The last...

The last box: After what seemed like months of clearing out Mom's apartment, I was down to one last box sitting on the top left shelf of the coat closet.  Though I'd scoped out that area sometime ago, I couldn't remember what was in that last white box sporting a snow boot logo.

All about me were strewn totes, bits of paper, bags of Mom's things to move to her new room, the storage unit, or the Salvation Army.  I wondered where this box would go. Lifting it from the wire shelf, I found it rather light and wondered if it indeed contained anything at all.  But it did, and I found myself taken aback, remembering...

As I slid the two side tabs out and lifted the lid, Dad's over-the-boot rubbers jiggled in the movement, seeming to laugh and smile.  The thin, black material had protected Dad's Red Wing lace-up work boots for years, their style covering most of the footbed and keeping all dry and debris-free.

I instantly flashed back to Dad snapping on those overshoe rubbers before he left the house.  He'd lean against the radiator in the kitchen, cross one foot over the opposite knee, insert the toe of his boot into the thing, and pull. Snap! on it went, snuggly hugging the boot.

And here before me were what must've been the newest of the lot he'd needed over the years.  These didn't appear dirt streaked or manure stained, rather they wanted a walk on the lake road or a trip to the store.

That last box brought back Dad to me and I nearly crumpled with remembering.

The last visit:

Though Mom now lives in one room in the care center, I like to call it her new apartment, thinking the term will create for her a vision of something larger.  It IS a nice room, as rooms go, but it's not the former apartment with all her dearest possessions.  So as we sought to enjoy the possessions Mom and Dad had accumulated over the years (by sharing them with family), I wasn't quite sure how Mom would react to actually seeing the old apartment now devoid of her furniture, artwork, all things "Hazel."  But it came down to raspberries...

I like to bring Mom raspberries or strawberries to accompany afternoon coffee, but last Saturday as we rolled down the hall to the rehab dining area, I realized the container of fruit I'd washed was still stashed in the refrigerator of the old apartment.  I'd placed it there while working on sorting and packing Mom's remaining things.  All furniture was gone, but so much was yet left to deal with.

My first thought was to bring Mom to the old apartment's dining room, fetch the raspberries from the fridge in the apartment myself, and bring them to the dining room for her to enjoy with one last cup of coffee at Bancroft Creek Estates. Yet I wondered if Mom herself would want to see the apartment, now littered with debris as if a strong wind had sucked out all her possessions.  So I asked, "Should we go see the old apartment? Want one last visit?"

"Well, I don't know," she answered.  "What do you think?" She often does that these days--asks my opinion, her indecision clear.

A bit nervous about her possible reaction to seeing her former home of nearly ten years, I decided we should try it--we should wheel across the parking lot to her former home, greet any residents there, see the apartment, grab those raspberries, have coffee, and then wheel on back to the new apartment.  What would Mom's emotions be, I wondered...well, I'd find out.

As we entered the complex, I asked, "Anything look familiar here?"  She nodded a bit hesitantly.  Moving onto the faux wooden floor of the dining room, we heard a group of ladies in the corner chatting over coffee.

"Well, there she is!" chortled Dorothy, throwing up her hands. "So good to see you, Hazel!"

I told the gals we had to grab raspberries from the fridge in the old apartment and that we'd join them in a moment; then we moved down the hall to apartment 304.  "Anything look familiar now?" I asked.

"Well, I think my apartment was over here?" she said, indicating the right side of the hall. But we eventually turned left into 304 and I wheeled Mom from room to room, reminding her of where each piece of furniture had been.  I shared who was enjoying what now in his/her home or apartment, and emphasized how pleased we were that her lovely things now gave other family members so much joy in their homes.

Her reaction?  Actually quite unemotional, and that surprised me.  Mom nodded, seeming to remember all, and then was ready for coffee.  We grabbed the raspberries, scooted to the dining room, bellied up to the table, and Mom asked the gals, "What's new?"

My last visit...

That transport dolly my friends had loaned me saved my life--well, maybe my sanity at least. The apartment is now cleared out and scrubbed, but first the myriad boxes, bags, totes had to be hauled out to the van.  I love that the van holds so much, making it perfect for moving.

I really thought I'd be done with this whole moving thing once the kids were out of college, but...hadn't figured on Mom's 93 years requiring her to move from place to place.  Not far--just across the parking lot--but it was the final big move requiring planning, packing, hauling.

So this transition has consumed me, and now it's nearly over.  What's left is a stocked storage unit poised for a sale in the fall, and Hazel-items to incorporate into our homes.  We've loved that apartment and the complex for all the care and kindness given Mom and Dad.  And now it's time to move on.