Unkeeping

Moving is Rough

After twelve years living in a 14^th floor downtown apartment overlooking Ladybird Lake, my decorator mom moved to senior living on Tuesday. She befriended dozens at her former apartment, from the mailman to her neighbor with the squatty Corgi named Tugboat. In the last few minutes, Tugboat trotted into her apartment to inspect the move out; Mom was vacuuming the dusty, gorgeous Turkish Kilim before it was rolled up for the move. With everything gone, it became a plain apartment again, a box without personality.

Mom made it to 87 living on her own, but now her “memory is not what it used to be” which is what I’ve told her to say, instead of the more self-deprecating and frustrated terms she’s been using for herself (“It’s like I have no brain!”). How frustrating after you’ve accumulated that many decades of life experience. While cleaning, I found a note scrawled on a notepad with a 1-800 number for memory booster vitamin packs; it explained the new $144 monthly autodebit that had started showing up, which we quickly canceled trying to keep her safe.

We humans are like coral, surrounding ourselves with the calcified bits of life and memory that make us feel safe in the forts we build. While the staff of five packers, four haulers, and an electrician worked to relocate the antique chandeliers, I decided to rip the bandaid off and sell her beloved Lexus (her 8^th) to the dealership. She was so mad that she shook her fists, not accepting that she’s no longer an excellent driver. We traveled up the highway, perpetually under construction with new traffic patterns daily, dangerous for anyone. “This is the worst day of my life” she said and I quietly thought of her two deceased husbands. Moving - change - is difficult and traumatic.

For weeks prior, when she was on a yoga safari in Kenya with my sister and brother-in-law (true story), I had combed through her neatly organized cabinets and drawers, including the built-ins and the antique Hunt Board and William and Mary High-Boy. I de-densified, removing roughly a third of all contents. Many items were small: dozens of free notepads from as many non-profits she supported with annual $10 checks. Outdated return address labels. Stacks of index cards and printouts of bios she used to introduce speakers for continuing education series. I opened every antique or Altoids tin, often discovering tiny photos of herself, her kids, and her grandkids. Ten extra toothbrushes, four tins of silver polish, and years of design magazines and European travel catalogs.

I failed in the kitchen. I thought all her dishes would fit. The moving specialist knew the storage space was much smaller at the new apartment. Things got tense. We cleared out all but the crystal glasses; tossed anything plastic; slipped the huge paella pans and unused gift items (from me and my husband) into the hall for the “donate” pile before she could see. She got stuck on having to choose between the Gold Laurentian Minton bone China set of 10 that was missing bowls, and a 60+ piece set of China on a sagging shelf that was likely her grandmother’s and big enough for a Downton Abbey dinner party. She does not like incomplete sets and is still convinced that her grandchildren might want the China (they do not). So we donated the smaller set to the Episcopal church’s resale shop, along with dozens of books given to Half Price and boxes of shoes to Safe Place. We kept out two place settings of the “good” China and boxed the rest for basement storage, labeling it “do not unpack”.

Fortunately, when Mom and I arrived at the new building, it was happy hour. The friendly gracious residents scooted their chairs back a few inches to squeeze her in around the table for a welcome toast. She got her nametag and started making friends.

Meanwhile, I recaffeinated and went upstairs. The apartment seemed to have shrunk. The five dedicated haulers carefully squeezed the four-poster bed, the dining table, the upholstered chairs, settees and end tables, paintings, vases, and a dozen rugs into the space like clown’s filling a tiny car.

I appreciate the relocation specialist women who do this work because they care about people and respect the difficulty of this transition. We’d open a drawer to find multiples of decorations for every holiday, especially Christmas. I steeled myself to the task and started saying: “we are unkeeping that.” I started tossing pieces nostalgic to even me, and souvenirs from the world traveling and sailing she’s always done; it felt kinder to say we were “unkeeping things”.

In her closet, there were many cute dresses and the patent leather Mary Jane Birkenstocks I gave her for the holidays, all still with the tags on. We had already donated the sailing ropes that we found in the way-back of her closet, along with two of her four sailing coolers. We also found an unmarked box. When we opened it, it contained an urn. “Neptune society!” I exclaimed, which I recognized from paperwork I found in her desk. Mom thoughtfully signed up for a repatriation plan if she were to pass while on one of her many trips. (A dear friend died in Verona and it was excruciating.)

Mom and I did have a laugh recently when I told her that I realized when she’s cremated, it will be ashes plus a big pile of metal. She has fused vertebrae in her neck, along with a metal hip replacement acquired in Athens Greece. Our good friend wrote on the box: “when I pass, put me in here then take me on an adventure to the sea.” Mom signed it with a Sharpie in her beautiful penmanship.

When we thank her for saving the resources to be able to move into a senior living place that is like an elegant cruise ship on land, she says she’d rather be sailing on the ocean. Nonetheless, she has landed in a new port. To start this chapter, she puts a jeweled barrette in her curly hair, touches up her mascara and lipstick, dons her new lavender bracelet key fob, and heads down to dinner with a brave smile on her face.

#liveswelllived #agingcansuck #travelanyway #noonewantsyourchina #memoircomingsoon #natureversusnurture