Things went quiet, fast, when my 86-year-old mother passed away. Despite the many miles between Texas and Massachusetts, technology had kept us linked daily.
For years, as Mom’s health slowly declined, we stayed connected through Facebook. She loved her games and chronicled every bit of progress, inviting me to play and sharing prizes she’d “won” to decorate a virtual aquarium in FishWorld. If I wondered how she was doing, I could see she was active and engaged by her posts. No posts meant I should worry; lots of posts meant she was feeling good and reaching out to friends.
If I wanted to know whether she was up and moving, I checked my “Fitbit friends” list. Mom lived in a small studio in senior apartments, so her step count rarely changed, but it was steady. Through apps, I knew she was alive and well.
As her health worsened, she needed more support. Karen, my amazing sister, who lived nearby, provided daily support while I watched from afar. Karen eventually arranged for an aide and, with Mom’s consent, installed a Ring camera so all of us could check on her. Talking to Mom through the camera became another way to say hello and to be present from far away — and of keeping her safe. One evening when Karen was checking in, she saw Mom on the floor. Karen called 911 and the EMTs arrived before she did.
Later, when Mom had difficulty using her phone, a RAZ mobile phone with photos of us (instead of numbers) to touch on the keypad became her go-to, and a caregiver app simplified that interaction.
Eventually, after a hospitalization, Mom transitioned to long-term care. When her location changed, my routine took a new direction. I’d wake up and check the phone log. A lot of calls, early or late, meant she was distressed. Scan the camera feed from the night before. Did she sleep? And if so, was it in her bed or the preferred recliner? How many steps did she take the day before? Check Fitbit.
After collecting all the data, my sister, brother, and I would discuss it via our group chat and brainstorm new strategies to support Mom and make her life easier.
Heartening visits to Texas gave me a break from the surveillance, replacing FaceTime with the real time I craved. My last visit was a week before she died, and it was such a relief to ignore the technology while we were together. When I left, I kissed her, said goodbye, and promised to return to celebrate her 87th birthday. Sadly, that celebration was not to be.
The day Mom died, my sister and her husband were at Mom’s bedside, and Karen added my brother and me via video call.
The next morning, out of habit, we checked the camera one last time — 3:33 a.m. was the final recording (the facility had lost internet during an ice storm). We saw that as Mom’s way of telling us everything would be OK.
I think of her often and still find myself reaching for my phone to check the camera feed (offline), the phone app (no new calls), her average step count (slowly falling). Soon, on Fitbit, she’ll be moved automatically to “inactive.”
That will be the final break in the technological lifeline that brought our family together across the country. Now, without Mom, I feel disconnected in ways I never expected.
Mary Leach is a writer and communications professional in Billerica. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.
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