Dad, Mom, Eli
When you hear the word privilege, what comes to mind? Financial security? Social advantages? Opportunities that others may not have?
Recently, privilege took on a more personal meaning for me.
I was visiting my 90-year-old mom and 96-year-old dad, who now live in assisted living and memory care, respectively. My task was to help sort, purge, and organize the material accumulations of their lives.
Both have cognitive challenges, and “clutter equals confusion” became my mantra as we worked through closets, drawers and underbed hidden wonders.
The task could have been grueling. At times, it certainly was overwhelming. But somewhere among the shoes, shirts and sweatpants I found a way to turn sorting into storytelling.
We started with Mom’s shoes. Dozens upon dozens upon dozens. High heels, dancing shoes, athletic shoes, beach shoes. Shoes for comfort. Shoes for style. Shoes that apparently never made it into usefulness. Before we even began, Mom was overwhelmed.
“How are we going to do it?” she lamented.
“Mom, one box at a time. We’re going to take a box off the shelf, open it, and you’re going to tell me a story.” And she did.
I heard about the opera, the parties, the great sales. The blisters. The slipping heels. The soles told stories of their own; which shoes she had loved and which she probably wished she had returned.
She was attached to so many, especially the dressy high heels. But her balance is off now. Her feet and back can’t manage them anymore. She knew it was time to let them go.
Reluctantly, she offered them to the donation bag, but not without saying, “These are going to make someone so happy.”
“Mom, what an act of kindness. Spreading happiness.”
Three hours flew by. We laughed, cried at times, and carried on. Honest to goodness, she appeared lighter and I felt full.
After a rest and something to eat, we headed to Dad’s memory care apartment to tackle - more shoes, lots more shoes.
Dad has severe Alzheimer’s. His memory and understanding are limited, but he still has many of his physical abilities. He can put on his own shoes, provided he has the right ones. With Mom overseeing the process, I decided to play shoe store.
“Mr. Daly, have a seat. We’re going to find the best shoes for you.”
He smiled broadly. No words spoken. No words needed.
One pair at a time, we tried many of them on. He still knew how to tie them, but some were too stiff or clunky. Others had far too many eyelets.
Mom told stories. Dad made faces. Occasionally, he declared, “Oh, these are terrific,” as he walked a path in his room.
We kept the shoes he could put on with little or no help, along with a few exceptions Mom couldn’t bear to release. The ones he looked so handsome in. The ones that went with his green suit. (Yes, we kept the green suit, too.)
And the black patent leather tuxedo shoes. Mom commented, “we never know when we might have to dress up again.” It was a privilege to hold that dream for her.
When we finished, I asked, “Mr. Daly I need your credit card. I’m not about to let you leave my shoe store without paying.” He laughed. The best laugh. Again, I felt full.
On my last day, I called in reinforcements, my 19-year-old grandson, Eli. I was heading straight to the airport afterward and needed someone to take the donations.
He surprised Mom at breakfast with a tap on the shoulder. The joy on her face was worth the visit all by itself. Then we headed to her apartment. The sock drawer was Mom’s big ask for the day, followed by the underbed storage boxes.
This time, I balanced doing with observing.
Mom and Eli finding pairs of socks together. Eli holding up shirts and sweaters, “Grandma, what do you think about this?” “I think it might be too big for you.” “This style is old.”
Mom nodding in agreement or challenging with disagreement - “Oh, but I love that one”.
The two of them considered size, style, what would stay, what would go. More decisions. More stories.
Here was my mom, with nine decades behind her, beside my grandson, still discovering what lights him up and where life might take him. And there I was, somewhere between them, watching them sort socks. So ordinary. So precious.
We stopped short of the undergarment drawer. Neither mom, Eli nor I were up for that bonding moment.
I had come to help organize their stuff. I left with Mom’s stories, Dad’s laugh, and the presence of Eli beside his great-grandmother, showing up for her, helping her continue making new memories.
Today, that’s what privilege means to me.
In-joy your ordinary privileges.