From Carrying Groceries Home to Fighting for Independence: Watching Mom Change

I'm at the skilled nursing facility, spending a bit of time with Mom. We're outside right now, enjoying some fresh air and talking.

This morning reinforced a decision I made a long time ago: I was right not to pursue a career in healthcare. I don't think I have the personality for it.

And that's not a criticism of people who work in healthcare. Quite the opposite. Watching what the CNAs, nurses, and physical therapists do has given me a greater appreciation for the patience required to do their jobs.

Because it’s an easy patient.

She's difficult. She's demanding. And when she wants something, she makes sure everyone knows it.

I'm pretty much the opposite.

"I Want"

While talking with Mom, I noticed how often she uses those two words: "I want."

She wants to get out of the day room. She doesn't want to spend her time sitting there. She wants to go to the physical therapy gym.

I understand it.

The day room sounds like a prison to her. She's in a facility where other people have schedules, where she depends on staff to help her move around, and where she can't simply get up and do whatever she wants whenever she wants.

And when you think about it, that's a significant loss of independence.

I want things, too. We all do. The difference is that I'm generally more inclined to work around circumstances rather than keep pushing until I get what I want.

Mom has a different approach.

Sometimes I get frustrated with her demands. Then I have to remind myself that she's the one living there. She has to spend her days in that environment. What feels like another complaint to me might represent something much bigger to her.

That doesn't mean we can meet every demand immediately. The staff has other patients to care for, and practical limitations limit what can happen.

But I can understand why Mom wants more control over her day.

The Woman I Remember

What's particularly difficult is remembering the woman Mom used to be.

I remember seeing her carry groceries from Post Avenue in Westbury, New York, to our house. It was only three or four blocks, but she made that trip with the groceries she had purchased for our family.

That was the Mom I knew.

She went out, did what needed to be done, and brought the groceries home.

Today, she's in a skilled nursing facility. Her mobility is limited; she needs help, and she wants to get to the physical therapy gym to get stronger.

It's sad to see that change.

I'm not suggesting that the woman I remember has disappeared. She's still Mom. She still has opinions, preferences, and a very clear idea of what she wants.

But the circumstances of her life have changed dramatically.

The woman who once carried groceries home now has to depend on other people to help her get where she wants to go.

And I imagine that's frustrating for her in ways I can't fully appreciate.

A New Appreciation for Healthcare Workers

This is also why I know I made the right decision not to pursue a healthcare career.

I can help Mom. I can visit, advocate for her, ask questions, and try to help her figure out the next chapter of her life.

But can I handle the demands of patient care all day, every day? That's a different story.

Healthcare workers have to balance compassion with practical realities. They need patience, resilience, and the ability to deal with people who may be frightened, frustrated, demanding, or simply unhappy with their circumstances.

I don't think I could do that job well enough to make it my career.

I have limits, and recognizing them matters.

It also makes me appreciate the people who show up and do this work every day.

What Comes Next?

Mom wants to leave the skilled nursing facility and move into assisted living. I'm continuing to explore options and figure out what might work for her.

But beneath all the complaints about the day room, the food, and getting to physical therapy, I want to see past something.

Mom wants to’.

Mom wants to have some control over her life again.

I want things, too. I want her to be safe. I want her to have the opportunity to regain as much independence as possible. And I want to help her find a living situation where she can have a better quality of life.

Those goals don't always align with what she wants in the moment, and there will undoubtedly be harder conversations.

For now, we're outside together.

I'm listening, thinking, and writing.

And I'm remembering those trips from the grocery store on Post Avenue to our house in Westbury.

Life can change in ways none of us anticipate. Sometimes the hardest part isn't figuring out what to do next. It's accepting how much has changed while still trying to help someone move forward.

That's where I am today: sitting outside with Mom, remembering who she was, seeing who she is now, and hoping for what's possible next.