I remember my mother telling me some eight or 10 years ago, almost in hushed tones, “You know, my friend and classmate, Leela, has been admitted by her only son to an old-age home. How horrible!” Looking at me with a mixture of suspicion and sternness, she added for good measure: “Don’t you do anything like that to me. I would rather die at home than spend my last days in an old-age home.”
In those days, old-age homes were largely perceived as places where children with no time to tend to their aged parents would “drop” them off at a certain cost. I remember a person once telling me after admitting his old mother in one such home that he felt lighter and happier now because it had the “necessary expertise” to look after the elderly. I don’t quite know how true he was to himself when he said this.
Old-age homes have since undergone more than just a semantic metamorphosis. Known these days as “senior citizen homes”, they have re-branded themselves on the strength of the facilities offered, including quality healthcare, diet and community togetherness, making them much more acceptable and less stigmatic than before. In fact, I know senior citizens, who, even with comfortable homes of their own, chose to reside in such homes.
Happy homes
Soon after my retirement, I happened to contact a couple of such homes. I was pleasantly surprised to take note of some of the amazing facilities they offered. I spoke to a couple of senior citizens who had taken residence in these homes and found them satisfied and happy. They had chosen to reside here on their own and not because of any pushing, prodding or nudging by their children. The arrangement seemed to be working well because the children too were happy in the assurance that their aged parents were being taken care of.
Besides, these homes also allowed children to come over and spend a few days with their parents. They provided an avenue for many seniors to pursue their interests, free from the hassles and worries of paying utility bills, security, cooking, buying groceries and so on. I now seem to be more inclined to looking at such homes not as a jail house but as an abode where people roughly of the same age can talk, discuss and join in common experiences free from the routine worries and hassles of daily rigmarole.
And who knows, maybe one of these days, I may do on my own what my mother, a few years ago, feared for herself.
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