I realize that Quilty is not a word, but in our house it is. I suppose it should be referred to as a quilted jacket. We called it the Quilty Jacket. She wore it as often as the weather would allow in the last few years. Then there are her Poo pants — as in Winnie, not poop. They are pajama bottoms so worn, with numerous holes that one good tug would probably pull them apart in any number of places.
When I pulled the jacket out of the closet, I knew I could not part with it. I can’t count how many times I helped her on with that jacket as we headed out the door. The rest of the clothing is in plastic bags destined for the thrift store or the Rescue Mission. It has been a very emotional day, at least on the inside. Once, I sighed loudly while standing in an almost empty closet and from the bedroom came, “Are you okay?” This had to be hard on Daughter Lisa too. I would not have wanted to do it without her.
The challenge was not just the emotional part of it but the challenge of deciding what to do with what. As others who have been in my position will confirm, decisions are very difficult to make. The simplest task can seem overwhelming.
There were dresser drawers to clean out. We finally found her underwear! The funeral home asked for undergarments with the dress we were to bring over for them as they prepared her. In her sock and underclothes drawer, we finally found a pair that she had never worn nor would she have done so. I vaguely remembered getting them out of that drawer and putting them away when she switched to disposables a couple of years ago. She had a huge number of socks in the drawer, resulting in the need for room. Her socks were a signature item. There were varied colors and themes, holiday socks, seasonal socks, polka-dots, animals. We found the underwear in a plastic bag hanging from a hanger buried in between other hanging clothing.
I knew it would be and it is very hard to look in that closet. I have spread out the few things I have on both sides to create the illusion that it is full. It is not working. Actually, I decided to get rid of all things in the closet that no longer fit or are too badly worn to wear any longer. Getting rid of my clothes was easy. All I had to do was look at the neck size on the shirts to determine that I could no longer wear them. Who knew that a neck could grow in later years. It is an odd genetic quirk, having nothing to do with eating habits and the lack of exercise. The waists on pairs of pants had shrunk. Closets shrink clothes. It is a known fact. It is sort of like Radon, only not dangerous to people — unless, of course, you try too hard to button one of the shirts and strangle yourself.
I suspect that Monday some time will be the first encounter with the house all to myself, the beginning of whatever will come in life next. The Kids are doing exactly what is needed and when. They cannot do for me what I need to do to make it through this. I cannot do for them what they need to do to get through this. We can love and support one another, doing what is in our power to do.
I will get out the quilty jacket and remember and, I suspect, do some crying. Tears do not come easily to me, but it will be important to allow that release when the need comes. I have decided to get the box of letters Mary Ann saved from forty-eight years ago. I have not looked at them since I wrote them. I am sure I will be embarrassed by them. I was so much in love with her that, if I remember correctly, I even wrote sappy poetry on occasion. I am surprised she didn’t run away screaming after reading them.
I made an observation to Lisa today contrasting the time of caring for Mary Ann, especially the last months, with the time we are in now. Oddly, it seems harder to think now about what we went through than it was to go through it. Even when we were in the thick of the worst of it, I just had to do stuff. Doing things gave me the feeling that I could make a difference of some sort. Even if what I did seemed to have little effect, at least I had something I could do. Now, I have the images of what we went through. They seem more horrifying when thinking about them than they seemed when I was doing them. When I was doing stuff, it was certainly hard, sometimes very messy, but I was just doing whatever needed to be done.
Grieving is hard work, harder than caregiving. There is nothing more I can do for her. I can only be sad for myself that she is not here. I certainly do not need to be sad for her now that she is free from the illness. I can hurt for what she went through, but I cannot change it. My job now is to figure out what I can do. I can live the life that I am being given. I can make plans and do things that will honor her memory, care for my family, and become the most fulfilled and healthy person I can be with God’s help and the resources available to me. I have absolutely no idea what those plans will emerge and where they will take me. Whatever they are, they will have to take into account a household income that was diminished by about 40% when I retired, and another 20% now. With a little creativity and a willingness to live simply, the plans will emerge.
I continue to welcome suggestions for a new blog address that will reflect what my life is about as the next months and years unfold.
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The Caregiver Calling 