“I feel awful, come right away”: How elderly parents can disrupt the lives of their grown children
Once, my daughter’s teacher had a mother—an elderly woman, perfectly capable and not in need of constant care. Yet, she made a habit of calling her daughter regularly, saying, “I don’t feel well, drop everything and come at once.” Those words sounded like an order, and every time, they meant the same thing: abandon whatever you’re doing and rush over.
The daughter came, no matter the hour. Late at night, early in the morning, even in the middle of the workday. She came because she was a good daughter, because she couldn’t do otherwise. Then she’d return to work, teach her classes, go home—only to be called again. This went on for months, maybe years. Until her body finally 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: the moment her daughter showed any sign of recovery, the cycle began anew.
By autumn, she was back at work, returning to her school, her students, her routine. But before she could fully regain her strength, her mother started calling again with the same plea: “I feel terrible. Come. Now.”
And the woman 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. Everyone wept: the children, the parents, her fellow teachers. Only her mother, it seemed, failed to grasp that she had lost the one person who had always answered her call.
Just a month after the funeral, the elderly woman resumed her old ways—this time with her younger daughter. Unlike her sister, this one took after her father—stubborn, direct, with an unshakable will. She didn’t come running at the first summons.
But the mother persisted. She called, she moaned, she accused: “You don’t love me. No one cares if I live or die. No one will come until I’m dead.” Finally, the younger daughter snapped.
“Clara spent her whole life rushing to you. She wiped your tears, carried your shopping, fetched your medicine. And where is she now? Buried. I want to live. So I’m at work. I’ll come later. If you’re really sick—call 999. If you can dial my number, you can dial that.”
Fifteen years have passed. The mother is still alive. Ambulances have come—more than once. Doctors have helped. But without nightly vigils, without the drama and demands. She lives as she can. Perhaps the guilt trips come less often now.
Sometimes I think old age strips some people of restraint. Instead of cherishing their children, letting them live, they chain them down—not with iron, but with guilt. Not illness, but resentment, whim, selfishness fuels it. So they call: “I feel awful, come.” And then, one day, the children are gone, too.
If I ever grow old and need help, I hope I keep my sanity. And if I still understand the world—send me to a care home. If I don’t—all the more reason. Let them live their lives. Raise their children, build their homes, visit the seaside.
I don’t want to be the kind of person whose fear of death burns down the lives of those they love. Who blames everyone else just to escape loneliness. Who never says “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 same people have never cared for a difficult elderly parent. Never sat in a dim kitchen at midnight, swallowing helpless tears. Never heard “I feel awful!” through the receiver, knowing it was never about an emergency—just attention.
Such people are easy to judge. Harder to understand.
I’m not excusing cruelty. But children have a right to their lives, too. And sometimes, saving yourself means not answering the call.
