Aging the old way

But recently she had an adventure. She was driving to the doctor’s office when her car hit a pothole and she blew a tire.

“What did you do?’’ I asked her, a little more sharply than she might have expected. We were getting into bone-of-contention territory since for years she’s been ignoring our pleas to carry a cellphone (“Who would I call?’’) and we’d been worrying about her safety behind the wheel.

Turns out she had everything under control. She pulled her ancient Plymouth onto a side street, stood at the side of a major thoroughfare with her pocketbook dangling over her arm in a city with the highest crime rate in Canada, and started flagging down cars. Luckily a “nice young man’’ stopped and changed the tire for her. And all he wanted in exchange was money for cigarettes.

If I were the daughter I wish I were, I would have shipped the guy a carton of them. But I was livid, thinking about how close she came to being stranded, mugged, or run over. This was also around the time my sisters and I were - unsuccessfully - nudging my mother to think about moving to an assisted living facility, spooked by the fact that she got pneumonia while she was out of town and had to fly back with a nurse and an oxygen tank.

“I told you to get a cellphone,’’ I yelled.

“Yes, dear,’’ she said sarcastically, in the voice she uses to mean, “Go take a flying leap.’’

A few minutes later, one of my sisters called me, enraged for the same reason. Our other sister weighed in, too. All of us furious at naughty, naughty mother who had the nerve to venture out by herself and court disaster.

“What were you thinking?’’ I wanted to say, the way I talk to my kids sometimes. “You want to be independent? Be responsible!’’ I started reading websites devoted to confiscating senior citizens’ car keys. I called HouseWorks, a local eldercare organization that hosts Tupperware-style home parties for baby boomers who sip wine while commiserating about the challenges of aging parents. “I feel like I’m dealing with an adolescent,’’ I complained to Andrea Cohen, the chief executive.

My husband pointed out that anyone can hit a pothole, and tells me to back off. “It’s her life,’’ he says. “Someday this will be you.’’

No, it won’t, I almost said. (Cohen told me that boomers will “age in place’’ and stay at home, or move to “intentional communities’’ instead of assisted-living facilities. “We’re like the feminists,’’ she said. “We’re breaking new ground.’’)

My mother, however, is aging the old way, and I find the process exasperating. Wouldn’t it be easier if she’d just get with the program and move to an assisted-living facility? They’d make her meals. They’d take her shopping. She’d make new friends.

But then I think about how her life revolves around her home and especially her kitchen - her kitchen, with the temperamental stove no one else understands, the potato grater that looks like a truck rolled over it, the refrigerator covered in pictures of her far-away family she calls her “paper children.’’ The mother who keeps telling us, “I’m not ready yet.’’

And so I remain torn between wanting to be the responsible daughter, insisting that she move to a place where I know my sisters and I will have peace of mind, and being the soft daughter, giving her a little more time to stay in the familiar place where she’ll be happier. A little more time to get ready.

I suspect it’s a matter of time before some crisis intervenes and the decision is forced on us anyway. In the meantime my sisters will continue to prod her, as will time. We may have to take away her car keys. We may have to get some assistance. And we will - I hope - keep celebrating her birthdays. I just know she’ll love the cellphone we’re going to surprise her with.

Linda Matchan can be reached at l_matchan@globe.com.