Like many adult children and sandwich geneartion-ers whose parents don’t want to leave their home, I had to practically force my mom to sell and move in with me. It’s not that I wanted to evict my mother from her own home, it’s because I knew that she was no longer safe. Caregivers everywhere face this difficult decision–but it also means we have to deal with all the stuff–when history collides with clutter.
My mom had Parkinson’s and heart disease–and I was starting to question whether she had some form of dementia. I worried about her falling, her not eating, forgetting to take her meds, getting locked out of the house…and as my mom’s only child and primary caregiver, I knew I had created a community of support and relied on extended family, friends, church members and community resources all that we could.
It was no longer enough. My mom needed continuity, and I was the only one who was willing and able to step up.
My mom agreed–at first. But the day we were to sign the papers and sell her home, she had a panic attack. She thought it was a heart attack and we rushed to the hospital. I had my doubts, but knew we should get it checked out. Then her avoidance tactics escalated. She wanted to back out of the deal. I had to be the strong one. I called the real estate office, arranged for the Durable Power of Attorney papers to be delivered to the hosptial, and signed the papers in the waiting room.
They gave us three days to finish moving out. I pulled up to my mother’s house–the place I had lived from age 12-18–and began the arduous job of packing and sorting. I was alone–me and thousand memories.
Part of me knew this was the beginning of the end. My dad had passed a decade before. My mom was 89 and I knew at best, we had a few years left–and her health issues would only escalate in time.
It’s tough–to deal with saved/recycled aluminum foil and a two dozen pie pans as well as treasured family photos, important documents, and childhood toys. Part of me was angry for being saddled with such a monumental job–why hadn’t she dealt with all this crap before now? But then I thought of my own house and my own stuff–guess I’d better get busy.
Every room, a memory. Every room, a million decisions.
I grieved and bungled my way through the next three days vascillating between overwhelming exhaustion and tender recollections. It felt good to be alone, to feel everything, no matter how hard it was.
I gave myself permission to make mistakes–to keep too much–to throw away the wrong thing.
Who could get this right?
Finally, the house was clear–the movers would come the next day–and mounds of trash sat at the end of the driveway.
I walked the land. I remembered the school bus dropping me off each day and my cat, Charlie, greeting me, the daffodils that popped up every February around the giant oak tree–bright yellow against the bleak sky. I followed the trail down to Daddy’s garage, picked up a stone and placed it in my pocket.
I took photograps and said goodbye to every tree. I saw myself at 14 on the roof sunbathing, walking to the car with a nosegay on my wrist on my way to prom and later kissing my date goodnight under the porch light. I saw Daddy, could hear the high-pitched squeal of power tools, smell the sweetness of sawdust, and see my own toddlers looking for Easter eggs in the backyard. This house held me, nurtured me, gave me a place to grow up, and now gives me a place to remember.
I sat in my car knowing I’d never be able to come back–driving by just isn’t the same. What would come with my mom–caring for her in my final years–was not something to I could face–not yet.
It was all I could do to turn the key and back away.
Author of Mothering Mother, available in hardback or on Kindle
It is so hard to sort, pitch, pack, store, keep, etc! A few years before Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I started working with her in an attempt to clear out some of the clutter, decide what was important and why, and get some idea of to whom some of the stuff should go. We went room to room, making lists and taking an inventory. We worked on this project for close to a year knowing there would come a time when Dad’s Alzheimer’s would either necessitate a move or require someone move in to assist with his care. I am so thankful we started the project when we did. Once Mom started to really display telltale signs, the choices were much more difficult to make and the severity of the problem became more pronounced. Room after room of memories, shelf after shelf of mementos, drawer after drawer of twist ties. When it came time to sell the house, I was full of so much emotion, but I was so grateful for the time I’d spent with Mom going through much of these things, talking about her wishes and reliving some of the memories that brought these trinkets to have a place in our home.
[…] A client with dementia may know what they want, but actually accomplishing it may be impossible. Somebody must be in charge of the process. If the client has signed a power of attorney for property, (or still has the capacity to sign one) – that can be the starting point. If not, guardianship may be the next step. Choosing the right person to act in this role can be difficult. If there is a trustworthy friend or relative willing to act – that is often the best option. If not, there are private agencies who can get involved. Many of them provide excellent service, but they can carry significant costs. Moreover it can take the client a while to develop trust in a stranger. For children of parents going through this transition, it may still be helpful to have outside help, because of the emotional challenges of moving out of a family home. […]