The boxes arrived yesterday. Fourteen of them, delivered by my trusted, friendly, UPS delivery man. “Yes, these are all for me”, I told him. “Just set them down wherever you can find room”. I sighed. The boxes occupied a good deal of my living room and I wondered, once again, what I had gotten myself into. My Mom Sandy, moved into my home last week. Sandy loves California, where the weather is warm and her grandchildren are close by. She asked if she could live here. How could I say no?
Sandy's memory is failing. She asks the same questions repeatedly, sometimes within a one-minute span. My answers fall away, unabsorbed by her plaque-coated brain. Despite the memory lapses she is still astute, vibrant, and full of laughter. She is watching this year’s presidential election closely, knowledgeable of its facts and nuances. She continues to work on her beloved NYT crossword puzzle, delighting in figuring out “the long ones”.
The boxes. Sitting in my home, occupying my once orderly living room, the boxes are piled up, a reminder that perhaps I have taken on too much. Sandy’s condition will worsen. Will I be able to handle this: the failing memory, the repetitive questions, the extra grocery shopping, trips to the hairdresser and manicurist, appointments with her doctors? The constant errands: fixing the zipper on her favorite pocketbook, tailoring the pants that are too big because she has lost so much weight, trips to the bank, shopping at my least favorite grocery store because they have her favorite canned peas. How will I fit this into my already stretched schedule?
After all, I have my own life: a full time job, a household to manage, a garden, my own health to tend to, my significant other, Lindsay’s upcoming wedding, my love for nature that pulls me towards marshland birds and gorgeous landscapes, and my passion for photography that engrosses me in a satisfying meditative state for hours on end. And there’s more: how will I continue my photography workshops, spend long weekends at Point Reyes, have dinner and wine with friends, play mah jongg, lounge around on a lazy Sunday morning? How on earth will I manage all of this with Sandy here?
The boxes. We start unpacking. Sandy lights up when she sees her personal belongings, the things that matter to her. Her framed pictures from Cape May where she vacationed with Sy, my father and her husband of 42 years. Everything matters. A nail file, a soap dish, a plastic hamper. My great grandfather’s naturalization papers. To her, they all have equal meaning. They are all familiar. They all have a place in a life that is slipping away. She looks at each item carefully as she struggles to recall how they fit into her life now, in California, where she is starting anew at age 82. She is generous. She asks, “Do you need this white shoe polish?” “Um, no, I don’t think so.” “Does Charles need this apple corer?” “No, he uses a knife to cut his apples” but of course that is unspoken and he graciously accepts the gift.
The boxes. We unpack. Things are strewn about my normally well-kept home. My dining room table is no longer visible, with every inch occupied by the former contents of my cottage, the space that once served as my guest room and overflow storage. The cottage sits empty now, ready for Sandy’s belongings. Where will I put all of my stuff, I wonder? The stuff that I no longer need but can’t bear to part with. My own memories. The kids’ childhood art projects, boxes of old photographs, my college books.
I want to have the kids over for a family dinner but I have no room for anything. I don’t have time to buy the brisket, let alone cook it. Oh no.
The boxes. We unpack some more. Sandy starts to line her shelves with the things she wants to see when she wakes up in the morning. A wooden music box she received as a gift from Joshua. A picture of the family. Her calendar. Her favorite books. Her iron.
She leaves the room momentarily and that’s when my tears come. I am overwhelmed. Not by the enormity of caring for her, but by my own vulnerability.
This is sacred.
It is about the end of a life. Not my life, her life. Can I make her feel loved? Can I make her feel secure? Can I provide her with the one thing that her brain craves more than anything – familiarity? In her ever-changing world the things she clings to are the things that give her the most comfort. Her towels, her blue sponges, her glass jars for leftovers. And ME. She knows what is happening to her and she is afraid of her future. She clings to me.
I no longer worry about whether I will ‘have a life’ now that Sandy is here. I DO have a life. THIS is my life. I am on this journey with her. She is clinging to me during this scary and confusing time for her. And I am clinging to her.
Ilene Hertz
September 17, 2016