I recently went to Germany to visit a distant cousin who was more like an aunt to me. Traudl and her husband—and their children— had entertained me often during the year I studied in Germany, and when I returned there to sing professionally in the late 70’s, they continued to treat me as one of their own. After I married, my wife automatically became part of their family as well.

Now Traudl was getting old and had trouble walking, the result of a knee replacement that had never healed properly. In the space of a few years she lost her husband, a son, and a grandson, the last two tragically. Traudl’s own children loved her but found her to be controlling and difficult, and for them she probably was. Our relationship, however, was easy and uncomplicated. And so, at the end of my teaching year, I set aside ten days to go over and spend time with her. I rented a car and took her wherever she wanted to go. It wasn’t a chore for me; I enjoyed her company.

For the last fifteen years or so I’ve spent a lot of time visiting aging relatives, most notably — most importantly — my own parents. I had always visited Medford, where my parents lived and where I grew up, at least once a year, often at Christmastime. For years, these were wonderful visits, but as my parents passed into old age, the trip began to be a source of dread for me. My mother was extremely hard of hearing. Although she had a hearing aid, it fit her poorly, and she could never master the tiny controls on it. It seemed more a hindrance than a help. My father, never the most talkative of men, became increasingly isolated as his memory began to desert him. Senile decay? Alzheimer’s? We really never did know. My mother ignored it as long as she could and refused to make concessions to their changing circumstances. Entertaining, fancy meals, decorating, all continued as usual. My father seemed put upon and grumpy, and often I was too.

One night, before dinner, my mother said she wanted to drive around the neighborhood to see the Christmas lights. I don’t think she got out of the house much, especially at night. I said we could do that AFTER dinner—I selfishly wanted to sit down and have a drink before we ate. It had felt like a long day.

We finished our meal. My wife and daughter and I did the dishes quickly and got ready to take my parents out to see the lights. My father wouldn’t be moved. He was furious. He wouldn’t let us go. He’d hidden all the car keys. “It isn’t safe,” he said. In Medford, I thought. He was afraid of the dark.

That visit ended with our 6 a.m. departure from the Medford airport a day or two before New Year’s. Neither of my parents should have been driving us anywhere at that point — they were too old to manage it — so I had arranged for someone else to handle our pre-dawn pick up. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had scotched it. She and I had a heated and acrimonious discussion about that, which ended with this plan: I would drive their car to the airport with them as passengers. They would wait to drive back home until the sun was up, when they would have less difficulty finding their way home (which they did, and thank God nobody was killed in the process). We waved goodbye at the air terminal, a ritual I had never liked, but part of our family tradition. Everything looked more or less the same way it always had when I turned around to give a last wave, except my father seemed to have retreated deeply into shadow because of his disease. It was as if a lighting director had deliberately turned up the spot on my mother and placed Otto, my father, in darkness.

My parents, two and a half years apart in their dates of birth, both lived to be 94. My father predeceased my mother by two years, and she took care of him to the end. He required extra assistance, but my mother hated having people in her house. She treated the caregivers like guests, and it wore everyone out. She’d tell them after a good day that she didn’t need them anymore, but would soon realize she couldn’t handle things on her own. My older siblings who lived closer to my parents had to deal with finding new help. My father, though, was a good patient and beloved by those who took care of him. He had cancer, and lived only about two and a half months after his diagnosis, dying peacefully in the house he loved so much.

That trip to visit Traudl in Germany was the next to last time I saw her. I think it is nearly always possible to be on your better behavior with people whom you don’t know so well. On this particular journey which we all will make if we’re lucky—the journey into age—I’d like some traveling mercies. It might be a good idea if I started by extending them to others, maybe tomorrow.

PHILIP FROHNMAYER is Mary Freeman Wisdom Distinguished Professor of Opera and Chair of Vocal Studies at Loyola University, New Orleans.