Dad lived for over 10 years after his stroke, but he never drove again, never worked in an office, came home for a short time to live in a hospital bed and wheelchair, assisted by my aging mother, his partner for life, but didn't use his "things" in the same way, if at all.
I also learned about the pull places have on you. How you define home, what you consider your neighborhood, your grocery store, your favorite restaurant, your hair stylist. At "home", you know where the scissors are, because they are always there. You can find your way to the bathroom in the dark, because you've done it hundreds of times. Your neighborhood is where your car knows the way to the grocery store, because it's been there a million times and the bagels are just around this corner.
It was difficult to watch the pull these "things" had on my mother. The insistence on keeping her home, though she was lonely and couldn't care for the house and the yard, was driven by the ownership. The identification with "these are my things, my place" dictated so much of her life, and my siblings', for the next 11 years. The sense of control she received from these inanimate objects was powerful and, in many ways, sustaining.
The lesson I thought I learned from that time was that I wanted to make sure things were never more important than people. I wanted to be able to disassociate my things from the equation, when it came time to decide to do or change or leave or arrive.
I knew then, I know now, that at some point I may be moving to live close to someone else, when work no longer dictates my domicile. Perhaps toward my son, to be closer, so he can take care of the little things an aging Mom can't do. Maybe there will be grandchildren with which to watch old Disney movies. I can dream...
And then my daughter died.
And suddenly, all of her "things", her car, her home, her shoes and purses and card stamping supplies, took on a life of their own. Because they were hers. Because she chose them. Because she touched them and used them and wanted them in her world and in her space.
I have acquired many of her things. I've brought boxes and boxes and boxes of her things home. I now drive her car. Because, apparently, things are not just things. I have a custom closet I outfitted to hold her stamping and card making supplies. I've never made cards. Never had time or interest or reason. But this has nothing to do with the fact that I now have the supplies necessary to make enough cards to fill a small shop! My beautiful engineer found her creative outlet in the cards and I just couldn't let it all go.
The women in the family and many of her close girlfriends have one of her purses. (She single handedly kept Coach in business.) I wear a special bracelet and ring, frequently. Her shoes have found homes, helping women find jobs, or supporting fellow cancer warriors, or on a shelf, in an office, because just seeing them brings her closer, for just a minute.
Recently, my Son in Law has taken a step toward his future. He has started a new job. In Canada. For a 3 year timeframe. And it only makes sense that he is moving all of his things and renting out his house. My daughter's house. And with it goes her neighborhood, where we went shopping when she felt good, during her treatments. Her grocery store, that I learned while living with her as her caretaker. Our favorite little restaurants and treat shops. The church they got married in.
While preparing for this move, this young man, that I love as my own, commented that the hardest thing is that EVERYTHING requires a decision. Going through this house, going through his wife's things, "a simple pen requires a decision." There was a silly little statue of a gnome under a mushroom. He just looked at me with a question. What do I do with this? Is it important? Why is it important? Why did she have this? What do I not know??? I just told him it was a silly statue, she just liked it, so she got it. It didn't have any cosmic meaning. I don't think...
So his house, her house, is not their house anymore. Someone else will be living there. Different furniture, different artwork, different pastimes and meals and schedules and things. I've been thinking about her house for a while. I knew it would be hard for it to go, but I think, now that it is finished, it will be OK. It's the getting there... Watching the procession of her things. Deciding what to keep, what not to keep. And why...
I brought Jen's wedding dress home. I don't know what to do with it, I just know it has to stay here. Until... I have no idea... It now hangs in my basement. I should have it cleaned. I think I need to have it boxed. I'm not sure I can see the dress bag over and over. I want to rearrange my thinking about that dress. She DID get to wear it. She DID look beautiful in it. She DID have a wedding, and tho it wasn't everything she wished for, before leukemia, it was more that any of us could have hoped for, in 5 days. And I'm so very thankful she already had the dress. It was/is the perfect dress for her. It was HER dress.
And I brought treasure boxes home. Silly things. Her ID from Take Your Daughter to Work Day, when she was about 10. And a golden rule marble, and some charms, and some of Nana's jewelry. In fact, one of the treasure boxes was Nana's jewelry box. Little things my daughter cherished. For no other reason than that they were important to her, in a moment of her life. Moment don't have to be big, to be important.
Things apparently aren't just things. They are the tools of connection. They are the language with which we explain ourselves, the method we use to communicate our choices and passions and personality. Things spark conversation and thought and memory, evoke emotion and drive and purpose.
And when things are all you have left, besides the memories and the love, things can be very important.
