I’m heading back home tomorrow. It’s Wednesday, January 2 and I’ve been here in Cleveland with my mom since Sunday evening, November 25–having been called back at that time after only 2 days back at home in Lansing. And in all of October and November, I had spent less than 30 days at home.
Much of that time (except for several business and family-related trips sandwiched in between), I was again with mom–coordinating the move to her new home within the retirement community in which she’s lived for the past 8 years: from her 3-room apartment on and independent-living floor to one room on the assisted living floor. Following a fall (and a broken hip) last May, Mom had spent the summer and fall shuttling back and forth between rehab/skilled care, respite and the hospital. All in all, about 6 transfers within a 5 month period.
So it wasn’t surprising to have her wonder aloud at one point in August: “When do I go HOME?” Of course, the question became even more poignant as I invited her to clarify what she had meant by “home.” Had she meant her 3 bedroom apartment (which I had begun to realize no longer held her “aura”–although it still contained her furniture and belongings)? Was it the family home on Edison Road–where she had lived with Dad for most her marriage and raised her family? Or did she mean she was ready to die (to go be with Dad, who died nearly 20 years ago)? At that moment, she wasn’t able to offer a distinct answer to my question–except that she found herself getting confused when she tried to picture and/or remember where various mementos, furnishings and other belongings were currently located. However, she also added that “no, I don’t think I mean that [i.e., going to be with Dad].
In light of her responses, I found her description of dream she had had of my dad the night after our conversation to be particularly fascinating. She reported that Dad had appeared wearing a long white robe (like a priest’s alb) and that they sat together on a park bench talking for a long time. Then, suddenly, Dad moved quickly away from her–as if he were in a hurry.
November 8–her 93rd birthday was also the day we moved her into her new 1-room home, having accomplished the physical consolidation and move of her furnishings and belongings the week before. I had been intrigued that her new room–filled with her most meaningful things and decorated with a wealth of photos that summarize her family life–already contained her spirit, even though she had not yet set foot inside the door.
Throughout the months of November and December, I suspect that she has struggled (in her spirit) with her own sense of home. Caught between the losses inherent in the downsizing process and the stability offered by our promise that she would not need to fear another transfer, I expect that she’s needed to decide on at least one level whether she has “enough” to continue on. Is there enough to make her life meaningful and purposeful?
My month with Mom was fascinating and inspiring, to say the least. I was privileged to serve as witness as she apparently made the decision that she could and would salvage what’s left of her life to keep on.
And now, as I prepare to return home, I find myself exploring what “home” means to me. My friends have assured me that my aura remains strong in the dwelling that I’ve called home for 18 years. I’ll be spending some time however, inviting a sense of curiosity about the sense and concept of home.
I’d love to hear what it means to you.
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