The Ma Motel
It was an easy decision to make. My father had died, and my mother roamed around a house with too many rooms. Also, her short-term memory began to waver. So time for a move. She plumped for ‘retirement living with care’, in the same town, in the northwest of England.
It’s a town with big hotels and small guest houses, though nothing suitable near her new red-brick complex by the racecourse. Meaning a second decision came, tinged with trepidation. I’d have to stay with mother, wouldn’t I, when up from London. The son, in his prime, checking into an establishment with carers, handrails and emergency cords galore. The Ma Motel, as we later called it. Really?
Only it wasn’t about me. It was about finding somewhere secure and sociable for a woman of senior years, who could enjoy these things and independence too. One who could lock up and set off every morning, often across the racecourse, before returning at a reasonable hour for lunch. Mum’s roving urges were still strong, and walking got her out there. It made her feel part of everyday life.
But back to checking in. I’ve always loved hotels, all types, all over. Perhaps this retirement living with care might offer variation on a weekend away, a staycation. I first checked in a year ago, and have been doing so ever since.
For a night at a time, in the spare room, overlooking a tended garden with an arbour. Plus, Mum’s rack rates were very good indeed.
However, as a new guest – trepidation. My overnight bag and I entered two sets of sliding doors into a world slowed down. The corridors were empty; the fish in their tank were circling trance-like. I was ready for the clichés: the smell of disinfectant and institutional food, lines of parked wheelchairs. But no. The corridors turned out to be quite bright, buoyed by floral wallpaper and freshly laid carpets. Along one corridor to the lounge, and there is afternoon tea. My fellow guests, proper guests, sat chatting in a circle with the massive television off. One of them looked my way and nodded: ‘I think he’s June’s,’ which cued my mother, June, in familiar golf slacks and trainers, to rise from their midst and join me.
‘Hello dear, nice to see you. Are we going out now?’
On early visits I wandered about a bit, reading the names on residents’ doors. Betty, Olive, Mary and Harry suggested an octogenarian nation. They had lived through wars and had rich recollections. They didn’t worry about technology and enjoyed full pensions. Whereas the names of the staff were all about the here and now: Charly and Tina and Alex. Tony ran the daily entertainments (Mum signed up for most of them) and Dave kept everything fixed (including her telly). They soon got to know my name as well. I began to learn more about Mum than I had for years at the house. She’s a guest who offers to help the carers with their work. She’s acquired an admirer, who leaves gifts of soap outside her door. And she’s just been in a play, she told me, when I visited last. It was a two-hander, performed in the lounge area:
‘What was it called, Mum?’
‘It was called Memories: A Sketch For Two People.’
‘Who did you play?’
‘I played someone called WOMAN.’
‘How did it go?’
‘It went very well. I just read the lines.’
She couldn’t remember the leading man in Memories, and reckoned the last line was ‘I’m going to get my teeth’. Perhaps her admirer watched from the front row, he with the soap.
Early evening, in flat 22. Mum’s flat. She’s tired of my questions about presents and admirers and has gone to lap the racecourse again, with a friend who remarks about the pace they always set. Around me, familiar furniture I’ve known for decades, but after a year it still looks strange. It’s house furniture – a bureau, desk, chest of drawers – and is too big for this space. It stands self-consciously, out of sorts. Yet lots of photographs dotted around show good times; they would reassure anyone anywhere. Soon the door opens, and Mum comes in. That was quick. New lap record? We relax with a glass of wine and agree to order ‘room service’ once more, which means her guest will be tasked with getting dinner ready.
A little later, and lights out. Distant bells thinly chime. I lie in bed, aware of two panic cords nearby, an intercom unit and a winking fire alarm. Excellent, if anything happens, albeit in my prime, I’ll be well catered for.
I advise dipping into retirement living with care, even before your time. It’s like going on a retreat for a few days. You can even bring some work with you. But seriously, if I’m happy with it, then I believe my mother is too.
The Ma Motel. I give it four stars.
It’s a town with big hotels and small guest houses, though nothing suitable near her new red-brick complex by the racecourse. Meaning a second decision came, tinged with trepidation. I’d have to stay with mother, wouldn’t I, when up from London. The son, in his prime, checking into an establishment with carers, handrails and emergency cords galore. The Ma Motel, as we later called it. Really?
Only it wasn’t about me. It was about finding somewhere secure and sociable for a woman of senior years, who could enjoy these things and independence too. One who could lock up and set off every morning, often across the racecourse, before returning at a reasonable hour for lunch. Mum’s roving urges were still strong, and walking got her out there. It made her feel part of everyday life.
But back to checking in. I’ve always loved hotels, all types, all over. Perhaps this retirement living with care might offer variation on a weekend away, a staycation. I first checked in a year ago, and have been doing so ever since.
For a night at a time, in the spare room, overlooking a tended garden with an arbour. Plus, Mum’s rack rates were very good indeed.
However, as a new guest – trepidation. My overnight bag and I entered two sets of sliding doors into a world slowed down. The corridors were empty; the fish in their tank were circling trance-like. I was ready for the clichés: the smell of disinfectant and institutional food, lines of parked wheelchairs. But no. The corridors turned out to be quite bright, buoyed by floral wallpaper and freshly laid carpets. Along one corridor to the lounge, and there is afternoon tea. My fellow guests, proper guests, sat chatting in a circle with the massive television off. One of them looked my way and nodded: ‘I think he’s June’s,’ which cued my mother, June, in familiar golf slacks and trainers, to rise from their midst and join me.
‘Hello dear, nice to see you. Are we going out now?’
On early visits I wandered about a bit, reading the names on residents’ doors. Betty, Olive, Mary and Harry suggested an octogenarian nation. They had lived through wars and had rich recollections. They didn’t worry about technology and enjoyed full pensions. Whereas the names of the staff were all about the here and now: Charly and Tina and Alex. Tony ran the daily entertainments (Mum signed up for most of them) and Dave kept everything fixed (including her telly). They soon got to know my name as well. I began to learn more about Mum than I had for years at the house. She’s a guest who offers to help the carers with their work. She’s acquired an admirer, who leaves gifts of soap outside her door. And she’s just been in a play, she told me, when I visited last. It was a two-hander, performed in the lounge area:
‘What was it called, Mum?’
‘It was called Memories: A Sketch For Two People.’
‘Who did you play?’
‘I played someone called WOMAN.’
‘How did it go?’
‘It went very well. I just read the lines.’
She couldn’t remember the leading man in Memories, and reckoned the last line was ‘I’m going to get my teeth’. Perhaps her admirer watched from the front row, he with the soap.
Early evening, in flat 22. Mum’s flat. She’s tired of my questions about presents and admirers and has gone to lap the racecourse again, with a friend who remarks about the pace they always set. Around me, familiar furniture I’ve known for decades, but after a year it still looks strange. It’s house furniture – a bureau, desk, chest of drawers – and is too big for this space. It stands self-consciously, out of sorts. Yet lots of photographs dotted around show good times; they would reassure anyone anywhere. Soon the door opens, and Mum comes in. That was quick. New lap record? We relax with a glass of wine and agree to order ‘room service’ once more, which means her guest will be tasked with getting dinner ready.
A little later, and lights out. Distant bells thinly chime. I lie in bed, aware of two panic cords nearby, an intercom unit and a winking fire alarm. Excellent, if anything happens, albeit in my prime, I’ll be well catered for.
I advise dipping into retirement living with care, even before your time. It’s like going on a retreat for a few days. You can even bring some work with you. But seriously, if I’m happy with it, then I believe my mother is too.
The Ma Motel. I give it four stars.