Moving out of our family home: Part 3

This story is a continuation of “Moving out of our family home: Part 2.”

The fog lifted during my short drive across town to Maddie and Trent’s place. I parked, unbuckled Robert’s seat belt, and popped over to the passenger side to help him out of the car. Ever so gently, I turned his body and pulled his legs out of the car readying to lift him to his feet and onto the sidewalk.

There was nothing wrong with his body. Robert could stand and he could walk, but he’d lost all sense of sequence. No matter the task, the progression of steps was beyond his reach. He could sit in the passenger seat for hours and be content counting fence posts or trees.

Where has all my patience gone?

After months of the mounting physical challenges of moving Robert from one place to the next, I should have been used to this new normal. But I lacked the requisite patience to let each day glide along at a snail’s pace. I struggled with taking a half hour to do things that should have taken seconds. My body and mind were never at peace.

I could not exist in a state of perpetual meditation. When meditation guides suggest that we be here in the present moment, I’m not sure they appreciate that such “moments” may stretch to hours. Was I really to gaze off to a point in the distance, let my mind empty, and stand next to the car for 30 minutes?

My face flushed. I started to sweat. We needed to get moving. But first, we had to get Robert out of the car. 20 minutes later he was finally shuffling his way into the house. Trent would entertain him while Maddie and I completed our work.

The stuff of a life

We loaded up Maddie’s van with a few last-minute Amazon deliveries and drove our vehicles over to Daylight Assisted Living and Memory Care.

Robert’s new room was light, bright, and clean. The cream-colored walls had been patched and repainted. Only the worn and speckled carpet showed signs of another life, recently vacated. The air was cloying, too warm. I cracked open the slider to let in a bit of air.

We assembled Robert’s new bed. We zippered two layers of bedbug-protective mattress covers around his new mattress (a Daylight requirement). While Maddie unpacked Robert’s new lounging table, I made his bed with bright blue sheets…his favorite color. I wrestled his duvet cover onto his comforter. I’d splurged for a psychedelic cover of loud, concentric squares. He loved to count; there were thousands of multi-colored squares to tally.

We unpacked and put together Robert’s new armchair. Why was it so low to the ground? I rifled through images of all the orders, I’d placed. Ah, yes, the chair was supposed to have legs! Where were they? We retraced our steps and overturned packing materials and assembly instructions. The legs were tucked into a hidden compartment under the seat cushion. Clever. We screwed the legs into the chair. Classy.

Making a room a home

We worked silently and carefully, each of us lost in our thoughts. We were making a new home for our husband and father. Or were we? A home away from us, the people who had loved and cherished him for decades. Was that possible?

Our last step was to hang all the family photos I’d printed and framed for Robert. We hung the pictures at various heights around the room depending on his anticipated sightline. Sightline when sitting at his table. Sightline when sitting at the edge of his bed. Armchair sightline.

We cleaned up our debris, bundled all the plastics for the garbage dumpster, all the cardboard for the recyclables, and loaded the lot on a hand truck. Daylight staff would dispose of the remains for us.

I was tired, but I still needed to deliver Robert to his new home. First I retrieved him from Maddie and Trent’s place.

Introducing Robert to his new home

I remember very little of escorting Robert down the long hallway to his room. The wainscotting, the striped golden wallpaper, and the swirling, floral pattern of the carpet are burned into my memory, but I don’t see Robert’s experience.

I recall the faded wedding gown and military uniform hanging on hooks along the wall, set aside to spark memories for residents who have returned to 1945. The bassinet swaddling the baby doll is vivid to me. I remember showing Robert his room number and giving him his room key, but I don’t recall his reaction to the space we had so lovingly prepared. Perhaps I have blocked this out of my mind. I can see his face though. He is still animated, still talking, still wearing jeans, and shoes with laces.

Natalie, Daylight’s sweet sales representative, welcomed Robert to his new home. She snapped a photo of him testing his armchair, receiving Daylight’s gift of a fluffy, orange blanket.

I still don’t understand

My reflections on that day have returned me to familiar ground. Why in one of the richest countries in the world are we unable to embrace the end of a life that doesn’t match our prescriptive ideas of worth? We hide people away. How is this even a thing? Why was I unable to dedicate the next few (two? ten?) years of my life to Robert’s safe delivery to the “other side?” What failing of mine brought us here?

Why couldn’t I stand next to the car for 30 minutes and just be present and patient?

These are questions I grapple with to this day. There are no satisfying answers.

Mission accomplished, I drove the three miles home and unloaded the tools, box cutters, tape, and the emptied bags of our day’s work. I patted our dog, Kenya, on the head, and listened to the silence.

Then I fell apart.

. . . . .

To be continued…