Why Do We Hold Onto Our Loved One's Belongings?

I’m a keeper. I didn’t know I would be, but I can’t imagine parting with Daddy’s jacket.

It’s brick-red suede, and has completely worn through at the edge of the sleeves. It no longer smells of him, but I keep it.

I remember when I was a child, riding with him to Sears on Saturday morning just to buy salted peanuts and look at the tools in the tool department. He wore that jacket. I was adopted and maybe that makes me more sentimental, I don’t know, but keeping my past is important to me.

I also have his Bible, his wallet, his watch, his glasses, and a yellow shirt I remember him in.

I have lots of items that was my mother’s–her mink coat, her Russian coat, purses, jewelry, a Sunday suit, and more Bibles. (My mother was a preacher, so trust me when I say she had lots of Bibles).

I also have their photos, letters, recipes, Daddy’s old tool chest, the first gift he ever gave her when she was just 14–it’s a small cedar box that’s in the shape of a heart. If my math is right, he gave it to her in 1925. I can tell the story of how they met as if it were my own.

Why do we keep our loved one’s clothes?

Like a child’s ratty blanket, we hold on. Safety, security, identity.

Our momentos are in boxes, on shelves, in cabinets, and I know I keep way too much, but how do you let go of such things?

It’s all I have now, and I believe that by pulling out Daddy’s coat or by pinning on one of my mother’s broaches, I can see them clearer, remember better.

I remember Daddy’s bushy eyebrows, the thickness of his fingers and how I could barely squeeze my child fingers through his. I remember that jacket and how he’d wear it when we went to see his family–his sister and brother every Sunday afternoon. His faithfulness amazed me then. His loyalty and tenderness is something I value in a man.

There are issues with keeping things. Psychologists might tell you that you’re not moving on, not making room for the new. I understand the logic. A friend recently visited my home. I hadn’t seen her since my mom was alive and she commented on how much my house had changed. My mom’s antiques are no longer on display. Some have been give to other family members, others sold. This is a slow process–for me.

It no longer looks like my mother’s house. After moving my mother and her 40 years of not moving, her collections oozed out of every crevice. I barely had room for “me.” My mother was one powerful woman. She had a way of taking over. I let her reign, so to speak. As her daughter and in those last few years, caregiver, I learned how to hold my ground and still allow her to feel as if she had some independence.

But now, I have a new couch, a new dining room table. Her furniture has been divvied up among my daughters. I’ve reclaimed my throne, so to speak.

Ironically, I consider myself more of a futurist than a person who lives in the past. I lean toward modern/eclectic design and and music and I’ve made a slew of six month, one year, five year, and then year plans, always writing my future. I’m a list maker–a list for the day, the week, the month, sometimes two a day. I like noting the little things I’ve accomplished. I’ll write something down I just thought of just to get the thrill of crossing it out.

But when it comes to my parents, I’m a keeper, but it no longer keeps me in the past. I’ don’t think I fall iinto thecategory of “not moving on.”

I like to think of their clothes and personal items as a cushion to my life. As if they somehow support me and connect me. Just one look at that jacket and I’m four again. No other Bible comforts me like Daddy’s. I don’t need to even open it to feel a sense of guidance.

It takes time to get to a place to let go of at least a few things.

After your loved one dies, part of grief is when you still try to live in your old life with old clothes and the way things used surrounding you.

You weren’t ready for him to die. You don’t want to date, get a new job, or have to figure out what to do with yourself next Christmas. You don’t want to move on.

Some people get rid of things too soon. Others, too late–it’s different for each person. Finally, you begin to make your own way. Reinvent yourself. Find who you are–now. They are in you, a part of you, but you are changed. You have to go on.

What’s the time frame? Varies. I know people who were clearing out closets before the funeral. I know others who open a closet ten years later–and there’s everything just as it was. Of course, there’s always a chance of getting stuck and not being able to let go. You run that risk.

For many, somewhere around or after that first year mark, things shift–a little. You don’t have to make yourself do everything. Some things come a little easier. A little. For others, it’s two, three years before they can feel anything but blinding loss.

But somewhere along the line, you let go of a few things. You call up a family member and offer them a book or a knick-knack. You sell something, drop items off at Goodwill or another charity.

You live with the empty space for awhile before you figure out how to fill your life again. And the items you keep become more intended, more precious. They go in top drawers and the chest that sits in the guest bedroom. You leave out a few photos, a book–a silver comb that sits on your dresser.

Your loved one is now incorporated. Their clothes, their memories are a part of you, in your house so to speak–but they have a place and not like a box you trip over whenever you walk into a room. Anytime you need to, you can slide open a draw and remember. Find comfort.

And now, there’s also room for something new.

~Carol D. O’Dell, Family Advisor at Caring.com

Author, Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,available on Amazon

What's a Dry Run? Feeling Duped

Caregivers who have made it to the end stage are fitful, worn out creatures who shouldn’t be messed with.

The "dry run" I’m talking about when you think your loved one is going to pass away, and you call all the family, cry, say good-bye…and then they rally back to health.

You think you’d be relieved, but you’re exhausted, and if you’re like me, I felt a duped. Punked, like the new TV show calls it.

We had already called hospice which was extremely upsetting because it means you face that the end is near.

I could barely say the word, “hospice” at first.

Calling all my mother’s family was grueling–to say this again, and again–”I don’t think mother’s going to be here much longer.”

I cleaned her room, bought new curtains, made things simpler, gathered photos for her memorial service, prepared my kids.

Things got worse: she wasn’t eating and I sat by her bed and drizzled melted ice cream bars into her barely parted lips. My back ached. I grappled with the idea of a feeding tube and decided not to. She had stated on her living will not to, but it was excruciating to wonder if I had done the right thing. I wiped her face, stroking her tissue paper skin.

I stopped everything–going anywhere. Cooking–my daughters took over for me. Church–we all felt weighted and no one knew exactly what to do with ourselves. Everyone just sat on the couch…waiting. I lived off of strong coffee.

That lasted for about three days–and nights.

I wake the next morning, and she’s standing next to her little kitchen area.

She looks alert, asks, “What’s for breakfast?”

Now, see the whole picture before you judge my reaction:

My hair is matted to the back of my head from sleeping in the recliner next to her bed, I’m in rumpled clothes, and my mouth feels like I squeezed white glue in it. I haven’t seen the sun in days and I have no idea if my family is still in tact.

Breakfast!

I'm pretty sure I let a few curse words fly.
I was a bit miffed. Confused.

What day was it? Where was I? I scrambled eggs, made her a tray and took a shower.

Yes, I was angry, but it was good to be angry.

What do I mean by that?

Anger, ironically is a positive emotion.

You can only get angry at something you believe you can change.Apathy is when you’ve given up.

I didn’t want my mother to die, but I felt like someone had tied a rope onto my ankle and kept pushing me off a ledge over and over again. Caregiving had taken its toll. My emotions were strung so thin I had nothing left.

I hope letting you know that a “dry run” might be in your future will give you the heads up you need not to wear yourself slap out.

You never know what’s going to happen, but many people experience a “premonition,” an event that precedes the actual time of departure.

I believe it happens for a reason. It helps us get our thoughts and hearts aligned. It helps cushion the blow.

I actually walked around for a few days a bit ticked at her.

My life felt like I was walking into a room and knowing I went there to get something/do something but couldn’t think for the love of kittens what it was I wanted.

She toodled in her apartment (built onto our house), dozed, and we chatted. It’s hard to stay mad at someone who’s living on borrowed time and doesn’t know who the heck you are.

By then, she was referring to me as “little girl,” when she could find words at all.
What did I learn?
The will has more to do with life and death than a diagnosis.

A “dry run” is a lot like what you do when you're a little kid and you go in your mom or dad's closet and try on their shoes, coat and hat. You didn't know it, but you were practicing being grown. You were trying on your future.

And besides, it felt good to be mad. I can deal with mad. ~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

Available on Amazonwww.mothering-mother.com

www.kunati.com/mothering

The Last Weeks of Life: What's It Like?

Every passing is different, and yet, there’s something universal about those final days, hours, and moments.

Most people don’t want to talk about this, and now, most by far, do not have an intimate, up-close experience with death.

I needed to know how to do this. How to be there, how to incorporate this monumental event into my being.

This is what I wrote a few weeks before my mother passed away:

I’m on this euphoric high. It’s not real, I can tell. I’m not on any drugs, but it’s that out-of-body feeling. I’m excited, hesitant and nervous about everything. Walking around feels different, like the balls of my feet are the only parts of me touching the ground. I can’t stop thinking. I need to keep moving. If I slow down everything will fly off the earth.

What will I do? How do I start? I don’t think I can handle more changes. I’m leery of what’s next. I’m thinking about the funeral, the trip to Georgia. I see the cemetery, the gravesite, the mound of orange dirt, the chairs, and the green tent. I see me, shaking hands, a long line of people streaming out in front of me.

I’ve been in this cocoon for so long, these walls are so familiar. I leap ahead to her actual death. Me, there, next to her—will she wake up? Say something? Scream? Will she grab me? Will she just fade away, not saying anything?

During those last days, I kept one book nearby: How We Die by Dr. Nuland. It doesn’t sound like a happy book, and maybe it’s not, but when you need this information, you really need it.
This book became my practical template for what I was about to face. He writes of how we view death in our modern culture. We have to die from a disease now, not old age or because it’s our time. They used to call it “a natural death,” or he died from “complications.”

We’re into blame nowadays.
We think we have to pin everything on something, but life (and death) doesn’t cooperate. It’s complex, ambiguous, and all piled on top of each other like a plate of food from a church homecoming dinner. Forget trying to differentiate the ambrosia from the sweet potato casserole.

As my mother neared the end of her life, I was too tired to blame--nothing like three years of front-line caregiving to wear a person completely out. I read Dr. Nuland’s words about the end of Alzheimer’s. So much of it, I had already experienced. It was as though he were my fortune telling and my trusting palm laid open on the table.

I took deep breath after deep breath wondering how much longer. When someone’s 92, no long eating, barely swallowing, and even if you resuscitate them, what would you bring them back to? She’d still have Alzheimer’s; her body would still be wracked with the end stages of Parkinson’s. No feeding tube or shocking of her heart would change those facts.

Mother’s actual death took about three weeks.
Three of the longest weeks of my life.

Mother was in a coma and couldn’t be aroused without great effort, and then, only to look at me blurry with a backdrop of panic.
After saying my good-byes and making sure that each family member had that opportunity as well, and after I called the Chaplin, and say the Psalms, I stopped trying to rouse her.
I had to do all those things—my checklist. I made as many funeral arrangements as possible, and then it was time to be quiet. Hospice nurses came a few times to take her vitals, but I sent the bathers away.

It was just my mother and me most days.
I let my family go on with their lives.
Ironically, it rained for two straight weeks.
Good ole' Florida rain. Buckets.

I chose against a feeding tube.

This is a family and personal choice, and I don’t think I could have stuck to my decision if hospice had not assured me that this is humane, and that allowing the body to naturally shut down is a valid choice.

I watched every twitch, was she in pain? Not that I could tell.
I bathed her face and hands, swabbed the inside of her mouth with Vaseline. I kept her room quiet, cleaned and decluttered. We were in death-mode, and as unappealing as that sounds, it felt like the right thing to do.

I felt this incredible barometric pressure. No relief. I’d never paced so much in my life. Was I making the right decisions? Should I call 911 and scream, “Save her!” Or do I sit here, quiet, calm, and allow this to happen?

I chose to allow and the pressure lifted.

I found my own sense of closure.
I needed this time.
I needed this low pressure, this finishing of duties, this still and quiet room.
This was the end of a life, and that is profound and sacred.

I wrote hourly.
Stroked her hair, sat beside her, and waited.

~Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores

Kunati Publishing

Mothering Mother--The Truth Behind the Book

Mothering Mother is my first book. It's my first book published, not the first book I wrote. Like most writers, I have a couple of "dry runs" in the desk drawer. Mothering Mother was published first because I needed to understand myself and my role as daughter, mother, wife and woman. And if I needed it, I knew others did as well.
After seven years of writing and publishing, my own artistic journey was put on hold as my mother moved in. Caregiving is all encompassing and I didn't have enough brain cells to create fiction. So, I did what an artist does.
I turned my surrounding, my present condition into my art. Artists have to create. Boundaries create channels for energy. What I thought was a set back to my writing and my artist self turned out not to be a set back after all.
It wasn't easy either. Writing (or eating, bathing, having a life whatsoever) wasn't easy around my mother. She could suck the air out of tornado. I had to fight for any moment for myself.

I wrote in snatches for over two years--I'd run to the computer and type in a few lines. I'd write on the back of an envelope and stuff in my pocket. I wrote in my thoughts. The irony was that I was too tired to edit my thoughts. I told the truth--the raw, honest, gutsy, imperfect truth. Because I was too exhausted and frustrated not to.

Artists struggle with how to create art in the midst of life and reponsibilities. We struggle with how to tell, to show the truth. We struggle with how to be authentic and how to create beauty, clarity, flow and insight. We do that best when we don't (or can't) get in our own way.
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