Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Accumulating and Letting Go



In August of 2011, I had to make the decision of whether or not to place my mother permanently into a skilled nursing facility. It broke my heart to leave her with a few personal items around her in a windowless room. My only comfort was that she would be watched more closely there than on the assisted living floor where she had fallen four times before they realized she was having small strokes and also had a bladder infection.
I honestly expected, as most percentages predicted, that she would go downhill from that point and would not last more than two years. It has been five years now, and she has coped with the challenges of living in and out of a hospital bed. She was moved into a double-bed room where she now overlooks the same garden she used to see from her and my dad’s first apartment. I believe she is more than content, or at least that’s what I think I see when I visit.
After I made that guilt-ridden decision to have her stay permanently in skilled nursing care, I began to empty her studio apartment on the assisted-care floor. I realized, at that time, how much my mom had been quietly and steadily letting go of her life over the years leading up to that move. She had one pot and no pans. Her dishes were enough for four but she had only one coffee mug. Her dresser drawers were barely filled and then only with essentials. I found one purse, one hearing aid, one hand lotion. Her knitting needles were packed away and there was no yarn in any of her usual caches.
Most of her clothes and underwear had her name sewed into them or marked with a marking pen.
Over the course of these last five years, her memories of the past have begun to loosen. Her ability to perform her activities of daily living are diminishing. My mom is reminding me of my youngest granddaughter who will be turning six next week. Bella continues every day to add one more skill or word or concept into her experience so she can grow and cope in this world. Where Bella is assembling her personality, my mom is dis-assembling herself until, perhaps, she can become light enough to float away.