This is Chapter 6 in the Grief Memoir. Catch up with previous chapters here.
The months following my mom’s death were marked by a lot of logistics helping my dad. I returned home after he had stayed in the hospital and quickly went to a lot of doctor’s appointments with him. I needed, and wanted, to learn all that I could about his health. None were at any level of significance like cancer, but a lot of little things and a few major things, added up to a complicated picture.
His trips to the ER ranged from a few hours to days. If he stayed longer than a few hours I called a number of friends to bring some of his specialty medication to the hospital for him. I was calling him and the nurses to get status updates multiple times a day. There was a lot happening so trips to Arizona remained necessary.
My parents had set up their entire lives under the assumption that my dad, who was 17 years older than my mom, would die first. My mom was his power of attorney, medical power of attorney, listed on all of the bank accounts, and more. We started the process to untangle that, ensuring that I was listed at doctor’s offices as a person that could get his information, and even going to the bank to add me to accounts where needed.
Fortunately, my dad realized very quickly that a few things needed to change in his life. One, he needed help at home, so we hired the caregiver who helped with my mom to prep meals and other daily tasks he may need help with around the house. Two, he needed to stop driving. Honestly, my mom and I had wanted that to happen for years, so I was relieved when he told me that it was time to sell both of their cars. Three, he wanted to move to assisted living sooner rather than later. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, so we just needed to get the ball rolling.
In the back of my head during this time I was doing the math. Would it be better if he lived with us? With my dad’s assets could he maintain his lifestyle and help that he needed and if so, for how long? What if his health conditions worsened and he needed a higher tier of medical assistance? What if he ran out of money and was forced to move later? James and I made spreadsheets and shared notes on our phones. We researched all the avenues. But ultimately, we knew and decided that Dad needed to stay in Phoenix.
For one, he had doctors who knew his entire health history. Doctors he had seen for decades. More importantly, we had a huge network of support that could help him and me, no matter what. I’d already seen it in action with my mom, following her death, and when dad had been in and out of the hospital.
So I started on the to-do list. We sold the cars. A friend helped with starting the process with the assisted living facility. We got realtor recommendations. When I went out for a short trip in March I thought that we’d have some more time to take care of things, but by April it was clear that Dad needed to move and fast. I once again was out following a hospital trip, taking him to and from appointments, when we learned that a spot was opening up at the assisted living facility in a few weeks.
I called home to Kentucky, “I have to stay.”
So I stayed in Arizona. I called and scheduled movers and I started packing up my parents’ house. James investigated companies to help us take care of everything that wasn’t being moved. I bought a lot of boxes and packing material. We saved every newspaper that my dad got. I made boxes of things that I wanted to keep. I boxed up what my dad needed for assisted living. Only a few plates from the new set that I’d just bought my parents at Christmas. His favorite water bottles and mugs. His favorite books. His 70” TV.
Dad looked through some things. He said that he was working on his home office – sorting the plethora of work and personal papers in there. But it felt like I was doing the work. He commented that I was good at this packing stuff, to which I reminded him that I’d moved five times in the last 10 years thanks to the Army. To me, moving is just what I do. Put things in boxes, move to a new place.
Except this wasn’t that type of move for him. He couldn’t take everything from a three-bedroom house to a studio apartment with only a kitchenette. The memorabilia, the crystal, the plate sets, and the kitchenware couldn’t all come, didn’t need to all come. He was really saying goodbye to so much more, to the life and home he had built with my mom. He was avoiding moving in the only way he could – by not facing it.
It wasn’t until the day that we moved him in, when he kept remembering the things he still wanted, after the movers picked everything up, that it hit me. This was part of his grief and me helping was how it would get done. Fortunately, he wasn’t selling the house right away so he could go back and forth to get the remaining things for a while.
With the help of movers and friends, we got him moved in and settled. We moved the boxes and furniture I wanted to keep to an air-conditioned storage unit to figure out how to move at another time. Friends and family picked up the things we gave them, little slices of memories off to new homes.
We got the important things unpacked and put away, then I left Dad for the night at his new home. I drove back home for one last time. I walked down Orangewood Avenue, the street that I’d grown up on, including the house where I came home from the hospital. My whole life had revolved on that street – from walking through the church parking lot to elementary school on the other side to trick-or-treating to riding bikes with friends after school.
I walked through the house one more time and soaked in, locked the door, and drove away.
That night I stayed in a hotel; I couldn’t bear to sleep in the empty house. I woke up before dawn the next day to fly back to Kentucky, leaving Dad in the trusted hands of assisted living where he had access to help 24/7, giving me some peace of mind. While the move and everything happened so quickly, I was glad to get it done, because I had another move to prep for – our family was set to PCS that summer.