits. And if I still understand the world, let them take me to a care home. If I don’t—all the more reason. Let them live their lives—raise their children, build homes, visit the seaside.
I refuse to be the kind of person whose fear of death poisons those they love. Who blames everyone else to mask their loneliness. Who can’t say *”thank you”* but can uproot a family with one phone call.
Some will say: *”How can you say such things? She’s your mother.”* But those who say it have never tended to a needy elder. Never sat in dim-lit kitchens at midnight, swallowing tears of helplessness. Never heard *”I feel terrible!”* through the phone, knowing it was never about real pain—just attention.
Such people are easy to judge. Harder to understand.
I don’t condone cruelty. But children have a right to their own lives. And sometimes, to save them—you mustn’t come at all.
