Family Life
A Slightly Horrific Moving Day for My Old, Disabled Parents
Too much stuff and too little time to pack it
My father had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis around his late 40s, then enjoyed a long remission before it reared its ugly head in his early 60s.
My mom, though normally in perfect health, around the same time developed high blood pressure. Her diet did not consist of red meat, though she did love her creamy desserts.
Still, she had always maintained a healthy weight and kept herself strong from lifting my sister, who had special needs due to a birth defect.
Her blood pressure, which had been on the low side most of her life, seemed to suddenly spike, and she was put on Valium, causing her to move slower than was normal for her.
Time to sell
She was no longer the strong one, and my father, who had been forced into an early retirement, was pretty much out of commission. Selling their house in favor of a maintenance-free condo was a viable option.
As I had moved near my parents a few years earlier, I was able to take my mom grocery shopping every week, but with her loaded up with drugs, it was becoming an all-morning task even if we split the list.
I didn’t complain. My mother and I had never been that close, making those few years with her special, but with the advent of the moving day coming up soon, there was more to worry about than groceries and making small talk.
I questioned, “Mom, do you need help packing? I’ll come again during the week and get you started.”
“Oh, no, I’ve got it under control. The moving people are dropping off boxes and barrels so I can take my time packing.”
“Okay, well, let me know if you need me to do anything.” In my heart, I knew she needed the help but wouldn’t accept it.
Runs in families
The people in my family, including myself, have hoarding tendencies ranging from borderline to being unable to navigate through a room. If given a level from 1–5, my mom was about a 3–1/2.
I knew she was embarrassed to open her closets, even though I remember all too well what was in them. Her belongings were closing in on her, and she was overwhelmed.
The following week, after our shopping trip, I remarked that she still hadn’t started packing and that her moving day was less than a month away.
“Oh, I’ll get to it this week, now that the packing materials are here. I’ll start with the stuff on the wall and work my way through the closets; I’ve got time.”
I hoped she would do that so I could stop nagging her. Never being one to disrespect my mother, there had to be a way to put a candle under her without sounding offensive.
But all she managed to do during the following week was remove some pictures and her collection of Knick-Knacks.
How I hated those things as I was made to dust them off every Saturday morning, one by one. Of all the items in her house, that’s what she packed! What was it with those porcelain odds and ends she loved so much?
Time was running out on her, and she had made little progress. With my sister in Adult Day Care during the week, from morning until evening with pickup and delivery, what did my mom have to do all day but pack?
Still, she didn’t!
I was worried and becoming frustrated. The plan was for me to drive the three of them to their new location in my car after the moving company removed their items from the house.
The new owners already had the keys and were ready to move in. All my parents had to do was move out, lock the door, and go!
Moving day
I arrived Saturday morning just in time to see the guys from the moving company walking down the path back to their truck, empty-handed.
“Where are you going? Why aren’t you moving my parents out?” I questioned quite confused.
“We left them packing materials weeks ago, but they’re not ready. They’ll have to reschedule.”
“Oh, no, please don’t leave,” I begged.
“They have to move today. My father can’t walk, my mother’s drugged due to her hypertension, and my sister’s wheelchair-bound. Give us an hour, please; go have coffee or something, and I’ll get them packed, I promise.”
The two guys looked at each other, then one of them shrugged.
“All right, we’ll find a place to have breakfast and return in an hour. Are you sure you’ll be ready? There’s a lot of stuff in there.”
“Yes, yes, I know, we can do it!” I said it confidently, only half believing it myself.
Can we do it?
When I say I’ve never moved so fast in my life, I’m not exaggerating. My father couldn’t do anything but entertain my sister, but with my help and a little pushing and bossing my mom when she went into her ‘where am I?’ mode, we managed a good percentage of it before the guys came back.
They must have seen our desperation and how hard we tried and decided to start moving furniture while we continued packing. We ran from room to room throwing items in the barrels without folding towels, sorting, or anything else, just grabbing what we could.
Someone was watching over us that day, or maybe these men saw a family in trouble — but they helped us finish packing until every last piece of clothing, shoes, personal items, dishes — everything was packed and on its way to the new house.
Over and done
We drove nearly two hours to the new destination, where my parents’ belongings were neatly arranged in the new place with boxes and barrels stored in one of the bedrooms for future unpacking.
There was no way to thank these guys enough! They went above and beyond for us and helped us through a horrific day.
Over the next year, my mom pulled out the items she’d need immediately and then moved the rest into her assigned storage bin. Her logic was that she planned to buy a condo in that building if she liked the one she was renting therefore cutting down on packing and unpacking time.
She did love the building and bought the condo next door. A year later, my sister, her husband, and I moved them again, one door away, and it was an easier move with most of her stuff in storage in the basement of her building.
We had a good laugh moving her furniture from one condo to the other. Though they were identical in size and layout, the rooms were placed opposite each other, confusing the heck out of us.
More changes
Shortly after moving, my mother realized she could no longer take care of my 40-year-old sister at home and thought it best to put her in an adult live-in care facility, something my sister had been asking for.
My father’s MS became worse — he became bedridden, then moved to a hospital where he died of pneumonia, and my mother went on to live to almost 99 years old.
During the years she lived there, she filled the closets and drawers, once again, with new stuff from QVC, including 40 pairs of reading glasses, 10 blouses in the same size, style, and color, other clothes she’d never worn, and more.
And then there was her storage bin full of junk — the same junk from 20 years ago, including the Knick-Knacks — the stuff she brought with her that almost messed up her moving day, no longer wanted in her house — stored out of sight for decades.
A lesson for me — a borderline hoarder
Get rid of some of my extra stuff now, while I am still capable of deciding where items should go — or it will end up ruined, moldy, and going to waste!
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