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CHAPTER 1

My Mother's Chair

Rain is slamming against the windshield and I can't see the edge of I10 that runs through the swamp west of Lake Charles. I'm only an hour out so it seems a waste to find a hotel. I can't even call mom to let her know I'll be late because I can't risk the distraction. It's all I can do to keep my little Subaru WRX on the road; even the all-wheel drive is being challenged by the wall of water shoving me sideways — delivered by an eighteen-wheeler that just barreled by. There is a sense of urgency about this trip as mom has finally made the decision to consider a move nearer to me. My sister and I have decided to alternate trips to her home to start the inevitable process of clearing things out in an effort to be ready to move to a smaller place. This is the first foray into that unknown territory.

Her agreement to move to a retirement complex near me (sometime in the next six months or so are her terms) has been nothing if not miraculous, but as luck would have it, her unit has become available early — four months early actually. The decision to take the unit had to be made now or wait another year, so we are beginning the process and my trip over to her represents the first step into the reality that she can a no longer manage on her own. How has it come to this so quickly? It seems that only last year she was talking about another rigorous trip to Costa Rica.

I am struggling to stay on the road while I wonder what stormy weather lies ahead in terms of this new stage. Further, I don't have time for this week away from a consulting business that depends on my personal presence to keep me funded. I've just relocated back to Austin after the realization that the move to West Virginia, while it was right at the time, is not right five years later. I've moved back to my "tribe" and I am just getting my business ramped up.

Realities of Aging

A year earlier, I had made this trip to help mom recover from another break-in, the first one having occurred nine years ago in the Baton Rouge home, where I grew up. It was the event that prompted the move to a safer neighborhood, closer to family, in Lake Charles.

On one level, I am superbly suited to help her. Helping people organize, move, create comfortable spaces for themselves and make life changes is my professional life. I love doing it and I'm good at it. But doing it for Mom was loaded with all manner of emotional baggage. I remembered some of it from the previous move, but that was just to a new city near friends (and excellent birding) and a more manageable house. She was in her mid seventies then, the landscape was different and she was more resilient. This time, she was unhinged and feeling victimized on many levels. The balance between intimacy and detachment possible with clients totally disintegrated in the presence of her despair. If I allowed myself to get enmeshed in the grief, it derailed the progress we needed to make. If I detached, it ignored her need for connection and my ability to listen with my heart. The same compassion, patience, tact and humor spontaneously present with others, became intermingled with anger, fear, frustration, old roles, expectations and a sense of impending doom that comes from knowing that every decision made would impact our relationship, as well as her health and independence. Yes, her situation could have been far worse: things could have been torn up beyond any reasonable repair; she could have been home during the attack. We both took some consolation in the fact that most of the items taken could be replaced, but that doesn't begin to cover the sense of being victimized or the loss of irreplaceable, sentimental items. The realization that there would be less time in the future to make new memories and that we were in a time warp propelling us both forward into the realities of aging — hers and mine — was profoundly sobering, and foreshadowed things to come.

The Clock is Ticking

During this process, it occurred to me that while the circumstances of my helping her were unique, the skills and processes are similar any time we help a parent, loved one or ourselves move through the pivotal drama of relocating in the later stages of life. The feelings of compassion and the emotional, psychological and spiritual tools needed to re-create a supportive space are essential to any process where there are life-altering transitions. As a nation of baby boomers, many of us have already navigated the "empty-nest" syndrome, are considering more efficient (cost and time) life styles, or facing the challenge of helping our parents relocate into smaller, more manageable surroundings and sometimes nursing homes. Moving is a tricky process regardless, but some of us are in the unenviable position of moving ourselves AND moving our parents. Moving our parents requires a unique toolset because we are straddling a paradigm chasm that spans everything from a shift in consciousness to knowing how to navigate cyberspace. We are speaking different languages and sometimes we need a translator. While our parents are dealing with the loss of options and autonomy, we are hell-bent to keep ours. And moving our parents scares the daylights out of us because the clock is ticking ...

Making Sense of It All

Although we may not be dealing with theft in the literal sense, emotions and feelings of loss — whether it's letting go of items held onto for a lifetime or shifts in family dynamics — run rampant during this stage. The parent can suffer other losses, including the erosion of autonomy, which can result from diminished physical or mental capacity, the feelings of violation that come from having to leave one's home for a facility, or the need to downsize or relocate for any number of reasons.

The personal nature of this thrust me into a different framework of thinking and feeling my way through the process, using every tool at my disposal. Since the first vandalism, we have traveled through the second break-in and two relocations to different states and radically different "states-of-mind." Most recently, she has moved from a larger home in a city she's come to know, to the retirement complex, where everything is new, including the concept of renting, not having her garden, or even knowing how to get to the nearest K-Mart.

My mother is financially stable but not wealthy, and had little of value. During the break-in they took televisions, radios, yard tools and a handful of silver jewelry with more sentimental than monetary value. Evidently they knew that many elderly people hide their valuables in unlikely places like the pantry, the attic, in books, etc., and ransacked her closets, drawers — even the air conditioner housing in the attic — to see where she might be hiding the "good stuff." In the process, they also upended boxes and cabinets with legal documents, medical history, bill payments, etc. It's the kind of thing you don't think too much about, until you're faced with the task of making sense of it all — and locating the documents required by the insurance company to file a claim! The same is true when families come in after a health crisis or any number of events embedded in the tapestry of elder-life.

The emotional and physical processes involved with elder-moves are distinctly different from working with other stages of life and with the "thirty-something" population still raising their families, still accumulating, still actively building their resources and still essentially independent. Personal relocations after age 60, and especially those of geriatric parents, require a sensitivity and awareness to a uniquely amassing and shifting set of needs and concerns related to aging, health, cognition, mobility, independence and place in community. After physical needs are met, this endeavor has far more to do with the spirit than at any other time of life.

What Matters Most

The process of helping my mother regain control of her home and her life required asking the question, "what matters most," over and over again in a million different ways.

• What brings joy to everyday living?

• What is working — what is not?

• What level of access is needed for medications, phone numbers, medical records, etc.?

• What losses or perceived losses is she experiencing?

• What does she need more of? Less of?

• How do we address mobility issues?

• How are her senses functioning and what is needed to accommodate changes in acuity?

• How can I nourish the quality of life on a moment-to-moment basis and make access to those vital activities, items and places easy for her?

• What will she need in order to integrate into and build a new community — one that encourages staying connected, builds new friendships and sustains a joie-de-vivre?

Normal Redefined

We had to make many choices, and each required attention to how it felt. It seemed endless. In the process, I began to learn and value things about my mother that I'd never really thought about before. I began to know her in a different way, and therefore, began to be able to honor her in the ways I might have missed without the intimacy that results from dealing with real need or tragedy. As the process continued, I did better at this some days than on others. Honoring her became more subtle and encapsulated in the way questions were asked or answered, in dealing with her responses or lack of the same, and in replacing judgment or personal agendas with patience, gentleness, clarity and acceptance, and the ability to know when to "shut up and listen." It's actually easier to do this when one is in the midst of crisis, because anyone can be focused and compassionate in spurts. Maintaining it over the long haul is the tricky part. As we become re-entrenched in the details of our daily lives, it's natural to slip back into old patterns — fooling ourselves into thinking that once the move is over, things will normalize. And they do to a degree, but "normal" also becomes redefined. Settling into a new place, making friends, learning the ways around a new town takes a while — a least a year. That year was but a hiccup in time in our thirties and forties. By the time you're in your eighties, a year becomes disproportionately huge when viewed in the context of the lifetime remaining!

Command Central

In the process of putting things back in order after the break-in or creating order where none had been in the first place, it became apparent that her entire life revolved around a central element: her chair. No, she is not confined to that chair, nor is it a wheelchair. It is, however command central. Let me explain ... It was banked on both sides by library bookracks on wheels so they could be pulled closer with ease — each holding three to four shelves of reference books for crossword puzzles. Add to that, glasses, writing materials, telephone, Kleenex, speakerphone (easier with her hearing aid), phone books, remotes and several sets of binoculars. Did I mention she's a birdwatcher? This chair and its strategic placement with easy access to her back door constituted the single most important aspect of her 1500 square foot home. It overlooked six bird feeders, the deck strewn with only the finest black-oil sunflower seeds, numerous watering stations, and hoses (and water-cannons to squirt birdseed-eating squirrels). This chair retained its importance in her new, abbreviated space, and its strategic placement remained paramount.

A Life Worth Living

The chair and its accoutrements represent a life worth living. It's not JUST a chair. As a former reference librarian and the director of a metropolitan library's children's room, she is both driven and sustained by her knowledge of thousands of bits of information. She breezes through the New York Times crossword puzzles and acrostics like some people devour potato chips. This particular hobby:

• Provides the mental exercise to keep her brain sharper than most 30-year-olds';

• Keeps her connected with current events;

• Wards off Alzheimer's; and

• Makes her one of the best conversationalists I've ever met.

An avid ornithologist, she's been studying and trekking off to spy on her feathered friends since I was in the sixth grade. Birds and puzzles are not just her FUN. They add years to her life, as well as enhance her ability to retain an independent life style and care for herself. How so?

• Bending and stooping to feed and water her birds and hiking to watch them gave the physical movement crucial to simultaneously oxygenate the brain, and to keep the cerebellum (containing 90% of the brains neural network) healthy;

• Staying active kept her body flexible and moving, reducing the likelihood of incapacitating injury;

• To this day, constant learning has kept her engaged with life and ideas; and

• Birding trips (like bridge, hunting, and sporting events) created a context for social outings.

These points are emphasized to remind us that every decision, whether made consciously or through default (not acting), has a consequence. While moving her to a less demanding lifestyle was necessary in one context, it has also removed the very things that caused her to be active. Ignoring the significance of the chair could have dire consequences in that its existence, ergonomics, and placement have impacted her ability to maintain an activity that is life sustaining.

What Makes the Heart Sing?

This single piece of furniture, seemingly ordinary to the untrained eye, became a metaphor symbolizing the importance of finding out what makes the heart sing for yourself or your parent and bringing it to life, so that the quality of life transcends the ordinary. Finding that "something" for yourself or your parent makes the difference between simply surviving and thriving. It goes beyond function and aesthetics as well as our own concepts of what is of value. It begs time, interest, insight, active listening, and patience.

So let's talk more about this chair, because the care taken in actually choosing it is demonstrative of the layers of awareness and attention brought to the process of consciously selecting what travels with us on the journey to the next place and configuring the new environment. This chair was selected with no less care than a cave-diver would spend choosing a system of air tanks. Let me walk you through the process.

First, we spent the better part of a day returning a recently purchased recliner that had turned into the Cujo of chairs in that it catapulted her across the room every time she pulled the lever to lower the footrest. So we returned the beast and turned our attention to the next generation of chair — deciding to forego the more testosterone-laden recliner for a good comfy armchair with a footrest, which seemed more benign. In Goldilocks fashion, "not too large and not too small — just right," we began our search. The ottoman had to be large enough to hold a tray while eating, watching the birds or television; had to easily glide along a carpeted floor (wheels) and be small enough to navigate around. The texture of the upholstery against thinning skin had to be soft, smooth and warm, and offer enough friction to prevent sliding around in it. This ruled out leather, and therefore, a large percentage of available stock. The back had to be high enough to provide head support, but not so tall or protruding that it felt like an airline seat. (Those of you under six feet tall know what I'm talking about.) Last, it needed to be attractive to her, ruling out funky plaids, Naugahyde and leopard print. Further, many of these factors had to be discerned by trial and error and the process of elimination, dealing with a woman who hailed forth from a generation taught NOT to speak their mind. (Add being psychic to the list of needed resources.) I know you're thinking this may be simple, but it wasn't, so finding the right one earned me a gold star for life.

Did I mention that it helps to be a diplomat?

Matters of the Heart

Fortunately, in another life stage, I'd worked in dispute resolution and mediated everything from barking dogs and pre-release sessions at a juvenile facility, to child/pet custody and property settlements. Those skills, along with both training and experience as a Victim Services Counselor — having supported victims of theft, violation, loss, etc.? should have, and ultimately did, serve me well in helping my mother as a victim. But the same skills we can apply flawlessly in non-emotional, less personal situations can sometimes fail to show up at all or arrive on the scene late when it comes to matters of the heart and our own families. We can stutter, succumb to old family patterns, make mistakes, and trip over our own egos to the point of acting downright stupid. It's one of the reasons doctors don't operate on their family and relatives make poor business partners. When emotions run high working with friends or family, old wounds can be re-exposed and fires fanned. It helps to have a few tools in your pocket that allow you get some distance, set personal boundaries, ask non-confrontational questions, and be supportive in the face of anger, grief, disorientation or territory disputes.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Moving Your Aging Parents"
by .
Copyright © 2010 Nancy Daniel Wesson.
Excerpted by permission of Loving Healing Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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