Twilght

During our time in our current neighborhood we would see an older woman (not incredibly old but gray hair and aged body) in the yard of a home a couple blocks away from our house. She was usually in a house dress and she had plants everywhere, in her yard, along the back of her house, in the driveway etc. Along with the plants were pots and gardening tools. It was a pretty cluttered residence but (in my mind) in a “too much for her to manage” vs laziness or disregard for appearance way. Over the last few months there have been some changes to the home. First, I realized I hadn’t seen her in a while.  Then I noticed that a white truck that had only occasionally been parked in front was now there several times a week. I also started to notice the yard was changing. The driveway and garage were more crowded than they had been before, the old Buick was gone. It was like the backyard and the inside of the house were being brought out front, for everyone to see. A large amount of bulk, brush, furniture etc. was brought out to the curb to be picked up. For a while the driveway was cleared out, then it filled up again: chairs, carpet, trash. I watched the transformation as the weeks and now months have gone by. Each time I drove by my heart ached a little bit. I imagined the man in the white truck clearing the house out. Hand carrying years of items that made up the woman’s life out to the front yard – for the whole neighborhood to see. I wondered what happened to the woman. Did she pass away, did she move? If she moved was it her choice? Or was it out of necessity or pressure. Whatever the man’s relationship with the woman, whatever emotions he may or may not be feeling about what he was doing… I could empathize with, if nothing else, the act of clearing out someone else’s house.

Every time I drive by that house my thoughts drift back a few years ago, when we did the same thing with my Mom’s house.

The weeks after my Mother died were mechanical and hollow. Her death was not unexpected; her fast decline at the end was though. So once she was gone there we were: my Dad, brother, husband and I all living in the house SHE had made a home.

It was the house that I had grown up in. The stories of our childhood and early adulthood were told in the pictures and memorabilia that were hung up or sitting on shelves. My husband and I were living out of my childhood room.  The closet was full of pieces of my past.

It was the house that was surrounded by HER garden. During this twilight time we would sit on the back porch, maybe drink, maybe smoke, and just feel the cool, damp air creep toward the house from the garden that she loved so much. It was like a wave that would roll over us as we sat there. We could look around and see that there were plants ready to be repotted, some that she was trying to revive, some that she had collected from different areas of the country. Gardening was her therapy and her plants responded to her energy and attention.

It was the house that my husband and I pulled up to in September 2013 with the uncertainty that can only be described as terrifying. We put our life on hold to go be with her, spend time with her, advocate for her. In January 2014 she died in that house, the one she so stubbornly did not want to leave. As I mentioned before, the end happened quickly. One night we were watching Despicable Me 2 eating pretzels and M&Ms and by the next night she was not coherent enough to swallow her medication. My husband and I spent that night in the living room with her. The next morning she was admitted to hospice, my brother and I sat with her through the night. Two of her brothers traveled to see her. They were with us the last night she was alive, although she was asleep and was only barely responding to us if we asked her if she was in pain – which fortunately she was not. The next day she died, but as anyone who has been through a similar loss knows, she had left us long before her last breath. I was holding her hand and her body was getting cold while her shallow breathing continued to slow to a stop. My brother and I were on each side of her. When I let go of her swollen hand I realized the inside of her palm was still warm while the top of her hand was cool.

It was the house that (for better or worse) we were going to move my Dad out of to sell. Thirty years of shit had to be addressed. It literally seemed endless. We dealt with what was immediately visible, then went to closets and attics and the garage and shed. The boys dragged her plants around and tore up the backyard trying to make it attractive for a buyer. We pulled furniture and household items out to the curb for donation pick up. We loaded up trucks to take items to different agencies. We had a huge roll off dumpster in the driveway and literally filled up the entire thing. If anyone in the neighborhood had been paying attention they would have noticed that she stopped leaving everyday for work, then that she was using a walker and eventually a wheel chair. Once we started clearing out the house, I would think what we were going through as a family would have been obvious.

So there we were a grieving, exhausted, frustrated family carrying out piece by piece 30 years worth of a family’s accumulation. It was not graceful, or dignified, or quiet – but it was the best we could bring ourselves to do. It was uncomfortable knowing that anyone who drove by or neighbors who looked out their windows could basically see the house turned inside out. I felt vulnerable and exposed. Eventually, though, we were done. My Dad and brother finished the last few things up after my husband and returned to our home. He and I tried pick up our life up where we left it – even though we were no longer the same people who left it there.

We survived this loss. It has been over four years since Mom died. The experience has left scars all over our hearts and minds. The whole she left is gaping. It has given us such a deep sense of empathy and compassion that sometimes it can become oppressive.

When I drive by our neighbor’s house today I will look and see what has changed. I will appreciate the plants that remain in the front yard and hope that wherever the woman might be – that she has some plants she can tend to. I will also hope that the man cleaning out the house is done soon, that he is able to do what he needs to do and move one to whatever he has to move on to. I do not mean to sound like I make everyone’s loss about mine, but my experience has allowed me to be sensitive to other people’s loss and sometimes it takes someone who has “been there” to “get it.”

Hands

Time has flown by, our newest addition (a baby GIRL), is almost six months old and our baby boy turned two in April. I am trying to soak everything in: their eyes (his are blue and her’s are brown- like mine and my mother’s), their mouths, their reaction to when Daddy or I enter a room or talk to them, their laugh, their hands and fingers…like most any mom, I could go on and on.  Most of the time though I feel like I am failing at this.

There is so much about my son as a baby that I seem to draw a blank on. On several occasions I have panicked because I can’t picture his full face as an infant. When I look at photos I still lack the memory of physically being there in that moment. But, something I do remember very vividly was when he first discovered his hands. It  would make me laugh because it was like he thought they were the most amazing things EVER. He would be laying across my lap and clasp his hands together. He would hold such a tight grip, bring them center in front of his face and just stare at them – to the point that his fingers would change color from the pressure and his eyes would look crossed. It was as though he knew how important they were and he now knew that somehow, someway he could control them.

His hands are undeniably the hands of a boy.  They are big, strong and constantly moving. His nails are always dirty from either playing in the yard, coloring, “cleaning” (with a wet wipe, paper towel, burp rag – whatever) or eating his favorite snack (other than milk of course) – “Fuuuuute”! The inside creases of his fingers are usually gummed up with sweat, food and mysterious lint. During the course of a day he will reach out to us countless times and say (in a tone I recognize as asking) “Hand” and wait for us to give him our hand so he can lead us to whatever it is he wants to show us…which is usually to the refrgierator for “Meeiiilk” or “Fuuuute” 🙂 They can be aggressive when he is playing with his cars or gentle when is he touching “Sissshe’s” head.

When he is tired or needs some quiet time he will use his fingers to absentmindedly play with a blanket, drawstring on his shorts, the soft ear of a stuffed animal. His hands are something he can control. They are a step toward his independence. He uses them communicate, play, eat and comfort himself. I look at them while he turns the pages of his book and we read together and I am in awe of their dexterity and coordination. For two years he has reached out to us and held on to us with those hands. We have watched his use of them evolve and expand. They are amazing and it is our goal as his parents to help him grow to do incredible work with them.