Editor’s note: This op-ed is by Telly Halkias, an award-winning freelance journalist. It originally appeared Aug. 24 in the Bennington Banner.
My mother’s birthday never seems to fall on this column’s run date, except for this year. As such, it further emphasized the issue of elderly parent care — something on my mind for quite a while.
I’ve always considered it a blessing to have my mother around; today, in fact, she is turning 86. Having lost my father to cancer 15 years ago, I was thankful back then that he had a chance to see me become a dad, and otherwise follow my life into my mid-30s.
But with Mom it’s different, in that she is now living with me, splitting time over the last decade between my home in Vermont and my sister’s in Virginia. And since my Navy brother-in-law is stationed overseas, Mom is now here full-time.
In Greek culture, while families make use of nursing homes, they remain, even with American diaspora, venues of last resort. Parents have an obligation to do their best by their kids, and for their part, children are expected to care for their parents as they grow older.
Often one, but sometimes several offspring can become involved in a parent’s later years, providing lodging, medical and financial resources in much the same way as the parent once nurtured them.
In this way, Greeks view the parent-child relationship as a bookends of life proposition.
Extended care facilities still have their place, but having the parent (who is almost always a grandparent) in the house is an added value. They are considered able contributors in everything from minor household chores they can physically and willingly handle, to watching the grandchildren, and dispensing all-around wisdom and opinion from their life experience.
When growing up, I saw this in first-hand far from the Green Mountains, back in the old country. There, during summer vacations, I visited the ancestral village of my mother’s family in southern Greece, Agios Nikolaos (St. Nicholas).
I stayed with my great-grandmother Catherine (for whom Mom also was named). Yiayia Catherine died at 106. She lived with my mother’s aunt Nike, who had been the family designate to care for the matriarch.
Catherine used to sit in a wicker chair on the home’s veranda, her fly swatter in hand. From that throne, she would share stories of 19th century Greece, and tales of Ottoman oppression inherited from her parents and grandparents.
While Yiayia’s body had long since given out — she could only shuffle around with a cane — her mind was sharp as a meat cleaver. She would insist on sweeping the porch every day, wanting to show us kids that age didn’t matter, and that pride could give one the strength to endure long past the quitting point.
That, and watching the neighbors stop by daily to pay respects, left a life-long impression. And it wouldn’t have been possible had great-aunt Nike put Catherine in a nursing home decades earlier. At least to old-school Greeks, therein lies the logic for justifying this continued family expectation.
After today’s birthday, Mom still has another 20 years to match Yiayia Catherine’s longevity, and the family history suggests not to rule out her chances. But admittedly, with every passing day I can’t help but wonder what lies ahead, sometimes in hope, but mostly in trepidation.
Nevertheless, it’s a long way from Agios Nikolaos to Bennington, Vt.
This week, on our drive home from Bone Builders, Mom saw that I was picking away at the fresh loaf of bread I had just bought, exactly as I did in my youth. She asked: “Do you mind if I tear a piece off, too?”
“Go for it, Mom,” I replied. Bookends indeed.
I wish there was some way I could stop the clock, or turn it back. But even Mom remains circumspect about her fate, noting that when your number is up, it’s time to go.
I just pray it isn’t too soon. Sure, we still have our tense mother-son moments, as expected when under the same roof. But every day I get to know Mom better than I ever did as a boy, or as an adult when my life pulled us apart like a bird leaving the nest.
Now my home is the nest and my mother is a winged bird, not able to fly away as her baby did over three decades ago. So happy 86th birthday, Mom, and enjoy your special day; you’ve earned every moment if it.
