I spent the last week with my mother, helping her pack up her home of 40 years. The house has been sold and my mother is moving in with my partner and I, at least temporarily. She is looking forward to leaving the responsibilities of home ownership behind her and renting an apartment where she calls the landlord if something is broken. But this move from Lockport, NY to Atlanta, GA means a new city and surroundings, with many changes and adjustments.
My dad died about 4 years ago, and my mom has moved emotionally closer to this moment ever since. At almost 80 years old, she continues to enjoy relatively good health, although a recent diagnosis of pulminary fibrosis has caused her to think differently about this last stage of her life. I am pleased that her present decisions are her decisions, making her path one of her choosing, not than the choices of poor health or lack of resources. (With our recent financial issues in this recession, she will be a help to us for awhile). But, as most of us know, even choosing our own path doesn’t remove the emotional aspects of major life changes.
I sat at our moving sale last weekend and wondered at all the “stuff” that makes up a life. I am very lucky in that my parents were married young, had me relatively early in their marriage, and yet still managed to make their way through 56 years together. We moved into the house on Fiegle Road when I was 16 years old, almost 43 years ago (yes, now you know my age). My parents had taken a difficult financial road to get there, with my father starting as an industrial chemist after college, getting laid off, selling Wearever pots and pans door to door, losing his home to foreclosure and stumbling his way into teaching. He spent 30 years teaching high school mathematics after that, but the lost of financial stability and the foreclosure of their first home means the house at 5390 Fiegle Road is filled with much more than furniture and miscellaneous household items. The process of its sale and the emptying of its contents has been a lesson in building a life.
My mother was present when people came to see the house. I told her it sold because she would answer people’s questions with stories. She would tell them about the parties we had in the finished basement and the fact that my father wasn’t the handiest man in the world but he put in the drop ceiling. (I suggested she might not want to admit my father’s “Mr. Fixit” failings, but the potential buyer of the moment reassured her that my dad really did a great job). She teared up when touring buyers would suggest that it looked like a happy house, and she secretly advocated for the young couple that reminded her so much of she and my father.
Last weekend I was reminded of her fastidious nature and how well she took care of her “stuff.” She sold virtually all the furniture she wanted to sell (leaving behind the large, house furniture to secure the small, apartment versions), and we moved the remaining furniture around to give her a comfortable environment during these last couple weeks before closing. The teak dining room set – her pride and joy – left the house yesterday for exactly her asking price. She was so proud and relieved, and yet so sad and alone at the same time. This reality left me with a true sense of the paradox of change: looking forward brings excitement and joy, looking back brings melancholy and loss. It’s the nature of the beast. And the changes will not only be my mother’s, but my own.
I have a friend who refers to this paradox as moving to a new chapter. It’s his way of looking forward with anticipation. His wife, who is my longtime professional colleague and friend, reminds him that there is still going to be a longing for the chapter whose pages you just closed. It’s like finishing a really good book. Part of you will always regret that you finished it.