The house felt too big.
My mom began talking about downsizing right after my dad died. “It’s just me and the dog in this place,” she’d say, her voice echoing down the hallway as I called her on the way home from work. She spent most nights in the den watching the Chicago Bulls, a shared love with my dad that now made her feel close to him. I tried to help her fill the space, spending a night or two a week at her place, but the silence remained.
The signs were subtle at first. She fell again, this time off the front steps, bruising her ribs on the garden fence. Her car was back in the shop after she scraped the passenger side pulling out of the garage. A quiet hesitation had begun to shape her movements. So, when she said she wanted to tour continuing care communities a few months later, I was a little relieved.
The director welcomed us with a practiced smile and a sales pitch that was a carefully rehearsed story of belonging. She spoke about the community like it was a private club; there were Sunday brunches, concerts, garden walks, and book clubs. “Limited availability,” she said more than once, as if we’d stumbled onto something rare. As we drove home, my mom said she had a good feeling about it while “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by the Byrds played softly on the radio.
A few months later, the call came: A unit was available. Moving my mother in was a massive undertaking, both physically and emotionally. Like many boomers, she had accumulated a lot over the years. We stood there, surrounded by crates, preparing for a move that could only hold a fraction of it all.
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My mom had been a potter for nearly three decades. Her home was filled with teapots, mugs, and sculptural pieces, sturdy and delicate at once, like her. We wrapped each one in bubble wrap. In her new apartment, we unwrapped them slowly, placing them on shelves to make it feel like home. My son gleefully popped the bubbles with his feet.
She eventually settled in, made a few friends, walked the grounds until she found her rhythm in the newness. Things felt stable for a while, until Covid hit. Lockdowns came fast: no visitors, meals left at the door, activities disappeared from the calendar. Around that time, her official Alzheimer’s diagnosis was confirmed, during a FaceTime call on her patio with a neurologist I’d found. The conversation felt both sudden and inevitable.
Not long after, she fell and broke her wrist, prompting a call from the director. “She’s now a liability to her own safety,” she said. We needed to decide whether to move her onto the nursing floor or bring in full-time private care. Covid was still tearing through nursing homes, so we layered on care; a second caregiver, then a third. I’m acutely aware of our privilege, not only because she was able to live in a place like this, but because we could afford to expand support when she needed it.
The day-to-day responsibilities shifted to me: her pills, her groceries, her connection to the world. Aging in place had always sounded like a comfort, but it turned out to be far less clear-cut. There’s no straight line, just a series of decisions, none quite right, all trying to hold up a promise that was never built to bend.
One infection landed her in the hospital for five days. As I rushed to the emergency room, I knew nothing would be the same after this. We had toured the nursing floor before. It felt clinical and quiet, more hospital than home. But she was increasingly in harm’s way, and it was time to move her there.
The nursing floor was a different world. Thirty residents assigned to two aides during the day, with even fewer at night. If someone needed to be taken to the bathroom, they pressed the call button and waited — sometimes for close to an hour. State law requires two assisted showers a week, but even that was been inconsistent.
Layna Portugal in a hospital emergency room in Evanston, Ill.Courtesy Emily Portugal
She needed help getting out of bed and getting dressed. There were days she was left for hours after waking, likely in a wet diaper which opened the door for more infections. One doctor was assigned to her care, but I never saw him. After several unanswered calls, I moved on, relying instead on the counsel of her neurologist, who always responded to my emails. Checking in became a daily routine, calling the nursing station to confirm she’d had her shower. The small things added up, and keeping track of them became its own kind of job.
Amid it all, there were kind people — aides who noticed the little things. We kept her main caretaker, Maria, on during the day. She had been with us through the pandemic and remains very close with my mom. Maria was a full partner in her care, advocating for her and often raising concerns about staff or procedures.
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But turnover was been relentless. After the community was bought by a private equity group last year, there was been a clear push to cut costs and corners. Having spent years in corporate roles, I recognized the signs. The quality of the service and food deteriorated. They brought in contract certified nursing assistants who didn’t know the residents, rushed through care, and treated her like a task. Over time, she wasn’t seen the way she used to be. The slow shift from person to patient had taken hold, another quiet casualty in the math of profit over people.
My mom had been vomiting for days, and I only knew because of my daily call — no one seemed concerned. The director of nursing said she’d keep an eye on her. (She didn’t.) When we left for the ER the next day, I wasn’t sure we’d be coming back, as her blood pressure was dangerously low. At the hospital, she got full attention and round-the-clock care. I spent those days walking the halls, talking with friends and family who helped me face our next chapter: hospice.
The toll hit hard. Watching my mom slip away in a place that promised so much but gave so little drained me. I’m always on edge, trying to catch what keeps slipping through the cracks. One Sunday, I took her to the living room off the lobby to sit by the fire as other families walked by on their way to brunch. Her eyes were closed tight, and I held her hand even though she didn’t hold mine back. Her skin and hair were dirty, her shirt stained from the day before. In that moment, a mix of despair and fury washed over me.
The whole system feels fragile, and with critical programs like Medicaid and Medicare increasingly under threat, families already struggling will face even harder choices. My heart breaks thinking about those who don’t have the buffer we’ve been so fortunate to have.
Through all of it, people showed up. Aides, nurses, companions — underpaid and stretched thin, offering care with quiet dignity. They became familiar faces in moments that felt anything but, and I think about them all the time. They remind me of flowers blooming through cracks in the pavement, holding more than anyone sees, holding us.
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As I recently headed in to see my mom, I came across a man in the parking lot, perhaps 10 years older than me, rolling a cart filled with what looked like his father’s belongings. A small cabinet, some folded overcoats, and a cardboard box of dishes balanced precariously on top. He was rushing when the box slipped and hit the pavement with force, china plates breaking into pieces as shards scattered across the ground. He let out a quick, nervous laugh. “We will probably need to get rid of those anyway,” he said, not looking up.
We picked up what we could and placed it back inside the box. His eyes met mine, and I said, “I’m so sorry.” He assured me it was OK, and in my mind, I assured him that I knew firsthand that it was not. “Well, for what it’s worth, you got great distance,” I joked, and he let out a sharp laugh of relief. I knew what he was feeling. It was not just about the dishes, it never is.
It was a small moment, but it carried the weight of something larger. The sound of things breaking, the finality of letting go, the instinct to hold it together anyway. We move our people into these places with their important things. We wrap what matters in bubble wrap and place it on shelves. We trust the care will expand as their needs do.
More of us are in that space now, learning what it means to care for the people who once cared for us. Some days it’s advocacy — other days, it’s grief. Most often, it’s just showing up to catch what might fall. There’s a quiet solidarity in that, not marked by grand gestures, but by moments like this: noticing what breaks, and staying to gather the pieces.
Editor’s note: The author’s mother, Layna Portugal, died Sept. 28. She was 80.
Emily Portugal leads growth for a global PR agency and shot and produced a documentary with the American Stroke Association called “Buddy Portugal, 47 Days.” She lives in Chicago with her wife and son.