WHO STOLE MY PARENTS?

Mortality is and all its contrivances have come upon me. No, I'm not dying…well, according to science I am a little every day and yes, that's what I am talking about but not today in the literal sense. Not yet, anyway. Whenever I visit Detroit or, rather, where I grew up, St. Clair Shores, I am confronted with mortality smack in the face. I don't visit very often anymore, once a year at most, but when I do, all I have to do to be reminded of the passing of time is look at my childhood home. What has always been to me a quaint, cozy, cottage where I thought I would never want to leave is now an old, archaic, bourgeois, unkempt, untidy, in dire need of renovation and paint, eyesore; an eyesore that I desperately want to revive to some level of maintenance and care if only just to clean it out.

What happened you say? What happened was I moved 2000 miles away and my parents got old. That's not being mean, it's true. Several years ago, after I had been living in L.A. for a few years, I came home one summer day to greet my parents at the front door who were ever excited to see me and I, them, and lo and behold, I gasped. Where formerly there had been two robust senior citizens, now were two elderly, white-haired, shrinking in their clothes, folks who I almost didn't recognize. Who did the Hollywood make-up? You can take it off now and bring me my parents, the real ones. The ones who used to vocally disdain the idea of being "seniors" (except for the discounts); the parents who used to be so self-sufficient, self-reliant and sympathized with the "real" elderly people by exclaiming, "Poor old soul." And now…

I don't know why it surprised me so much. My father was 47 already when I was born, almost 49 when my sister was born. My mother was 41 and I was her first born. So my parents were already well into middle age when their children came along. Yet, they were very active people and continued to be or so I thought. That day I came home was only the beginning of the realization that mortality hits everyone sooner or later, hopefully later, when you've had a chance to boost your 401k and make amends. It was also the realization for me that this wasn't the house I remembered anymore from my youth. That was a good thing. We all need to move on and god knows I sure did. I cease to call this "home" anymore. Where I live is my "home" now. Finally. But gradually, in the years before my father passed away and in the three years since he passed, I can see this house had grown old with them.

The problem became that my parents stopped doing what was necessary to keep the house in shape and didn't have the financial means to, other than keeping their bills paid. After my father's funeral, I helped my mother clean out some of his belongings and other things in the house and out of the house. I took the garage first. Opening the garage door, gingerly because the handles had broken off, I stood aghast looking at a garbage heap of empty boxes piled high in the middle of the floor of the garage. The floor of which I couldn't see because so much dirt, dust, leaves and other debris had covered it. At what point could my parents not see this? At what point did they decide that it was just easier to toss boxes in the garage rather than throw them out? My mother's logic was that they were saving the boxes for me in case they needed to send me something. This, of course, didn't make sense, because I hardly ever asked them to send me anything and when I did it wouldn't require anything but a small box which could be easily picked up at their local post office. Needless to say, I cleaned out the garage and a bunch of other nooks and crannies in the house of useless items waiting for a large black plastic garbage bag to hold them.

Now three years later, I hold my breath whenever I have to visit and walk in my mother's house. The distress I feel at having to stay in this once comfortable, embracing household, is palpable. This latest visit, I almost left to get a hazard suit. I awoke one morning to see a large cobweb strung from the family blind to the ceiling and from the window ledge. I looked up to see a bunch of cobwebs all over the ceiling not to mention in practically every nook and cranny in the house. I wouldn't stay in a hotel that looked like this. I would expect maybe the Bates Motel or maybe the Munster Hotel, even the Addams Family chain of Spookaday Inns but not, no, not, my parent's house.

I got busy. It took me several hours but when I finished the bugs and spiders took coat and hats in each little furry leg and grimaced and muttered their way out the door. Sorry, gang. I'm home. I understand my mother is 87 and she shouldn't have to clean her own house at this point but trying to talk her into (1) selling the house and living with me in Californy and/or (2) having a housekeeper come in twice a month at the least, is like trying to explain to her what Wi-Fi is and how it works, which is difficult for me on a good day when I'm sober. I kid, but only just barely. I don't know if I changed her thinking but I did make the house livable for at least another two weeks in which time I shall hop on a plane to my own house where the only reason I might find a cobweb is because I've been gone for two weeks.

My point is two things: that in my mid-life I am becoming acutely aware of what I have to be prepared for and look forward to in my old age and that it is long overdue I realized and also that I become as finely aware of my mother's own mortality. Since her genetic line includes amazing longevity with great health even though not one of her brothers or sisters followed an exercise regimen, diet regimen or other longevity-forming programs like vitamitavegmins, it hasn't seeped into my consciousness that her time is limited. Who knows, maybe mine is just as limited as far as that goes.

I remember after my father died many people "suggested" that now I would move back in with my mother to take care of her., of course. That's right, uproot myself from my life, one I have worked to hard to establish, including being unemployed at this time, in order to take care of my mother in her house in Michigan. Of course, the single daughter should sacrifice her life for the parent. The daughter that is married and has children has a much more valid life than a single woman could have. Not much has changed since the 50's has it ladies? Both women and men think this way, this is not limited to any one gender or the third gender and you know who you are. As you know, I didn't move back in with my mother. On the contrary, I've been trying to get her out more often to stay with me which is proving successful so who knows? In the near future, she will be living with me. I can't imagine having to put my mother in assisted living center or some such awful thing. I know I wouldn't want to be anywhere like that. The irony of all this: my sister divorced, again, and moved in her stuff "temporarily" to my mother's house, even though she's used my parents house as storage for quite some time now. So glad I didn't move back in or even remotely think about it. Sibling relationships are a whole 'nother blog and it would be much longer, another time.

One thing is sure: that I have been in the role of caretaker for awhile now and more so in the future I know. I cook for Mom all the time now and make sure she has more vegetables and fruits in her diet and less of that fast food which she denies she eats everyday but she does. Like the MacDonald's pancakes. She loves the MacDonald's pancakes and it's a social meeting spot as well. And the coffee, she loves the coffee there.

She's a pack rat though. She has every event dress from my youth, still, even though I've told her over and over to sell them, give them away, whatever. Give them to motorbike midgets I don't care. Every piece of every pot and pan and paper, paper, paper, mostly from her profession which she hasn't given up as yet even though she retired over twenty years ago, she keeps stored, stowed, tucked in somewhere, someplace, some cabinet, some bookcase, some magazine rack, etc. So this awareness also dawned on me as I cleaned for several hours and filled two huge boxes full of useless, outdated records, yes, records, those, even a 78 rpm, books, nursing books, magazines and CDs and cassettes among other things, that when my mother dies I'll have to clean out the house of all this stuff and the picture won't be pretty. And that's when I'll have to move back to Michigan because it will take at least a year to clean this all out. Sigh.

So here it is: A new stage of life, new transitions, and an opportunity here to reinvent myself. And make sure I have proper housekeeping as an ongoing routine. Otherwise, I might end up as breakfast for some lovely arachnid seeking revenge for my recent housecleaning binge.

MM