“I don’t feel well, come immediately”: How elderly parents disrupt the lives of their grown children
There was once a teacher at my daughter’s school whose mother—elderly but still capable, not in need of constant care—had a habit of calling her daughter regularly with the same demand: “I’m not feeling right, come as fast as you can.” These words were an order, and every time, they meant the same thing: drop everything and rush over.
The daughter obeyed, no matter the hour. Late at night, early in the morning, even in the middle of the workday. She went because she was a good daughter, because she felt she had no choice. Then she’d drag herself to work, teach her classes, go home—and wait for the next summons. This went on for months, maybe even years. Until her body gave out.
First came an accident—she fell and broke her arm. Then, barely recovered, another injury, this time a broken leg. But even that didn’t stop the mother. The moment her daughter showed any sign of strength, the calls started again.
By autumn, she was back at work, standing in front of her students, trying to reclaim her life. But before she could fully recover, her mother’s complaints resumed: “I feel awful. Come now. Don’t wait.”
And the woman went. Again and again. Until one day, she collapsed with pneumonia. She died in hospital—young, bright, a teacher beloved by her entire class. No one could believe she was gone. Children, parents, colleagues—all wept. Only the mother, it seemed, didn’t grasp that she’d lost the one person who’d always answered her call.
A mere month after the funeral, the old woman started up again—this time with her younger daughter. Unlike her sister, this one had her father’s spine—stubborn, direct, unyielding. She didn’t come running at the first cry.
But the mother pushed. She called, she moaned, she guilt-tripped: “You don’t love me. No one cares if I live or die. No one will come until I’m gone.” Finally, the younger daughter snapped.
“Annie spent years rushing to you. Cleaning up your messes, wiping your tears, carrying your shopping, fetching your pills. And where is she now? Buried. I want to live. So right now, I’m at work. I’ll come later. And if you’re really ill—call an ambulance. If you can dial my number, you can dial 999.”
Fifteen years have passed since then. The mother is still alive. Ambulances have come—more than once. Doctors have treated her. But without the midnight vigils, without the dramatics and screams. She manages. Perhaps she calls a little less often now.
Sometimes I think old age strips some people of restraint. Instead of cherishing their children, letting them live—they chain them down. Not with ropes, but with guilt. Not sickness, but spite, whims, selfishness. So they ring: “I don’t feel well, come now.” And then, one day, there are no children left to call.
If I ever grow old and need help, I hope I keep my wits about me. If I’m still lucid, send me to a care home. If not—all the more reason. Let them live their lives. Raise their kids, build their homes, visit the seaside.
I don’t want to be the kind of person who uses fear of death to wreck the people I love. Who blames everyone else to avoid feeling alone. Who can’t say “Thank you,” but can upend a family with one phone call.
Some will say: “How can you talk like that? She’s your mother.” But those who say it have never cared for a difficult old woman. Never sat in a dim kitchen at midnight, choking back helpless tears. Never heard “I don’t feel well!” through the phone, knowing it’s only for attention, not real crisis.
Such people are easy to judge. Harder to understand.
I’m not excusing cruelty. But children have a right to their lives too. And sometimes, to save your own—you just don’t answer the call.
