My Mother's Chair

Rain is slamming against the windshield and I can't see the edge of I-10 that runs through the swamp west of Lake Charles. I'm only an hour out so it seems a waste to find a hotel. I can't even call mom to let her know I'll be late because I can't risk the distraction. It's all I can do to keep my little Subaru WRX on the road; even the all-wheel drive is being challenged by the wall of water shoving me sideways—delivered by an eighteen-wheeler that just barreled by. There is a sense of urgency about this trip as mom has finally made the decision to consider a move nearer to me. My sister and I have decided to alternate trips to her home to start the inevitable process of clearing things out in an effort to be ready to move to a smaller place. This is the first foray into that unknown territory.

Her agreement to move to a retirement complex near me (sometime in the next six months or so are her terms) has been nothing if not miraculous, but as luck would have it, her unit has become available early—four months early actually. The decision to take the unit had to be made now or wait another year, so we are beginning the process and my trip over to her represents the first step into the reality that she can a no longer manage on her own. How has it come to this so quickly? It seems that only last year she was talking about another rigorous trip to Costa Rica.

I am struggling to stay on the road while I wonder what stormy weather lies ahead in terms of this new stage. Further, I don't have time for this week away from a consulting business that depends on my personal presence to keep me funded. I've just relocated back to Austin after the realization that the move to West Virginia, while it was right at the time, is not right five years later. I've moved back to my “tribe” and I am just getting my business ramped up.

Realities of Aging

A year earlier, I had made this trip to help mom recover from another break-in, the first one having occurred nine years ago in the Baton Rouge home, where I grew up. It was the event that prompted the move to a safer neighborhood, closer to family, in Lake Charles.

On one level, I am superbly suited to help her. Helping people organize, move, create comfortable spaces for themselves and make life changes is my professional life. I love doing it and I'm good at it. But doing it for Mom was loaded with all manner of emotional baggage. I remembered some of it from the previous move, but that was just to a new city near friends (and excellent birding) and a more manageable house. She was in her mid seventies then, the landscape was different and she was more resilient. This time, she was unhinged and feeling victimized on many levels. The balance between intimacy and detachment possible with clients totally disintegrated in the presence of her despair. If I allowed myself to get enmeshed in the grief, it derailed the progress we needed to make. If I detached, it ignored her need for connection and my ability to listen with my heart. The same compassion, patience, tact and humor spontaneously present with others, became intermingled with anger, fear, frustration, old roles, expectations and a sense of impending doom that comes from knowing that every decision made would impact our relationship, as well as her health and independence. Yes, her situation could have been far worse: things could have been torn up beyond any reasonable repair; she could have been home during the attack. We both took some consolation in the fact that most of the items taken could be replaced, but that doesn't begin to cover the sense of being victimized or the loss of irreplaceable, sentimental items. The realization that there would be less time in the future to make new memories and that we were in a time warp propelling us both forward into the realities of aging—hers and mine—was profoundly sobering, and foreshadowed things to come.

The Clock is Ticking

During this process, it occurred to me that while the circumstances of my helping her were unique, the skills and processes are similar any time we help a parent, loved one or ourselves move through the pivotal drama of relocating in the later stages of life. The feelings of compassion and the emotional, psychological and spiritual tools needed to re-create a supportive space are essential to any process where there are life-altering transitions. As a nation of baby boomers, many of us have already navigated the “empty-nest” syndrome, are considering more efficient (cost and time) life styles, or facing the challenge of helping our parents relocate into smaller, more manageable surroundings and sometimes nursing homes. Moving is a tricky process regardless, but some of us are in the unenviable position of moving ourselves AND moving our parents. Moving our parents requires a unique toolset because we are straddling a paradigm chasm that spans everything from a shift in consciousness to knowing how to navigate cyberspace. We are speaking different languages and sometimes we need a translator. While our parents are dealing with the loss of options and autonomy, we are hell-bent to keep ours. And moving our parents scares the daylights out of us because the clock is ticking…

Making Sense of It All

Although we may not be dealing with theft in the literal sense, emotions and feelings of loss—whether it's letting go of items held onto for a lifetime or shifts in family dynamics—run rampant during this stage. The parent can suffer other losses, including the erosion of autonomy, which can result from diminished physical or mental capacity, the feelings of violation that come from having to leave one's home for a facility, or the need to downsize or relocate for any number of reasons.

The personal nature of this thrust me into a different framework of thinking and feeling my way through the process, using every tool at my disposal. Since the first vandalism, we have traveled through the second break-in and two relocations to different states and radically different “states-of-mind.” Most recently, she has moved from a larger home in a city she's come to know, to the retirement complex, where everything is new, including the concept of renting, not having her garden, or even knowing how to get to the nearest K-Mart.

My mother is financially stable but not wealthy, and had little of value. During the break-in they took televisions, radios, yard tools and a handful of silver jewelry with more sentimental than monetary value. Evidently they knew that many elderly people hide their valuables in unlikely places like the pantry, the attic, in books, etc., and ransacked her closets, drawers—even the air conditioner housing in the attic—to see where she might be hiding the “good stuff.” In the process, they also upended boxes and cabinets with legal documents, medical history, bill payments, etc. It's the kind of thing you don't think too much about, until you're faced with the task of making sense of it all—and locating the documents required by the insurance company to file a claim! The same is true when families come in after a health crisis or any number of events embedded in the tapestry of elder-life.

The emotional and physical processes involved with elder-moves are distinctly different from working with other stages of life and with the “thirty-something” population still raising their families, still accumulating, still actively building their resources and still essentially independent. Personal relocations after age 60, and especially those of geriatric parents, require a sensitivity and awareness to a uniquely amassing and shifting set of needs and concerns related to aging, health, cognition, mobility, independence and place in community. After physical needs are met, this endeavor has far more to do with the spirit than at any other time of life.

What Matters Most

The process of helping my mother regain control of her home and her life required asking the question, “what matters most,” over and over again in a million different ways.

• What brings joy to everyday living?
• What is working—what is not?
• What level of access is needed for medications, phone numbers, medical records, etc.?
• What losses or perceived losses is she experiencing?
• What does she need more of? Less of?
• How do we address mobility issues?
• How are her senses functioning and what is needed to accommodate changes in acuity?
• How can I nourish the quality of life on a moment-to-moment basis and make access to those vital activities, items and places easy for her?
• What will she need in order to integrate into and build a new community—one that encourages staying connected, builds new friendships and sustains a joie-de-vivre?

Normal Redefined

We had to make many choices, and each required attention to how it felt. It seemed endless. In the process, I began to learn and value things about my mother that I'd never really thought about before. I began to know her in a different way, and therefore, began to be able to honor her in the ways I might have missed without the intimacy that results from dealing with real need or tragedy. As the process continued, I did better at this some days than on others. Honoring her became more subtle and encapsulated in the...