They say time changes everything, but nothing prepared me for the quiet transformation that occurs when a parent becomes dependent on their child. Over the past decade, my mother Kathleen — or Kate, as most of her friends call her — has gone from being fiercely independent to needing help with everyday tasks. At ninety, she remains sharp in some ways, but her body no longer cooperates the way it once did.
Introduction – A Journey I Never Expected
Like me, she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in her early thirties, though in recent years she’s decided it was simply neuritis — a distinction she insists upon, despite my gentle efforts to explain they may be one and the same. It’s a reminder that grey matters — not just in the brain, but in the space between generations, perspectives, and what we’re ready to accept in the realm of elderly care.
Kate grew up in Monkseaton, just outside Whitley Bay. When my parents were still together, we would visit twice a year — once for Christmas, once in summer — alternating between my grandmothers: Nanny on my mother’s side and Grandma on my father’s. There wasn’t much to do in Monkseaton except walk Auntie Jean’s dog around the park, but Whitley Bay, with its Spanish City amusements, ghost train, and rickety roller coaster, offered all the excitement a young boy could wish for.
Those days are long gone, and so is much of the spark my mother once had — but not all of it. This post is not just about the challenges of supporting an ageing relative. It’s about what I’ve learned through it all, from morning habits to late-night worries. Because grey matters in more ways than one.
The Quiet Strength of Ageing Minds
Patience Is a Daily Practice
There is a kind of patience that caregiving demands — not just in waiting, but in slowing down to meet someone where they are. My mother now uses a walking frame to move around the house. Every step is cautious. Every movement deliberate. In truth, it tests my resolve sometimes. But I’ve learned that supporting her isn’t about speed or efficiency. It’s about dignity. It’s about giving her space to maintain control over her own actions, however small they may seem.
She is resistant to change. As someone who once worked as a shorthand typist, you might assume she’d have taken well to the computer age. Not so. Technology frightens her. Even modern life itself — online shopping, contactless payments, streaming services — feels like an alien world. I once considered showing her how to shop online, just to give her a sense of independence. But I was advised against it. The payment process would have been overwhelming, perhaps even distressing.
Wisdom, Even in Decline
And yet, there are moments — small but powerful — when her insight shines through. Sometimes it’s a quip. Sometimes it’s a stubborn refusal to entertain a nursing home, delivered with such determination that we dare not raise the topic again for weeks. Her refusal is emphatic and deeply felt. No matter how frail she becomes, she clings to her home, her habits, her evening relaxation, and the independence they symbolise.
We respect that, as best we can. These days, my wife and I take turns with my sister to visit her and handle her weekly shopping. We’ve also subscribed to a fall-alarm service, which has proven indispensable. There have been times — more than we care to admit — when we’ve rushed to her house after receiving an alert, only to find her collapsed on the floor, unable to get back up. On one occasion, she fell in the garden, and by the time we arrived, a kind neighbour had come to her aid. That si
Navigating Physical Decline with Respect
Accepting Help Without Losing Dignity
At ninety, my mother is understandably frail. She now relies on a walking frame to move about her home, each step a visible reminder of her vulnerability — but also her determination. Though her body is weak, her spirit remains defiant. Suggesting a move to a nursing home — even gently — is met with immediate and passionate resistance. She rebels against the idea with every ounce of the strength she has left.
And in truth, I understand it. That house — her house — is her last foothold of independence. To her, leaving it would be like giving up.
To help keep her safe at home, we subscribed to a fall-alarm service. It’s been invaluable. We’ve been called out more than once to find her collapsed on the floor, unable to get up. One particularly worrying day, she fell in the garden. By the time we arrived, a kind neighbour — a true Good Samaritan — had already come to her aid. Moments like that show how community and compassion still matter, even in our increasingly disconnected world.
These days, my wife and I alternate with my sister to visit her and handle the shopping. We briefly considered setting her up for online grocery deliveries to help her feel more independent. But we were advised against it — the complexities of paying for goods online might confuse or even frighten her. As someone who once worked as a shorthand typist, you’d think she’d have taken well to computers. But technology terrifies her. Change terrifies her.
Grey Matter Needs Exercise Too
That fear of modernity is something we try, gently, to address. My sister and I are both reasonably computer-literate and encourage her to at least try. I’ve often stressed the importance of brain exercises, especially to counter the cognitive difficulties that can come with age and MS. She insists that doing her crossword every day keeps her sharp — and while I admire her consistency, I’ve pointed out that what’s familiar isn’t always stimulating. Growth, after all, comes from challenge.
Years ago, she began learning Italian. I suggested she revisit it. In fact, I introduced her to Duolingo, hoping she might begin using her laptop for something enriching — something that could bridge the gap between past interests and present possibilities. It’s a long shot, but sometimes long shots land.
The Weight of Memory
Of course, not all mental burdens can be eased with puzzles or language lessons. About ten years ago, my other sister — the one who’s no longer with us — passed away from a sudden aneurysm. The loss was devastating. My mother still talks about it with an air of quiet pain, often wondering aloud whether she had failed somehow as a mother. It’s a guilt she doesn’t deserve, but one I doubt she’ll ever fully let go — though we try to redirect her thoughts, lighten the load, and help her save energy for the moments that matter most.
It reminds me how emotional wounds can last longer than physical ones — and how much of caring for an elderly parent is about listening, not just helping.
Emotional Labour and Unexpected Gifts
Grieving the Shifts While Celebrating Her Spirit
There is a quiet grief that comes with watching someone fade slowly, not from life, but from their former self. I see it in the way my mother repeats stories, in the moments when she forgets what day it is, or why she walked into a room. She attributes her memory loss to a head injury — a fall some years ago in which she banged her head. She’s convinced it did lasting damage.
I’ve tried to reassure her that the brain, even in old age, is far more resilient than we give it credit for. I’ve explained that, with proper nutrition, mental stimulation, and a little optimism, there is always capacity for recovery. But in her mind, the damage is done. And perhaps believing so becomes its own kind of truth.
Still, despite the challenges, there are moments of pure light. Glimpses of the woman she was — and still is — shine through. A sharp-witted comment. A flash of stubborn humour. A story from Monkseaton or Rothbury, where she was evacuated during the Second World War and remembers, not the fear of war, but the joy of playing with farm animals. It’s extraordinary how memory works — what it keeps, what it lets go — and how we search, often unconsciously, for our own grey matters defense solutions along the way.
The Role Reversal That Never Feels Natural
One of the hardest aspects of caring for an elderly parent is the slow and surreal reversal of roles. The woman who once comforted me through childhood illnesses, who made sure my socks matched and my homework was done, now needs me to steady her arm, remind her of dates, or help her find a misplaced remote.
There’s no instruction manual for this role shift. It’s not an abrupt change, but a gradual, cumulative shift — a weight that builds quietly over the years. It doesn’t always feel natural. Sometimes, it feels like you’re stepping into a character you didn’t audition for.
And yet, there is meaning in the act itself. A quiet, steadfast kind of love. Not the dramatic kind, but the everyday variety: doing the shopping, resetting the Wi-Fi, returning a missed call, listening — really listening — when she says she feels like a bad mother because of something that happened decades ago. Because she still mourns the daughter she lost. Because the weight of that guilt never really left her.
Practical Wisdom for Other Carers
Caring for an elderly parent — particularly one living with cognitive decline and chronic illness — is as much about restraint as it is about action. It’s knowing when to help and when to step back. It’s remembering that, while the body may falter, the person within still matters. That’s why grey matters — because behind the fog of forgetfulness is a lifetime of meaning, history, and stubborn individuality.
Here are a few hard-earned lessons I’ve learned — none of them perfect, but all rooted in experience:
- Respect the Fear, Don’t Dismiss It
My wife and I love to travel, as does my father — he’s ninety-four and still globe-trotting. Some time ago, we suggested taking my mother to Venice, imagining it might lift her spirits. But the idea of travelling with incontinence terrified her. Airports, queues, unfamiliar surroundings — it was too much. And so we let it go. Because grey matters means understanding when reassurance isn’t enough. It means accepting when someone knows their limits, even if they can’t explain them. - Routine is a Comfort, Not a Crutch
People often think routine is a sign of decline — but for the elderly, and especially those with conditions like MS, routine is a powerful stabiliser. My mother finds solace in doing her crossword every day. I encourage her to stretch her mind further — to return to learning Italian on Duolingo — but I don’t push. Her routine, no matter how repetitive, is part of her identity. And grey matters teaches us that identity doesn’t vanish just because memory does. - Offer Technology as a Bridge, Not a Barrier
We live in a digital world, but it can be alienating for older generations. My sister and I try to coax my mother into using her laptop — not for anything extravagant, but for connection, stimulation, progress. Whether it’s online shopping (which we eventually ruled out) or gentle language learning, supporting elderly parents through tech should always be approached with care. Patience and permission go hand in hand. - Don’t Try to Be the Hero
Caregiving is not a solo act. My wife, my sister, and I take turns supporting Mum. We rely on each other — and on community services, like the fall-alarm system, which has already saved her from serious injury. Asking for help isn’t failure. It’s realism. And if you’re navigating the demands of caring for elderly relatives, you’ll burn out if you try to do it all. - Focus on What’s Still There
It’s easy to focus on what’s been lost — memory, mobility, confidence. But what remains is just as valuable. A moment of laughter. A memory of Rothbury and farm animals. A stubborn refusal to go into a home. These are the details that prove grey matters — not just the brain’s grey matter, but the quiet, persistent value of a person’s thoughts, history, and presence.
Grey Matters — And So Do We
Caring for someone you love isn’t always simple. It comes with its own burdens: physical, emotional, and historical. My mother, Kate, estranged herself from me and my sisters when we were still young. The reasons were complicated, and the scars still linger in quiet ways. But time, like memory, has a way of softening the sharpest edges.
Despite everything, she is still our mother — and we love her deeply.
My sister and I are old-age pensioners ourselves now. We know what it is to grow old, to feel the slowness creep in. And yet, in my mother’s eyes, we’re still her children. Not caregivers. Not pensioners. Just her kids. There’s something strangely comforting about that. As if, in her mind, the past has not vanished — it has simply paused.
And this, perhaps more than anything, is why grey matters.
Because what we forget, what we hold onto, what we forgive, and what we remember — these are the echoes that make up a life. They’re not tidy or linear. They don’t always make sense. But they matter. The grey matter in our brains may fray, but the grey areas in our hearts — the unresolved, the unspoken — they carry just as much weight.
Caring for my mother has taught me more about myself than I expected. About patience. About resilience. About accepting people as they are, not as we wish them to be.
So if you’re walking this same path — if you’re helping a parent navigate the long twilight of their life — know this: your love, your effort, your presence… they matter too.
Because grey matters. And so do we.
