FIVE STEPS HOME

Home.

My family moved to our new home the summer I finished fifth grade. It was across the street and down two houses from our old house. My dad joked we put five miles on our car throughout the whole move and that was probably an exaggeration. Our new house was snuggled into a stand of pine trees in the rear of a suburban cul-de-sac. The backyard backed up to a pond full of wildlife. There were multiple large fruit and vegetable gardens in the back yard that my dad and sister tended from spring to fall. My mom’s haven was the two flower gardens that bloomed with ever-changing waves of color. It was a tight knit neighborhood of best friends and steady support. My sister and I shared the largest bedroom, my brother had the small bedroom, and my parents had the bedroom in the back of the house with the best views.

This house was our family’s sanctuary for nearly 40 years. I distinctly remember the day my parents told us they were looking for a town house that required less maintenance. The sense of loss bubbled up first, then a calm relief settled in knowing this was my parents’ choice, not a required move. It took a year to purge, box, stage, and then sell the house with my parents handling most of these laborious tasks. The day of the move, we had one last walk through the empty rooms and then my dad slowly closed the front door behind us.

Safety and love make up the walls of this house.

Is it really the structure that matters or is it what is inside?

Leaving this place, there is gratitude for the memories.

This home wrapped in warmth and comfort nestled in my heart.

The solace of feeling I am home.

Downsized Home.

The Northwoods log cabin exterior gave an impression of being on vacation. This was the theme of the senior community my parents chose for their next home. The main lodge held three living-levels you could transition through as needs changed, along with a separate town house community. My parents’ excited smiles put us all at ease as they showed us around the beautiful three-bedroom, two-level town house. The furniture fit just right, dried flowers from the beloved gardens were in vases, and the special art was already hung on the walls. It quickly became home as my parents found joy in new friends, afternoon bridge, golf, and a living space made for family celebrations. After a few years, my dad's Parkinson's progressed, his steps grew halting, and life slowed. More care was needed, and the ease of the downsized house helped to create a calm cocoon where we could all discuss difficult decisions. On a frigid day in January, with the snow gently falling and his family gathered around him, my dad took his last breath. My mom, who never lived by herself, was now alone. A broken foot and a hard winter helped her decide it was time to be near friends again. It took three months, my brother making several trips home, and the help of friends and family to whittle down belongings for an apartment space. A new living adventure awaited in the Northwoods lodge.

Is it really the structure that matters or is it what is inside?

Leaving this place, there is gratitude for the memories.

This home wrapped in warmth and comfort nestled in my heart.

The solace of feeling I am home.

The Tiny Home.

For two years, the welcoming, third-floor, sun-filled apartment was my mom’s sanctuary. Friends visited, there were newfound group classes, speakers, and even workouts that filled each day. Trips with college friends and visiting family filled her weekends. Life was good in a space that my mom worried would be too small. A piercing stomachache was the first sign of change. We cajoled my mom to get it checked and that led to an unexpected surgery, weeks in transitional care, and the message from the doctor that more care is needed. My sister and I looked at each other in disbelief, silently acknowledging that another move was now reality.

Within a month, boxes were packed and belongings released, my brother drove home, and cousins came to the rescue as we needed to donate large pieces of furniture. On the final day of this chaotic move, I pushed a long dolly stacked with six boxes down the silent apartment hallway. Ahead of me, my sister wheeled a grocery cart toppling with clothes and boxes. A crunching sound under the grocery cart’s wheel stopped us both. We looked at the ground, and then each other wide eyed. On the ground was my mom’s favorite purple hydrangea she had carefully saved from her beloved garden. She told us each move, “make sure my hydrangea is safe.” We rescued the crushed flower, and then in total exhaustion, we began to belly laugh, the kind of laughter that's all you have left.

Leaving this place, there is gratitude for the memories.

This home wrapped in warmth and comfort nestled in my heart.

The solace of feeling I am home.

Almost Home.

The assisted living apartment was much bigger than any of us imagined. My mom said it felt like home when she moved in, and we were all relieved. My sister’s friend, a talented home decorator, designed a “centerpiece” wall of family photos, paintings, and belongings that meant the most to my mom. This wall faced the couch where my mom sat every day, and she would say how it conjured up memories each time she sat there. The finishing touch was the surviving front of her beloved purple hydrangea, tucked into wispy greenery and a favorite small vase. It became the focal point on the wall’s small shelf. We didn’t know when we moved how much this wall, and how quickly we’d moved, would come to matter. A month after moving in, the pandemic began. My mom’s senior living community shut down with the fear of Covid. We were unable to see her in person for many months. We would gather up the grandkids and stand by the patch of pine trees near her window and wave. My mom would be in the center of the window with her steady wave as she joyfully smiled at all of us. This tiny connection was difficult when all we wanted was to hold her hand. When we could finally visit in person, we were grateful for her high spirits and the tenderness of her caregivers. What surprised us was the progression of her Parkinson’s. We soon learned the care staff had shrunk and could no longer give my mom the physical care she needed. We’d have to find a new home and there wasn’t an open room at her lodge community. In panic, we applied to long-term living facilities and found long waitlists. On a nondescript day, as I was caring for my mom, the lodge’s nurse stopped by her apartment and asked if we’d be interested in a memory care apartment that had just opened. It wasn’t a perfect fit for my mom, whose memory was strong, but her body was not. “Yes,” I exclaimed, definitely too loud, without asking anyone. And with that, a new move began. As seasoned moving professionals now, we rallied my daughter, a talented organizer, and her friend Joe, an amazing handyman. It was college J-term, and they had time to move my mom’s belongings three floors down. They purged, organized, and decorated the new apartment in three weeks. The bonus: the new apartment had the same layout as her last, so the transition would not be as jolting as we feared.

This home wrapped in warmth and comfort nestled in my heart.

The solace of feeling I am home.

Going Home.

The new apartment was the mirror image of the last apartment with a few upgrades. Our skillful designers created the exact centerpiece wall and added soft blankets, calm lighting, and a beautifully organized closet that my mom adored. The pace became slower, the care was spectacular, and we visited often. After a year and a half, my mom’s exhausted body was ready to rest. Her snug apartment became her refuge, and her cherished hydrangea rested on her bedside table next to family photos. Friends stopped by and family gathered. We said goodbye on a quiet March evening as the sky became violet and the sparse snow softly blew, embraced by harp music and soft lighting, consoled by this warm and intimate space.

The solace of feeling I am finally home.

Image by MaraBarboza from Pixabay