Leaving Home for the Last Time

My brother Eric called me from his home in Colorado,“I just got off the phone with the nurse. Mom fell again. She thinks it’s time to move her to a facility.”

“She’s not going to like that. She’s owned her home longer than we’ve been alive. Her and dad bought it with the GI bill after WWII right before they got married. She’s only lived in two houses her entire life.”

“I know but it’s not safe for her to be there alone and her insurance won’t pay for additional staff. You need to fly out here and help me settle the estate.”

“She’s not dead yet. You make it sound so final.”

“She doesn’t even know who we are anymore most days. We’ve known that this was coming for some time.”

“Okay, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

A few days later, I was on a flight going to my home town of Telluride, Colorado. The taxi driver dropped me off at the curb. I saw the old red brick home of my childhood. The once pearl white shutters were now grey and dull. The flower garden mom planted with dad was now dead and baren. I remembered climbing the maple tree in the front yard that still had the tire swing dad had made for us to play on hanging from a branch.

Eric answered the door. As I walked in, I smelled the original cedar floors and saw family portraits hanging on the walls. The kitchen had a hideous wallpaper trim with cartoonish white roses. Eric took my coat,“Hey Trish, how was your flight?”

“Good. How is she?”

“She’s good. She’s sleeping right now but she seems lucid today.”

“That’s good.”

“I put an ad in the paper that we’ll be having an estate sale this weekend. I have a realtor friend in the area and he’s already listed the house. Once we liquidate she should have enough money to cover an assisted living home. I have a brochure here for one near me in Denver, it’s called Oak Creek. I think she’ll like it there.”

“I hope so. We’ve put this off for too long. I feel like I lost my mom a long time ago. Last time I called she didn’t remember me. That’s the hardest part, not being remembered by your own mother. We used to be so close and now it’s like she’s afraid of everything. I can only imagine how scary it is for her to be living alone in her condition.”

“Jerry, is that you dear?” I heard my mother call from the hall. Jerry was our father. He died five years ago from a stroke.

“No mom, dad’s not here.”

“Trish? When did you get in dear?”

“Just a little while ago. Eric asked me to come.”

“Oh Eric, what a surprise. I’m so happy to have my children here. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’ve just been worried about you mom,” Eric said, his exhaustiom evident. “The nurse said you fell.”

“I did? I don’t remember that.”

“Look at your wrist. It’s in a brace because you sprained it.” Eric pointed to her right hand.

“Oh my, how did that happen?”

“We’re not sure,” Eric sighed.

“Can you ask Jerry to pick up some Ibuprofen on his way home?”

“Sure we’ll ask him,” I offered.

I looked at my mom. She seemed so small and frail, more like a child than a parent. She used to carry me to bed when I fell asleep in the car and now at 85 pounds she was a ghost of her former self.

Eric looked at her, “You’re going to be moving closer to me and Gina and the kids. I think you’re really going to like your new place. But first we have to clear out the clutter of this old house. I want you to go through your stuff and put what you want to take with you in these two boxes. Everything else will go into storage. Can you do that for me mom?”

“What does Jerry think?”

“He thinks it’s a great idea and he’ll meet you when he can.”

“Okay then,” mom went to her room to pack.

“I’m glad you made time to come out here,” Eric said, a bit too sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean you’re in New York chasing your dreams and it’s me and Gina here on the weekends trying to relieve the nurses.”

I retaliated, “Hey, who do you think pays the deductible for what medicare doesn’t cover?”

“Trish, can you come here? I can’t find my pills.”

“I’ve got them right here mom. I’ll be right there.” I went to her room and handed her the pills and a glass of water.

“Thank you. Now go to the garden and pick some blackberries. I’m going to make cobblers since I have you two home together.”

“Are you sure that’s such a good idea? It’s already dark out.”

“Well get a flashlight and take Eric with you.”

I reluctantly grabbed a flashlight and a stainless steel mixing bowl. “Eric, come help me.”

There were a lot of things my mom had lost the ability to do, but cooking wasn’t one of them. She prided herself in the recipes she had created from her imagination and experience in the kitchen throughout the years. Eric and I filled the bowl with fresh berries and went to sit in the kitchen. I felt like a little girl watching her cook with wonder in my eyes, knowing that this might be the last time she worked her magic in the kitchen.

While the cobbler was in the oven, I went through my mother’s things to help her pack. She had a collection of family heirlooms: a string of pearls, a diamond bracelet, her and my father’s wedding rings. I put them in an envelope and handed them to Eric. I found an old scrapbook we had made together when she was first diagnosed. I put it with the boxes of things she was taking with her. The doctor said pictures can help jog the memory.

My mother insisted on wearing nice dresses and doing her hair and make-up every day even though she was in her late 80’s now. She was one of the last remaining members of the Greatest Generation and good self presentation was something she still prided herself on.

She went to work in a shirt factory when our father was away at war. They wrote letters and got married when dad came home. She was great at sewing. She worked as a seamstress for extra money her entire life. In her generation, women went to work to support the country when the war happened. Mom was one of the ones who wasn’t so happy to go back to being at home after it ended.

We were in the attic cleaning things out when we came across the baby blankets she had quilted for us, one with a pink giraffe and one with a blue elephant.

“Wow I haven’t seen these since we were kids!” I held the blankets up to show Eric.

“Me neither. Hey look at this.”

“What is that?”

“It’s an old shoe box full of old cards we made for her. I never knew she kept stuff like that.”

“Me neither.”

“Do you want the sewing machine?”

“No, I don’t have anywhere to put the cabinet in my apartment. She tried her hardest to teach me so many times but I could never even thread the bobbin correctly. You should ask Gina if she wants it.”

“Gina already has a really nice one in her craft room. I think we could get a lot of money for the whole setup at the estate sale.”

“Okay, then sell it.”

We went through the house and moved the furniture to the garage in preparation for the sale. I packed practical clothing for her and bagged up her make-up and hair tools. It was hard selling off things that had been around since my childhood: the family dining room table, dad’s favorite chair, her sewing machine and hutch. I kept the Kitchenaid mixer and the set of cast iron cookware for my own kitchen, to carry on our family recipes. These were things that reminded me of a time when she was healthy, happy and full of life.

The next morning, we let mom sleep in while we did our best with the garden. Eric removed all of the dead bushes and trimmed the trees back. I went to buy new bushes to plant where the old ones had died. I chose honey suckles, Christmas Holly, and a white rose bush to pay homage to the kitchen wall paper. I also swung by the hardware store and picked up a gallon of white paint to redo the shutters and trim.

The house looked good. It still had all of its character but our small changes increased the curb appeal. Her home had stood for over 70 years. The house is actually brick, not just built from slump block material. The realtor said we’d get a lot for it. He said it’s currently a seller’s market. We scheduled a cleaning crew to come by in the next few days and set up a time for professional staging and photographs.

Eric loaded mom into the car with her things, “You’re going to love Oak Creek. They have daily activities like they do at the senior center. You will have your own room and won’t have to cook, clean, or do laundry.”

“Am I going on a vacation?”

“You could think of it like that.”

She got a far away look in her eyes as she stared out the window. She didn’t speak. I think part of her knew what she was leaving behind, though I can’t be sure. I didn’t see her cry. She didn’t put up a fight. Did she really realize that she was saying goodbye to the place where she had raised her family? Or did she know that she wouldn’t be coming back to this place? All she did was ask about dad.

“Where we’re going, will Jerry be there?”

“He’ll meet you when he can.”