Letting Go

How long should it take to pack up a life? Is there a time limit? Can we just keep everything forever?

2021. Spring is in the air. Well, not here--we just had a blizzard. Whee! But I have friends around the country who tell me "Spring is in the air!"

I am a Spring Cleaner. Out with the old, in with the new. Get rid of this and that; and this spring, there's plenty to get rid of, I think. Because...

2020 was a bitch.

I had basically moved in with my parents. Dad was suffering from Dementia, and, as Mom often said, he didn't mind my mother. Everything was an uphill battle, because he didn't want her to tell him what to do. They were supposed to be equal partners and she wasn't his boss.

I was, though.

For whatever reason, if I told him he had to do it, he did. He took his medication. He took a shower. He ate.

He took a bad fall in the late spring. One wrong turn, and me too far behind him to--I don't know what--catch him? Steady him? Save the day? I still haven't processed it. He was up, and then he was down, and I wasn't close enough to even try.

The guilt might be unreasonable, but it lives in me. I wasn't close enough to catch him.

When you're past eighty, you get fragile. It was a stumble, something a younger person would jump up from, most likely.

Well, he was 84. He didn't jump up. He couldn't get up at all. He broke his femur, wrist and ribs. He also hit his head and suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage. It was small, but it was enough to send him on a life flight to the nearest full-service hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I sent him off in an ambulance that day, and we saw him in person before the flight. The doctor took pity on us and let us see him beforehand. Masked, of course. Bless that rule-bender.

Once he was in hospital in Salt Lake, we weren't allowed to visit due to Covid-19 protocols, so we didn't make the 3-hour trip. We made a lot of phone calls, instead. He had surgery to repair his femur and they monitored the hemorrhage until they were sure he was going to be okay.

He was released a few days later. Covid-19 was filling the hospitals in the city rapidly, so less urgent cases were sent home.

Rehabilitation time.

When he returned from the city, he went into a nursing home about fifteen miles away, and we visited there--through a window and talking on a phone.

Of course, he couldn't understand. "Come on in," he'd say.

I don't know how many times we explained that we couldn't come in, and the reason why. He'd say, "Oh, yeah, I knew that." Then he'd forget. Over and over.

We would have brought him home, except for the broken ribs. There was no way to safely lift him. It would be too dangerous--a rib could damage an organ if we made one wrong move.

"Hi, Dad," we'd say into our cell phones, peering through a window to smile at him and wave. We talked every visit about him doing his best to heal up so he could come home, and he made good progress toward that.

When we knew he could get up and down without us having to lift him, we started planning his homecoming.

We were all so excited, even though it would be scary until he was really up and around.

The plan was in place--we would bring him home on July 10th. My brother and his wife constructed a beautiful wheelchair ramp. We got a wheelchair and a walker.

We arranged for Home Health and physical therapy. Everything was set.

I flew to Denver for medical appointments for myself. The night before my flight home, I got a middle-of-the-night call from the nursing home, telling me that Dad would be going to the hospital because he'd suffered a setback.

That was July 8th. No one could visit. My flight was delayed four times, and I finally made it home after 11:00 p.m. on July 9th.

The next night I got another middle-of-the-night call from the hospital, this time from the doctor.

She invited us inside. Inside!

That scared us all. Mom, my sisters and brother and I went to a conference with the doctor and reunited with Dad.

He was so happy to see us. He was also obviously weak and ill.

We were expecting the worst. The doctor kept saying, "Hospice Care." I kept saying, "Home Health is already arranged."

It was clear she didn't expect him to last, and her main concern was that he not be alone in the hospital when the time come.

Bless her. She could have kept him in the hospital, but she didn't, so bless her.

We arranged Dad's homecoming and he arrived at his own home the next day, the same way he'd left--by ambulance.

We got to have him with us for the next fourteen days. This would surprise the doctor who was so sure he'd pass on right away.

For a few days, he rallied. He knew he was home. He got hugs and kisses, held hands with us. He did his best to eat and drink for me. He told stories. We listened to music. He played with the dog.

Then he started to flag. He received last rites from the family's parish Priest.

And then, he left us on July 24th. Once more, he did as I told him. I said, "It's okay, Dad. You can sleep now." He squeezed my hand twice and took his last breath. Fare thee well, good father. I will see you again, someday.

He had a last bath. I went to his closet for his favorite shirt and a pair of pants. We dressed him. We said our goodbyes, and he left us again.

By ambulance--one last time.

He won't be coming back. He has truly gone home.

I made cremation arrangements and wrote an obituary. I arranged the funeral service. I put pictures in frames for the service. I cried.

And that was bad enough, but the year wasn't done with us yet.

We got through the funeral, and then the basement flooded. We lost a 47-year-old tree to the repair work that followed.

It was his touchstone. "I want to go home," he'd say, his voice plaintive. "When do I get to go home?"

We had placed his bed near the window in the living room, so he was always with us throughout the day and night.

It was the tree I'd point out to Dad anytime he forgot he was home. "You are home," I'd say. "See? There's your tree!"

"Your mother's tree," he told me. "She planted the pair. I am home! Oh, good. It's good to be home." And he'd smile, knowing that he wasn't away from us anymore.

Mom and I watched the workers take that tree down and cried. The touchstone was gone!

On the day he would have turned 85, the town was hit by a freak hurricane/blizzard that left the our town with a huge parking lot full of dead trees.

Our neighbor's tree ended up in our backyard, taking the fence and making a mess. I stood at the door with Mom. "Oh, my God!"

"I know."

"Oh, my God!"

"I know!"

"Dad wouldn't have liked this birthday."

"Nope." Mom moved away from the door. "He wouldn't have liked it at all."

Mom and I did Thanksgiving and Christmas alone. We got little socially distanced visits, but no celebrations. It was odd, but it may have been easier than celebrating without Dad.

Pandemic Holidays. What a crock.

We rarely get out of the house, and then it is for essential things only. Groceries and doctor visits.

We're into 2021 now, and I suppose things are slowly getting better.

But in the meantime, I have not cleaned out his closet. His drawers haven't been touched. His things in the coat closet are still waiting to be dealt with.

It's not like we haven't had the time. We just haven't had the heart.

He was nearly 85 years old. There are so many things to go through. And every time I open his closet, I cry and slide the door shut again.

Almost eight months.

How long should it take to pack up a life? Is there a time limit? Can we just keep everything forever?

It's almost time for me to take another trip to Denver. I plan to take some clothes to my son. He's the only one in the family Dad's shirts will fit.

Days have ticked by since I booked my flight, and I still haven't opened the closet.

I tell myself that there needs to be a deep cleaning after a death.

But of course, we cleaned. We just didn't get rid of anything. There's a neatly folded American flag on the shelf above this desk. There's a stack of condolence cards on the shelf behind me. Leftover thank you notes are with them.

His closet and drawers are full of clothes that no one is wearing.

What will it take to motivate me to deal with this? It's crazy, but I don't have a compass or a rule book to guide me through this process.

I set a goal--Spring cleaning. If I haven't already begun, I MUST start dealing with it on the first day of Spring. I won't have anything else to do--we're supposed to be getting another storm that weekend. I will be stuck in the house.

(Not that being stuck in the house has anything to do with anything--I have been stuck for over a year!)

Today I am ordering groceries--I will have a nice box to work with this weekend.

To say I don't want to do this is an understatement. I don't want to let him go. I want him to be sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, wondering what I'm going to fix for dinner.

I want him to be on the phone with my brother, planning a fishing trip.

I want him to be sitting in his recliner, taking a nap with the dog in his lap.

I'm not going to get any of those things.

It's past time for me to start the job of letting go.

Letting go of things. Not Dad.

*Sigh*

That damn closet awaits.

So do more tears.

Time goes by. Whatever I try, I can't stop it. Time goes by.

2022: I would like to report that the job is complete; that the closet is cleaned out and the dresser drawers emptied.

I would like to report that Mom's things have replaced Dad's in his closet, and that my things have replaced hers in the spare bedroom.

I would be lying if I reported such a thing.

I moved into the spare room last year, but all my things are still downstairs. I tell myself the exercise is good for me, as I run up and down for clothing and other items. It's true, undoubtedly. But it would be unnecessary if I'd just get the process started.

A few of Dad's things have been given away to my son, my nephews, my brothers--but mostly, they are still waiting for me to get my Spring-cleaning spree done.

I still haven't figured out the timeline. How long?

Recently, I opened the closet door and was confronted with a pair of old paint-stained jeans that were accidentally hemmed a bit too short. For whatever reason, he loved those old things. The knees are transparent, ready to tear any second.

He wore them all the time, even though one of us was likely to crack wise about him being ready for the next flood because they were too short. "Leave my cool pants alone," he'd laugh. "Your Mom did it!"

I picked the pants up off the shelf and thought, I should have dressed him in these that last day. He loved these old things.

Then I burst into tears, folded them and put them back.

I couldn't close the closet fast enough.

I miss my Dad.

In the words of Inigo Montoya--"I want my father back, you son of a bitch!" (Said while shaking my fist at the empty sky {Because really, who is listening up there?})

I do. I want my father back.

And still, the closet awaits. By now, you know it's just mocking me.

I miss you, Daddy. I love you forever.

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