After my husband’s death, I became the primary caregiver for my mother-in-law, Joyce, who is now 102 years old.
For nine years, I’ve struggled to balance caregiving with a full-time job. But every few months, I’ve prioritized taking Joyce to get a manicure. She loved getting out and being pampered. Her nails grow into talons very quickly and scratch her frail skin. It was our moment to connect.
But now, against her wishes, Joyce lives in a nursing home, and we can’t get her nails done. It breaks my heart to see her locked in a place that she doesn’t want to be. But I had no other choice.
She had a major fall this year
I’ve struggled for nine years to honor Joyce’s wish to live at home alone and still protect her as she ages. Only able to afford 20 hours a week of paid in-person caregiving, I often questioned if my best was good enough.
Our luck ran out earlier this year when she had a terrible fall and was sent to the ER. Nothing was broken, but Joyce had black-and-blue bruising all down her left side. It hurt my heart to see.
I wasn’t allowed to get her a manicure in rehab, which further broke my heart. The loving ritual was one of the few times I could get her out of the house and into the world.
She loves living at home on her own
When I took her home from the hospital, I decluttered her apartment to make space for her walker. I installed a bedrail to prevent her from falling out of bed. I hoped she would stay put, but that wasn’t the case.
The day after Joyce got home, I entered the apartment to find her playing her piano. She grinned at me, mischievous as a child. She had crawled out of the bottom of her bed.
Courtesy of Alison Pena
Joyce was delighted to be home, where she was allowed to get ice cream from the fridge, play the piano, and watch TV at will.
I was so scared about what might happen next, and three weeks out of rehab, Joyce fell again and went to the ER. I sat with her for 15 hours.
I made the incredibly difficult decision to move her into a nursing home
On the gurney, Joyce asked over and over to leave the ER against medical advice. I told her, holding her hand in the ER, tears dripping down my face, that she was never going home again.
As I took the necessary steps to move her into the nursing home, I kept reminding myself of my promise to keep her safe, even as my heart broke.
In the ambulance on the way to the nursing home, Joyce ordered the driver to take her home immediately.
She finally asked, “How could you do this to me?” I silently wept, her hand cold in mine.
Joyce’s world is shrinking
Every visit, Joyce asks when she will be released, even as I cleared out her apartment. I threw her a 102nd birthday party with carrot and red velvet cupcakes, ginger beer, and a few friends to share it with her. I’m trying to cheer her up.
In the nursing home, she sleeps a lot and seldom talks or participates in activities. She refuses to play the piano downstairs. Outside in the sun, she slumps in her wheelchair, head down.
The only ritual that brings her any joy is when I do her nails — with great ceremony, complete with soapy water to dip her hands in and a towel to rest them on. I use her manicure kit and emery boards to cut and smooth the nails. She feels the edges with her other fingers and tells me where they are too sharp.
Asking her what she wants and actually honoring her request is part of the loving ritual.
She still fears what lies beyond and clings to life. For now, we sit together, holding hands, certain only of our love.
