From the Heart
It was 1952 when my parents moved into their house on North 12th Street. It was September 7, 1955 when the Welfare Department brought me to their house. I was taught about love and life in that home. 62 years of memories are tucked into that little two bedroom house.
It was Sunday, July 22, 2018 when we moved my mother to assisted living.
It’s been a hard week.
Finding a new normal is tough for anyone at any time, but when you are 92, it takes a bit longer to find any sense of normal in new surroundings.
Mom is still a pretty sharp cookie and ever so sweet. She pushes herself in physical and occupational therapy.
I have seen the things that she struggles with, things that I take for granted. So many abilities are worn thin, by the aging process. The process can be so cruel.
Tying laces on tennis shoes. Hearing conversations. Reaching into the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
At times her thoughts get tangled and processing those takes more time.
And yet, my mom gets up every morning with the attitude that she is going to enjoy the people and the day to the best of her ability.
It’s not easy.
Losing one’s independence. Leaving the home where so many memories were made.
Even the sounds of the antique clock would strike my heart as I packed her things. It’s chiming seemed to echo a loneliness.
Sights that were seen at every visit are now tucked away. Yarn for her crocheted sock dolls. Half a stick of gum lying on the end table. A Blair clothes catalogue with pages dog-eared and items marked for me to order for her. She has always been a woman who was fashion conscious.
I, now, take nothing for granted, when it comes to my mom.
I call several times a day and I visit her almost every day. It just seems to be never enough.
My heart struggles as I see her physically struggle.
I want to make this season of her life as enjoyable and safe as possible. The decision to move her to an assisted living residence was one of the most difficult decisions of my life.
I went back to the house for a few more things to take to her.
As I wiped tears, I felt the memories trickle down my cheeks.
I sat on the front porch in the rocking chair where I spent many a Sunday afternoon with my mom.
And I thought …
This is the house that built me. This is the house where I was loved. This is where my mom made it a home.
And I wipe a few more tears. This is a tough chapter. The words are getting harder to write.