“I feel awful, come at once”: How elderly parents unravel the lives of their grown children
Long ago, my daughter’s teacher had a mother—a woman well into her years but perfectly capable, with no need for constant care. Yet she made it a habit to call her daughter regularly, demanding, “I’m not feeling right, you must come at once.” Those words carried the weight of a command, and each time, they meant the same thing: drop everything and rush to her side.
The daughter came, no matter the hour—late at night, at dawn, even in the middle of a school day. She came because she was a good daughter, because she believed she had no other choice. Then she would return to work, teach her lessons, go home—only to be summoned again. This went on for months, perhaps years, until her body could take no more.
First came an accident—she fell and broke her arm. Then, scarcely recovered, another injury, this time a fractured leg. Yet even that did not stop her mother. The moment the daughter regained some strength, the cycle began anew.
By autumn, she had returned to work, back to her pupils, back to some semblance of normal life. But before she could fully heal, her mother resumed the calls: “I feel terrible. Come now. Hurry.”
And so the woman went. Again and again. Until one day, she collapsed with pneumonia. She died in hospital—young, bright, beloved by her students. No one could believe she was gone. The children wept, the parents, her colleagues. Only her mother, it seemed, failed to grasp that she had lost the one person who had always answered her call.
A mere month after the funeral, the old woman turned to her younger daughter. But this one, unlike her sister, had her father’s strength—unyielding, forthright, with a spine of steel. She did not come running at every summons.
Still, her mother pressed on. She called, she moaned, she accused: “You don’t love me. No one cares if I live or die. No one will come until it’s too late.” Finally, the younger daughter snapped.
“Annie spent years rushing to you. Saving you. Wiping your tears, carrying your groceries, fetching your medicines. And where is she now? Buried. And I—I want to live. So today, I’m at work. I’ll come later. If you’re truly unwell, call an ambulance. If you can dial my number, you can dial 999.”
Fifteen years have passed since then. The mother still lives. Ambulances have come—more than once. Doctors have tended to her. But without the midnight vigils of a daughter, without the drama and demands, she endures—just barely. Perhaps the calls come less often now.
Sometimes I think old age strips some people of restraint. Instead of cherishing their children, granting them freedom, they chain them down—not with iron, but with guilt. Not illness, but resentment, whim, selfishness fuels it. So they ring: “I feel awful, come at once.” And before long, there are no children left.
If I live to a great age and need help, I hope to keep my wits about me. And if I still understand the world, let them take me to a care home. If not—all the more reason. Let them live their lives. Raise their children, build their homes, visit the seaside.
I refuse to be the kind of person whose fear of death shatters those they love. Who blames everyone else to mask their loneliness. Who cannot say “thank you,” yet can uproot a family with one phone call.
Some will say, “How can you speak this way? She’s your mother.” But such people have never nursed an ailing elder. Never sat in a dim kitchen at midnight, choking back helpless tears. Never heard “I feel awful!” through the receiver, knowing it was never about pain—only attention.
It’s easy to judge them. Harder to understand.
I do not excuse cruelty. But children, too, have a right to live. And sometimes, to save that life—you must refuse to come.
