In the Rearview: Waving Parents into Their Future

The other day I watched my parents pack their stuff into a moving van, get in their car, and head out on a new adventure. It was an odd reversal of all the times it had been me packing up the car and heading out while my parents waved in my rear view mirror. Their end of the unspoken bargain had always been to hold down the family fort, surrounded by all the stuff so essential to a sense of identity and place. Knowing where the fort was gave me the confidence to venture forth time and again. So it was profoundly strange when the fort got downsized, the stuff got donated, and the people who were always supposed to be in my rear view mirror were now leaving me behind.

Now I’m the one holding down the fort while my parents head out into the unknown. It’s not like they haven’t gone on adventures before, living in Morocco or France or West Virginia at different times. But they always kept the fort, the home base to which I could return as needed. This time the adventure isn’t Morocco or Provence. It’s a retirement community, where binoculars are handed out in the dining room so you can watch the birds while you eat your lunch. Their new living space is very nice, but tiny. No extra room for the rest of the family to pile into, no safety net in case of divorce or pandemic or career change.  

When I made my first visit to the retirement community, Dad pointed at the name plate beside their door and said, “I wonder how long that will be there.” The implication was unsettling. There isn’t usually a next stop after moving to a retirement community, unless you’re talking about advanced care. Or that which shall not be named (it rhymes with Beth). It’s a tough juxtaposition after years of assuming there will be more big trips and adventures and safety nets because there always have been. 

Last year my dad lost a brother and my mom lost a sister, both to cancer. That’s when it became clear that the safety net needed to shift. I tried to convince them to stay, promised I would take care of them when the time came. But they had seen the toll caregiving took on family. They chose the safety net of the retirement community.

The decision makes sense but I have mixed feelings. Especially since my partner and I bought their old house. The fort is mine now and as I try to shove all my stuff into it, I don’t see how my parents fit themselves, me, my cat, my sister and my nephews into it for entire Philly summers. Good luck to whoever was sleeping on the third floor. It’s strange to walk around and not trip over a relative. Now the fort is crammed with records and cats and books. It’s nice but it’s not the same. 

There is grief in this. It’s still home base but in a very different way. As my parents’ car followed the moving van down the street, turned the corner and drove out of sight, I thought of all the times they'd waved me into my own future. This time I was the one waving, and the future is something it’s never been before.