I get a call from my nearly 83 year old mother: her long awaited move to an Assisted Living Village has been confirmed.
Would I please come over and help make the move? Yes, mother, I will.
I travel from my little abode on Vancouver Island to the mainland via ferry. This trip takes a minimum of four hours - one way. Mother is there to pick me up at the terminal; hands me the keys to her tiny car; slowly settles herself in the passenger seat and begins to issue directives........which do not stop for nine l-o-n-g days.
I organize: find movers; pack boxes; move small items; keep us (and the resident cat) fed; remind her that all services must be notified; acquire address change cards from the post office; keep track of three sets of keys; help set up the new place and clean the old one, all the while trying to maintain my sanity.
I will not go into more detail, suffice it to say that we have spent better times together.
Returning home, I fall into bed and sleep for two days.
Upon resuming my life, the first thing I do is to amass a pile of my own unused stuff to give away. Secondly, I vow to steadily decrease my already meager material things till everything I own will fit into the back of one pick-up truck. Most importantly, I contact friends to talk with, hoping to acquire a better personal perspective.
The event is as stressful, if not more so, as any other major changes we encounter during our lifetime. And maybe worse, knowing that my mother is preparing to die.
