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    Admittedly, it's been awhile, and much of this has been my fault due to being gone at my mother's, not only visiting her while she somewhat healed (she fell and suffered a proximal femur fracture or close enough to the hip to be considered a hip fracture), but in clearing her house.  In this case, after seeing her condition and age, a decision was reached by all to have her move closer to me (due to the threat of blood clots post-surgery, she would be forced to choose the closer and unfortunately colder location near me) and also to independent living.  My brother took the first post at her home, clearing the old pans and glasses and towels, and in the process, donating some 40 large trash bags worth of clothing to charity, along with a seemingly equal amount of bags going to the trash.  I felt relieved, for what more could there be?, only to have him snicker and say, just wait until I got there and I would probably wonder what, if anything, was thrown out.  Surely not, I thought...but I would discover those words to be true.  And it would be my job on the second post was to take over the more confidential stuff, the "no touch" areas, as my brother phrased it...financial papers, personal clothing, things (collectibles to my mother but basically "things") under the sinks and in drawers.  To my brother's mind, this was not the "safe" stuff he had tackled, the easy decisions...this would be the much more time-consuming and difficult clean.  And to be honest, it was.

    For those of you who have been here, that is, in someone's house doing this sort of job, you'll understand when I say it's an odd feeling, almost a creepy feeling, as if you're a burglar with unlimited time.  Suddenly you're peering into someone's past and present, going through their closets and file cabinets, and finding hidden boxes (I would learn to later dread finding such boxes).  On one side that person (be it your friend to parent or sibling) is giving you full rein to go through their things, and all (at least in my case) with little oversight or censorship.  And each day, I would alternate between doing so and making the 2-hour round-trip drive to visit my mother at the rehab facility, watching her struggle to return to a piece of normal and each day seeing that tiny piece of progress, but also seeing a much larger piece of resignation and recognition that the days of old were not returning...for her, from this point forward, life would begin to accelerate in a somewhat rapid decline.

    Somehow during those moments, it would strike me that one car accident, one slip off of the ladder, one bad reaction to something, and that would be me switching places with my mother, all concerns of my "valuables" and possessions at home now shrunken to a tiny speck.  How were my wife and my animals, would I ever get better or back to where I was, how come the world was moving as if it knew nothing about me or what had happened.  Zoom me up to age 85 and perhaps dithering and alone, and indeed, the world wouldn't know...likely wouldn't care (except for the facilities and hospitals wondering how they were going to get paid). 

    Down to my mother went another box of newly discovered photos, old ones in nice paper frames as portrait studios in the 30s and 40s used to provide...but who were they?  My mother looked at a few dozen of the hundreds, puzzled herself by the photos and feeling bad, realizing that likely they were ancestral members of her husband (my step-father) but she couldn't remember if they were his aunts or grandparents or what?  And here's where the first decision began...throw them out?  I did, slowly at first, but soon the outflow began...there were so many.  At one point, you almost wanted to pull the Hollywood stunt and sweep your arms across the table, sending everything on top into onto the floor.  Bags and bags began to fill, my guilt lessening with each tossed-out photo and each memento, however precious or trivial.  And as the bags began to fill and the recycling trucks and trash trucks would haul things away (I had also reached the matching 40 bags my brother had reached in donations to charity), I would find that occasional thought again emerging, that this could be me clearing my own life.

    There were two other thoughts...puzzlement of my own at how my mother could not really care or even ask about what exactly I was throwing out?  Certainly she would mention about a hidden key in a coat sleeve or a string of pearls in a box of rags, stuff like that.  But little else.  My brother, when asked, thought that maybe it was simply a matter of trust, that she felt comfortable in me tackling the job, and that there was little to hide, and that she knew that I was trying to help.  My wife, however, thought something completely different, and that was simply that my mother was done, relieved really, that the job of doing the clearing everything herself and the thought of moving was virtually paralyzing...and so she had never started.  She was happy in fact to have someone do it for her, my wife said, as if lifting a huge burden off of her, freeing her to start something new.  For me, there was truth in both views, and likely an additional one, a sigh from my mother knowing that quite frankly, it just had to be done.  From this point, she almost seemed to realize, there would be no turning back;  the decision had indeed been made.

   Indeed, the decision had actually been made a month ago out of necessity.  It takes at least that long to decide where a good facility is located, what are their services and cost, assisted (with nursing and assistive care but not quite as full-on as in a rehab or hospital setting) or independent living (where one basically has one's own place with a locking door, but has meals and services such as security checks provided, with additional medical aid and help available if needed).  This outside living decision might sound mean but the move to my house was out simply because of the stairs in our home (we have stairs everywhere and there is no escaping them, whether you have to leave the house or to go to the bathroom).  So the vetting began, the marketing spiels, the free cookies, the smiling faces, the amenities.  And almost as with a funeral, you slowly distance yourself from it all and begin looking (and again, this would be in my case at least) with an objective eye; despite all that you are hearing, you are weighing it all, what are the chances of her falling, how large is the place, how close is the room to the elevator, how friendly are those living there, how affordable (if that's the correct word) would it be?  And then comes outfitting or furnishing the place that you've decided on...you are basically returning to your college days or to your first apartment, one with four walls, the basics, but empty.  Inside is not a fork, not a roll of toilet paper, not a lamp, not a thing in sight except for the carpet beneath your shoes.  Start from scratch...what would you need to not wake up in an unfamiliar place and still feel a bit comfortable?  Think hotel room.  Bed (sheets, blanket, multiple mattress pads since my mom is 90+, pillow, cover, etc.), towels (kitchen and bath and paper), toilet paper of course, and some lights.   Oh, what about a couch?  And an end table?  And a television?  And another end table for the bed?  And a dresser for her clothes?  And a coffee table in front of the couch?  And...better start a list.

   And then, the shopping, and the delivery, and the setup, and the realization of what you've likely left out, and the deposit and the signing of the papers, and the thoughts of will she like it, and the address changes...and the thought that time is running out, for soon you will have to leave to get her from her out of state location.  Plane tickets????  So that was me, now somewhat set up (mostly due to help from my wife) down at the new place, and me now in a new state, up at her place, clearing out what I could in the little time that I had, juggling her doctor's followup visits and obtaining her medical records and closing and transferring her bank account and meeting with her neighbors and colleagues to let them know what was going on.  And then getting her discharged from the rehab facility and onto the plane (as a tip, don't move your checked luggage past the 50-pound limit or you'll be slapped with an extra $100 fee, which was another concern among the four suitcases of hers --mostly clothes-- which I checked, for that is not the time to think of what you can do to lessen the weight, what you can leave out or throw out), and her arriving to one of the worst blizzards in our city's history, and her getting her first view of the place, and both of us exhausted and me having to leave and hoping that all would be okay, and then me returning home and seemingly collapsing into my own bed and the arms of my welcoming wife and my mind just not shutting off...and then, I hit the wall.

    Unfortunately for you, dear readers, this isn't where the story ends, even if this is where the post ends, a small excuse for why there has been such a long gap in these writings.  And as I wrote in my holiday letter to friends and family, my main recognition is that I am far, far from alone in this journey and many of you are likely already shaking your heads in agreement or ready to add your own version to this tale.  It is part of life, and as I say, we are lucky to still be here to enjoy or at least witness this phase of life.  Pleasant or not, it is simply how the world works...and before long, we might be lucky enough to witness it all from an entirely new perspective, that of our own eyes looking inward.