My recent piece, Navigating the Complexities of Caring for Aging Parents, was written during Hurricane Milton. How fitting. At that moment, all I could think about was how closely the situation with my declining mother unfolding before me, mirrored the experience of enduring a hurricane. 

The overwhelming preparation. The minute-by-minute monitoring. The abundance of resources, yet not truly knowing what’s coming next. The sense of dread as the storm hits, and finally… the clean-up. OH THE CLEAN-UP. 

It all became crystal clear after a friend read my recent piece about caring for my mother and commented “...you work so hard to make a life for yourself, to escape the madness, only to be sucked back into the black hole of endless need and dysfunction.” Yep.

Caring for a declining parent can become all-consuming and completely overwhelming. Caring for a declining parent who served as a source of heartache and trauma adds a new layer of emotional complexity, as it forces you to confront painful memories while attempting to provide the care they need- often without any of the healing or closure you may need.

Unfortunately, caring for my declining mother took an undesirable turn when we were forced to place her in an Assisted Living Facility (ALF).

The experience of transitioning my mom from her own home to an ALF, via the Baker Act, felt just like having my first child. Everyone warns you about the challenges, but nothing can prepare you for the emotional abyss, the uncharted territory, and the time commitment required. If I didn’t have my husband and compassionate business partners by my side, I’m certain I wouldn’t have made it through. It truly was all hands on deck… and my heart laid bare. 

Because the Baker Act was instituted for her situation, we had little time to find her a new home. Living in South Florida—a state known for its retirees and transient populations—finding an available space was no easy feat. Thankfully, a client in the mental health field helped me find an ALF with an open bed. 

When I walked through the door, my heart leapt into my throat. The smell, the appearance of the residents, the squalid living conditions—it was heartbreaking. "Am I really going to leave my mom here?" The thought of her being there for even an hour made me sick, let alone dropping her off for an uncertain period. But… (deep breath) I made this decision for her;  she could no longer help herself. And I had to commit to helping her.

What haunts me still is the self-reflection and the guilt for failing her. I desperately tried to prevent this but, ultimately, she landed in a place permeated with urine and neglect. This is not who I am- I don’t quit. And it’s certainly not what I want for her. But when I think back to her dysfunction and self-neglect, despite everything we did for her, the reality hit: she had created this result for herself. Her refusal of help for a better life is ultimately what brought us here. And so, I left. She wouldn’t even look at me.

The next three weeks were filled with hourly calls, threats, delusions, screaming, and crying. Every time I had to go back there, it felt like I might throw up—not just because of the environment I’d left her in, but because of the negligence I witnessed, the systemic disregard for the elderly and mentally ill our society tolerates. Here was a whole population of people who had once been contributors to society, only to lose their way somewhere along the journey, and this was how they would spend their remaining days.

And then came phase two, The Clean-Up:

• Medicaid planning
• Selling her house
• Researching quality facilities to transition her to
• Daily intervention with her ALF (Assisted Living Facility)
• Educating myself on a broken system
• And… the big question: How are we going to pay for all this?
  

After this “hurricane” hit our family, and we were able to “clean-up” the mess, we quickly entered a “rebuilding” phase only three weeks later. We found a dignified, permanent residence for her in another ALF (Assisted Living Facility) closer to home. The patience and grace required to not only manage the transition, but navigate each and every day as we manage this new normal, have become muscles I intentionally work towards building- for my mother, for my family, and for myself.  

The journey of transitioning a loved one into an ALF (Assisted Living Facility) is an emotional one, but here are five things you can do to prepare for the process.

Planning:

Plan ahead and hire experts to save time and money! Even with all the preparation and due diligence, it still wasn’t enough to brace us for the emotional rollercoaster that Medicaid, care plans, and real estate sales would throw our way. What kind of lifestyle do you want for your loved one? Will they need daily assistance? Do you want a shared room or a private one? Apartment-style or traditional? And can you afford it? 

Clear Communication:

Clear communication with the ALF (Assisted Living Facility) from the start is critical. The staff will be unfamiliar with your loved one, so it’s essential to provide them with everything they need to know about him or her: diet, sleep patterns, mental health history, behavioral patterns. This ensures they can best support your loved one.‍

Advocacy:

Even in the most impressive facilities, be prepared to advocate for your loved one. Advocacy can feel like an endless, thankless job. The healthcare system is broken and the professionals within it are often desensitized and overburdened. Your role as advocate is vital—and exhausting.

Setting Boundaries:

‍I can’t stress this enough: Setting boundaries is crucial for your own mental and emotional well-being as the primary caregiver. For the first two weeks after her move, I visited my mother daily to ensure a smooth transition. However, this quickly set an expectation that I would be there every day, which made it challenging on the days when I couldn’t. This is her new home, a place for her to develop relationships, to find her own rhythm—and I learned I need to give her the space to do that. I also learned I need space from the situation to recharge my emotional batteries and ensure I can be the best caregiver and advocate possible for her.

Acceptance:

‍Protect your mental and physical health by accepting progress—no matter how small—and celebrating those small victories. There will be good days and difficult ones. Most of what happens will be out of your control, but finding joy in the tiny milestones can provide much-needed relief.

It's been a challenging journey, but my commitment to my mom has never wavered. And though the process may be imperfect, I continue to advocate, to plan, and to hope that each day is a step toward a better life for her- and for all of us.