When I moved my mom Janice from West Virginia to Michigan last summer, I thought I was finished with caregiving at a distance. But the pandemic has turned that assumption on its head. I haven’t seen my mother in person since the beginning of March 2020, and it’s starting to wear on me.

The purpose of having her move to MI was three-fold: it allowed her to have support for medical and self care appointments, it allowed my family to stay put with regard to work and schooling, and it allowed us all to spend more time together.

We had decided it was best that she live independently, within an assisted living community, two miles from our home. She had been living alone for the past twenty years, and we all agreed that having her reside in our fast paced home would drive her crazy.

Before Covid-19, I visited with her between one to three times a week. She’d lost interest in driving and had decided to forgo a car in Michigan. Instead, she was my companion as I drove around for chores. I had aligned our hair appointments to overlap: hair color would be applied for my mom, the stylist would cut my hair while her dye set, then return to cut my mom’s hair. I’d also help her with laundry, collect her mail, and accompany her to the kids’ school performances. We’d talk every other day about what movies, activities, and outings she’d attended within her community.

We had a nice, easy, weekly routine going.

But the pandemic has disrupted this social and caregiving routine just like a number of other aspects of our lives. You’ve felt it. We all have elders in our communities that have chosen not to adopt social media and the internet. My mother uses her cell phone to call, but that’s the extent of her comfort level. She doesn’t order goods on the internet, nor does she use it to access information. I am her supply chain.

Now, we talk every day or every other day, but our conversations are limited to what supplies she may or may not need. The regularly scheduled activities and gatherings in her community are on hold for resident health and safety.

Meals are taken in her room rather than a group setting. We have little to chat about because we’re both required to shelter-in-place, and there’s just not a lot of new input in her world. I absolutely understand the precautions taken and am grateful to the nurses and employees for showing up each day, but I miss the mother daughter in person connection we had established.

She is two miles away (rather than 460), and I can only pull up to the entrance of her building.

Her mild dementia allows her to understand why we’re stuck in this new dynamic, and thankfully, she’s not resistant to the circumstance. She knows we’ve been staying at home for ages, but she’s still itching to get back out in the world.

Her dementia is parallel to each of our new understanding of time: what day is it anyway? Does it really matter? We now count days based on the number of Magnum ice cream bars left in her fridge. If the count is getting low, we know it’s time for me to activate the supply chain.

I know that I will see her again soon. I know that she is healthy and safe. I know that she has neighbors and is not utterly alone. She and I lived apart for more than 20 years, so the last few months are nothing in comparison.

It’s the return to caregiving at a distance — of not being able to do the most mundane of things with her — that was an unexpected twist of fate. Patience, optimistic thoughts, and endurance are the keys to surviving this difficult arrangement, and a long hug (and a fresh new hairdo) will be our reward at the end.

Caring for an aging loved one? Share a comment below👇🏽👇🏽. I’d love to connect.