I never thought there would come a time when I would see my mother behave like a child. Of course, it’s not her fault. Her world is changing every single day. And even with the support of a loving, extended family, it’s a lot to digest. She is clinging to her past as we try to delicately navigate her future, keeping her dignity intact.
Less than a week ago, I sat down with my family to map out a plan for supporting my aging mother. We had decided on a three-pronged plan: help her to get hearing aids, check in with her doctors for health updates and help her to declutter and organize her home. We thought we were being proactive and ahead of the curve. Then, this week, we found out her home needed to be decluttered immediately so some much-needed maintenance and repairs could take place, throwing our best laid plans out the window.
We rallied. My siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews did in two evenings what probably should have taken weeks. We all have full-time jobs and busy schedules. For two straight nights after work, we sorted through her belongings, determining what to keep, what to toss, what to set aside for charity and what to take to storage. This was no easy task.
We knew this would be an emotional process for my mother. Her home—our childhood home—was full of nearly 50 years of memories. In recent years, however, the cute tchotchkes and other collectibles had begun to overtake her home. We knew that five types of items were off-limits: arts and crafts, books, her vast classic movie collection, Christmas trees (yes, plural) and all the decorations that went with them and her four sewing machines. These needed to stay. No discussion.
We also knew how much having a say would mean to her, so we had her sit in the middle of the living while we trotted out items for her to tell us how best to handle. Inevitably, despite her input, we still had to remove a lot of her prized possessions, placing many of them in storage. Understandably, she was territorial about many items, taking them out of packed boxes, grabbing them and stuffing them behind her back, questioning every move we made. As my niece, a psychologist-in-training pointed out, these attachments are not about stuff; it’s much deeper than that. Throughout this process, my mother put it plainly: “I feel like you’re erasing my legacy.”
Over the course of two evenings, we filled up one pick-up truck and four SUVs, twice. We also helped her to freshen up the place.
At the end, we high-fived and celebrated our efforts. We took note of our accomplishments: decluttering, which left Mom in a better place, and maintaining her dignity as best as we could. When dealing with aging parents, you really don’t know when hurdles will appear, but we cleared the first one. For that, we are grateful.
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