Downsizing

A couple of years ago, I wrote about a fire at Mom's apartment and all the stuff that was unrecoverable.  Well, we are at another critical juncture in her life, and once again, we are mourning all the stuff that has been lost.  We have downsized another time, and not because of choice or a decision to do so, but out of necessity.

Mom has been diagnosed with moderate dementia and can no longer care for herself in a way that is safe and healthy for her.  This path started years ago, but the family kept thinking - no, hoping - that it was stress and age, and not the nasty Alzheimer's that had taken Grandma Hazel years ago.  That disease is supposed to skip a generation which would give me reasons to worry, but not Mom.  Of course, we closed our eyes to Auntie June (Mom's sister) who is also suffering from the torment of dementia and is years ahead of Mom in that mind degeneration process.  However, over the past few months, things had progressed to a point where we could no longer hope; we could no longer pretend that all was well; we could no longer ignore the calls from friends and relatives who shared our concerns.  We took action and started the mind boggling journey of determining what would be the best for Mom. It was time to move again, and this time to a locked memory care unit.

No one prepares you for that decision.  Finding the right doctor for diagnosis was the first hurdle, then there was the two weeks of observation, coming to terms with the diagnosis, cleaning out the apartment, finding bills and documents, contacting and working with social services, and so much more.  It takes a village to raise a child, but it takes a village on the other end of this life's existence also.  There are no rule books and no checklists to follow.  Then there is that moment when you see a five foot two little Italian lady sitting on a bed in her new "home".  This is the same woman who survived five kids, a husband who suffered PTSD and was an alcoholic, and more trauma than most people could have handled.  Now she seems fragile, confused, and scared . . . oh, and begging to get out of "this place".  You find yourself working to keep yourself upbeat and trying to convince her that all will be alright.  It will be, I know.  But, it is a shock to one's sense of what is normal in this life.

So, today I sat on the floor in an empty one bedroom apartment - no stuff to be found anywhere.  All that was there was my own stuff:  my sorrow, my fears, my love for my mother.  That small space had been the last of her freedom.  Now there would be no more cars, church choir, gas station chicken sandwiches, sporting events of every kind, making doughnuts, and no more coming and going at her pace, which was fast and sassy.  Mom's new room is small, and our attempt at making it larger by calling it an apartment doesn't make it so.  She has a bit of her stuff around her, stuff that survived kids, several moves, a fire, and another downsizing. As her family, it will be up to us to provide for her a semblance of freedom, outings if you will.  But, her independent spirit will depend on us to keep and hold that energy for as long as we can, because ultimately there will be another downsizing, and I'm not quite ready to think about that just yet.