23/11/2024
I’m nearing 90 now, a milestone I never thought I’d see. My husband left this world far too soon—he was barely 40. And suddenly, I was alone with our five children, the youngest still in diapers.
Life didn’t give me time to grieve. I had to fight. I worked wherever I could—cleaning houses, cooking, doing laundry, and taking shifts at warehouses. Every penny mattered. Some nights, exhaustion would pin me to the bed, only for the alarm to pull me up again at 6 a.m. My children grew up looking after each other, learning resilience far too young.
We were strangers in a big city, having left our small hometown in search of opportunity. My husband and I had taken out a mortgage for a modest apartment. When he passed, the weight of that debt became mine alone. But I refused to give up.
One by one, my children grew, found jobs, and built lives of their own. I stayed behind in that little apartment—my home. It was my sanctuary, filled with memories, photos, and the familiar comfort of my balcony, where I’d sit every evening with my geraniums, soaking in the fresh air.
Those years were simple, but they were mine. I survived on a small pension, finding contentment in the quiet moments. I felt proud. I had done what I set out to do: I gave my children a future, no matter the cost to myself.
And then, one day, everything changed. They told me, “Let’s go for a walk, Mom,” but the walk led me here—to a nursing home. By the time I realized what was happening, they were gone.
The staff is kind, and I’m cared for. But it’s not home. I miss my things, my balcony, my geraniums. I miss the freedom to sit quietly and remember. Here, everything runs on a schedule. Meals, activities, bedtimes—my life is no longer my own. My children say it’s for the best, that I need medical care and supervision.
But in my heart, I can’t help but feel that my life’s purpose ended the day they decided I wasn’t needed anymore.
We must change the way we see aging. Growing old doesn’t mean becoming useless or invisible. Most elderly people aren’t disabled or incapable—they’re simply seeking the dignity to live life on their own terms.
I may not have the strength I once had, but I’m still here. I still feel, I still love, and I still long for the place I called home.
Let us remember that aging is not the end—it’s another chapter, and it deserves to be written with respect, care, and love.
