My mother, aged 82, was widowed last year after my father’s agonisingly slow death from Parkinson’s . She was living in a large and lovely house 70 miles from two of her children and an ocean away from the third. Dad’s more obvious struggles camouflaged my mother’s dementia and by the time he died, they had two live-in carers , one each, through a private agency at an eye-watering £4,000 a week.
After he died, she remained in their home with the help of a warm and efficient carer, but things were falling apart, both in her body and in the house. The step to the bathroom was perilous, the boiler needed replacing, she found it impossible to get out to the garden even with help. Her mobility was decreasing at such a rate that it was likely that soon she’d need a second carer in the morning and evening, which would be both expensive and disruptive, as well as large-scale adaptations to the house such as a downstairs wet room.
Mum had been saying for over three years that once widowed, she’d like to move to a care home in London to be near to us. So, we set about touring suitable places – from the convent crammed with statues of the Virgin Mary and reeking of incense to the plush chain of homes with the décor of an airport first-class lounge. In the end, we opted for a small, friendly place with two cats.
Read Next I rented a private pool for £40 an hour to cool off in the heat Throughout this process, my brothers and I would take turns to fret that we were doing.