When Love Isn’t the Whole Story

Content note: This article discusses murder-suicide, dementia, addiction, and traumatic grief.

We often call aging parents and spouses our “loved ones.” I understand why. But in my work as a gerontologist and care manager, I have learned to be careful with that phrase. Not everyone who needs care was loving or safe to the person now being asked to provide it.

I know this from my work. I also know it from my life.

My mother, Donna, (I called her Donna because she was never a mother figure to me) did not like getting older, though she loved being celebrated on her birthday. I loved her but my relationship with her was also filled with guilt, isolation, and pain. Both of those things are true. She would have turned 85 this year and I can’t imagine her at that age. She would have hated it.

I never knew my biological father (that’s a whole other story). I had been divorced twice (briefly) had no children and for a long time I told myself my mother was all I had. She liked having me all to herself. I let distance grow between me, my brother, and my aunts because she insisted. I wish she had understood that I had enough love for everyone but she clung to me for dear life.

Then I met Pablo. I was in my 50s, and I knew that if I did not take a chance on my own life, I might never do it. I had set an intention to find a healthy, loving relationship after years of other dysfunctional relationships and I knew at this stage of my life it was now or never. Nine months after we met, I packed my things and moved to Cape Girardeau, Missouri, to be with him after his job required a transfer. I did not stop loving my mother when I left but I decided it was time  to make room for a life of my own.

Donna and my stepfather, John, were living in their own home in Ohio. She had COPD and was in poor health after years of smoking. John was physically strong, though I had noticed some forgetfulness. His father had died with dementia but he seemed to be managing quite well despite a few red flags. When I moved, I had no concerns that they could not manage on their own.

Nine months later, about a week before my mother’s birthday, John called. He sounded frantic and, if I’m being honest, a little deranged. Something was off. He said he could no longer care for her and insisted I come home immediately. I already had a trip planned for her birthday the following week, but I knew this couldn’t wait. He had frightened me.

I threw some clothes in the car, kissed Pablo goodbye, and drove six hours back to Ohio. I was scared, and I felt guilty. Had I been selfish to leave? Had I abandoned them? Was I supposed to move back and fix everything?

As I began the six-hour drive back to Missouri, the road felt endless. I was filled with dread, fear, guilt, and uncertainty. I turned on the radio, hoping for a distraction. That was the first time I heard Dr. Laura Schlessinger. People were calling her with deeply personal questions about their relationships, families, fears, and difficult decisions. She listened and then offered clear, direct advice. I had never heard anything quite like it. Her words and spicy banter held my attention and helped carry me through that long drive.

Finding Dr. Laura that night was a God wink. She helped me begin to understand something important: Sometimes we have to make a difficult choice, not because we have stopped loving someone, but because we are finally learning to protect our own life. That decision gave me the space to build a life with my husband. It allowed me to experience love, stability, and happiness in a way I had not known before. At the time, I had no idea how much that decision would matter.

When I finally arrived in Ohio, I could see how overwhelmed John was. I did not understand what was happening to him, but in my heart, I knew he was not in his right mind. It was late, but I visited and assured them we would figure everything out tomorrow. I left them with hugs and went to check into my hotel, collapsing after the long and stressful day.

That night, John made a decision, and when I returned the following day, I found them. My parents died in a murder-suicide three days before Donna's seventy-sixth birthday. I had sat with them the day before. I had promised to come back and fix everything. Then they were gone.

I surrendered to my pain and grieved my mother and John. He had been a good father, a wonderful and loving husband to Donna, who was not an easy woman to love. I had questions I could not answer, and for a long time, guilt attached itself to the fact that I had chosen me over them when I left for Missouri. I know now that choosing a life with Pablo did not cause their deaths, but knowing that and feeling it have been two different things.

Five days later, after burying them both, I drove back to Missouri. Pablo followed in his car because he had driven to Ohio after their death, so we both had to drive home to Missouri. He was deeply concerned for me, and I knew I wasn’t alone. On the road, I listened to Dr. Laura Schlessinger, whose call-in show had held my attention during the drive to Ohio. After a few hours on the drive, I called the show. I was sobbing, and I asked her how I would ever get over their deaths. She told me I would not get over it. I would endure it. Straightforward. No magic potion or quick fixes. I love her for that and continue to be a huge fan of her no-nonsense advice. She actually saved me years of heartache and therapy, and I am thankful I found her on that tragic drive. I knew that if I wasn’t careful, I would continue to let my mother control me and destroy the happiness I had found. I vowed not to do that.

When caregiving brings back the past

My relationship with my mother was complicated. If you grew up with a difficult parent, you probably understand what I mean. There can be love and pain. Loyalty and resentment. Compassion and anger. You can worry about someone’s well-being while also recognizing how much their behavior has affected your own life. All of those feelings can exist at the same time.

In aging services, we often refer to older adults receiving care as “our loved ones.” But I continuously caution people about that language because not every care recipient was loving. Not every parent was kind, nurturing, or emotionally safe. Some adult children are asked—or expected—to step up and provide care for a parent who neglected them, controlled them, abandoned them, or caused them deep emotional pain. Spouses may also find themselves caring for someone who mistreated them for years. When that person becomes older, frail, ill, or cognitively impaired, the history between them does not simply disappear.

Those caregivers may find themselves asking:

·        How do I care for someone who did not care for me?

·        What do I owe this person?

·        How much of myself am I expected to sacrifice?

·        And does protecting myself make me a bad daughter, son, spouse, or human being?

As a care manager, I have been hired by families because the adult children could no longer put themselves through the emotional pain of personally caring for a parent who had hurt them. They made sure their parent received appropriate care, but they recognized that they could not be the person providing it. I understand that. Sometimes arranging care is the most loving and responsible thing you can do. You do not have to destroy yourself to prove that you care.

If you are facing care decisions with a difficult parent, stop asking what a “good” son or daughter should do.

Ask what is realistic, safe, and sustainable.

What am I actually willing and able to do?
Name the limits now. Decide how much time, money, contact, transportation, paperwork, and hands-on care you can provide. Do not agree to responsibilities you already know will damage your health, marriage, work, finances, or emotional stability.

What am I not willing to do?
Be just as clear about this. You may decide that your parent cannot live in your home, that you will not provide personal care, or that you will not tolerate yelling, threats, manipulation, or repeated late-night calls. A boundary is not a negotiation. It is a decision about what you will do when the line is crossed.

What can someone else handle?
You do not have to become the daily caregiver. Home-care providers, transportation services, meal programs, senior living communities, healthcare professionals, and care managers can take on many responsibilities. Arranging appropriate help is caregiving—even when you are not the person providing it.

Who has the legal authority to make decisions?
Find out whether your parent has healthcare and financial powers of attorney, advance directives, and an updated estate plan. Do not assume that being the oldest child, the closest child, or the only responsible person automatically gives you legal authority.

What is the plan if my parent refuses help?
Competent adults have the right to make poor decisions. You may not be able to force a parent to accept care simply because you believe it is necessary. Decide what you will do—and what you will stop doing—if your parent refuses reasonable options.

What will happen in a crisis?
Decide who will answer calls, communicate with medical providers, manage pets, locate documents, and respond to an emergency. Put names, phone numbers, medications, diagnoses, legal documents, and agreed-upon responsibilities in writing. A crisis is the worst time to discover that everyone assumed someone else would handle it.

Do we need someone outside the family?
If every conversation turns into blame, manipulation, denial, or an old family battle, bring in a neutral professional. An Aging Life Care Professional®, social worker, therapist, mediator, or elder-law attorney can help assess needs, clarify options, and build a plan.

Is anyone unsafe?
Take threats, violence, self-neglect, abuse, and suicidal statements seriously. Do not try to manage a dangerous situation alone. If anyone is in immediate danger, call 911. For a mental health or suicide crisis in the United States, call or text 988.

You can make sure a difficult parent has access to appropriate care without becoming the person who provides all of it. You are allowed to protect yourself, even when other people do not understand your decision.

It’s been almost ten years now, and I am finally able to honor my mother on her birthday. She had a hard life and struggled in ways I could not understand or fix. She never healed her own childhood wounds and struggled until the very end.  Mom, I hope you found peace. And John, you were good to me, and you were a good man. I believe in my heart that you made the choice you made to protect me. My gut believes that too. I love you both. I wish the story had ended differently.

If my story resonates with you, please remember:

·        You are allowed to have complicated feelings.

·        You are allowed to establish boundaries.

·        You are allowed to arrange care you cannot personally provide.

·        You can act with compassion without sacrificing your own well-being.

Sometimes love means stepping in. Sometimes it means stepping back. And sometimes it means finding someone else who can provide the care you cannot. If you need help finding that way, I work with families to understand their options, set boundaries, and build a care plan that is realistic for everyone involved. You can reach out to schedule a private consultation.



April Ibarra is a gerontologist, Aging Advisor, Certified Senior Advisor (CSA)®, and Aging Life Care Professional®. She is the founder of Bold, Not Old™.