I can’t take this anymore. Where do I send my elderly mother?
I’m at my breaking point. I thought I could handle it, but I’ve reached my limit. I need to share this story—it’s tearing me apart.
I’m the second child in the family. My older brother, Edward, is three years ahead of me. Mum had us late—Edward at 42. My parents waited years for children; she struggled with fertility, but in the end, the miracle happened, and she brought my brother into the world.
Me, Elizabeth, came along three years later, when Mum was 45. Her age was always a shadow over us. Edward and I grew up with parents from a different generation, and it shaped us. Sometimes they lacked the energy to keep up, or the understanding of our world, but we never complained. Mum and Dad loved us fiercely, and we loved them back.
When I was 17, Dad passed. It shattered us. Mum never fully recovered—her light dimmed, her heart splintered. For Edward and me, it was an unbearable loss, but we clung to each other and somehow weathered the storm. Life moved on. Edward went to university, graduated, and moved to Canada, where he still lives. I stayed behind in Manchester.
Now Mum’s 78, and she needs constant care. I took her in, squeezed her into my tiny flat. But God, it’s so much harder than I imagined. An elderly parent at this stage is more demanding than a child. She keeps forgetting to switch off the iron, no matter how many times I beg her not to touch my things. “I only want to help,” she says, and I just sigh, biting back frustration because I can’t bring myself to scold her.
I can’t tell her the truth—that her cooking’s gone downhill. Meals are either too salty or undercooked, or she forgets the pan on the hob entirely. The memory lapses are terrifying. Once, she wandered out and couldn’t find her way back. I spent hours searching—called every friend, ran through the neighbourhood—until a mate rang saying she’d spotted Mum in the park, confused and frightened.
Even now, I tremble thinking what could’ve happened. Caring for her is exhausting. I want my own life back, but every day is swallowed by endless caretaking. I’m running on empty.
I’m in my fifties. I raised two children, poured everything into them, and just when they’d flown the nest, I thought I’d finally have time for myself. Instead, I’m back in the caretaker role—only now, it’s for my own mother. Her health’s slipping; she’s growing more helpless by the day, and I feel my strength fading with her.
I don’t know what to do. Sometimes, a dark thought creeps in: where can I send her? It sounds monstrous. She’s my mother, the woman who gave me life, who sacrificed everything for Edward and me. But I’m drowning. I don’t have the stamina—physically or mentally.
Edward calls from Canada, asks how we’re doing, but he can’t help. He’s got his own life, his own family. He sends money, but money doesn’t fix this. I’m alone in this battle, and every day is a war with guilt. I hate myself for snapping at her, for dreaming of freedom, for sometimes wanting to just walk away.
It’s not her fault. She didn’t ask to grow old, to get sick, to lose her memory. But I didn’t ask for my life to become this endless cycle of care, either. I love her, but that love is turning into an anchor.
Sometimes, I remember the woman she was—strong, nurturing, always there. Now she’s the one who needs saving, and I’m failing. The thought of a care home guts me, but how much longer can I keep this up?
Friends tell me to hire help, to reach out to social services. But the idea of strangers looking after her—what if they’re cruel? What if she feels abandoned?
Every night, as I tuck her in, I study her face, watching time etch deeper lines. Sometimes she smiles and calls me by name. Other times, she mistakes me for someone else. And every time, I ask myself—where do I find the strength to keep going?
I don’t know where to send my mother. I don’t know how to balance duty and desperation. My love for her battles my despair, and I don’t know which will win.