I can't believe it's been almost a year now since Mom had her major cognitive issue that began a series of events unforeseen to me. I don't know why. My two moms never married, and when Ma began her health decline, Mom took care of her until the very end. Who did I think would take care of Mom? But, somewhere in the back of my head, I remembered her saying, "Liz, I don't expect you to take care of me." I know that was a long time ago, and even Mom couldn't have seen what was ahead.
From the hospital to rehab to an assisted living apartment - all of this in the short span of about three months. And, I thought that was hard.
As we came to the realization that she would not be returning "home," which a year ago - we would mean the house on Hilltop Lane. The house that she bought in the early 70s and that my sister and I knew all of our childhood.
Her home quickly turned into a "house."
We came (or, should I say... I came) to understand that we needed to empty her home as quickly as possible so that we could do light renovations and get it on the market. This was not an easy feat. Weekend by weekend, we would spend as much time as possible at her home going through boxes and boxes of accumulation from decades of world travel. The downstairs was fairly easy. It was the "junk room" that took the longest. There were boxes within boxes, not to mention all the memories that came with the unpacking.
For those who know me, they know that I do documentary photography. They know that I too, am a "saver." But at this point in our journey, all I wanted to do was get this shit job done. It was time and emotion, that I hadn't expected for my summer of 2013. I videotaped with the Flip camera some, and I did photograph the her home in stages, but I just didn't have the energy to do it as well as I wanted.
While Mom had the junk room, I had my own hell - my bedroom closet. For some reason, I still had boxes of memories from 3rd grade. I had papers, pictures, and letters/notes. I had old boyfriends' stuff. In the evening, I would go through as much as I could (typically with a beer and internet music playing). At one point, I had to stop and bring some boxes up to Chicago. I promised my spouse that over Winter Break, Spring Break, or Summer I would get through them.
Fast forward, and I hear Mom refer what used to be her home to the house. She now calls her assisted living place - her home. I call it the brand name or the apartment. It's still hard to think of it as home, but for her sake, I'm glad she thinks of it like that.
The many bumper stickers or carved wooden signs are true. Home really is where you make it. A house is the brick and mortars. The four walls, floor, and ceiling. A home is where people live. Where people talk, cry, sleep, and eat together.
Mom has been so courageous this year. Things are still rough, but we've gotten through it. I've come to know and love my three of my cousins, my Aunt, and Uncle so much more. I appreciate more than I can ever say all that they have done for Mom and me.
Even tonight, I'm alone at her home, while she recovers in rehab from a recent fall. But, the house is on the market, and I try and stay positive that the right family will be the right match for our house; and make it their new home.
