Mom and I talked a lot about her stuff and what would happen to all of it. She went through this with her own mother and with our Indiana house after my dad died. She knew the feeling of WTH? I would point out objects that meant something special to me and she would discuss belongings that were special to her. The rest of the stuff we would just sit and stare at, both of us at a loss as to what to do with it. One accumulates tons of nonsense in one's life which is important at that time, but which one realizes is not important later down the road.
I was left with The Condo and the contents when everyone returned to their lives. I suppose I could have just changed the locks and left it all sitting there, but I didn't. First of all, the place was cluttered. It drove me crazy when mom was alive and I finally felt like I could fix that. Secondly, my brother insisted I take everything of value when the pineapple theft happened and I was so crazed by then that I did a quick sweep through the place dumping contents into bags that sat on the floor in my dining room until recently. Once I did those things it just felt natural to keep going. I also think I was searching for something, unsure of what that was, but knowing I would know when I found it.
I emptied the refrigerator and freezer, leaving items I thought people would use if they stayed there such as ketchup and mustard and jelly. I think I thought that the people would be my brother, and now every time I open that refrigerator and stare at those items I think how silly it is that I left those inside. I cleaned out the cabinets and tossed expired items of which she had bags full. I left coffee, spices, and canned goods for the "people" in case they wanted to whip up a pot of spaghetti or black beans and rice. I folded her clothes and donated them to Hospice, wanting to thank them for what they did for all of us. I kept sports T'shirts and a few items because I just did. I cleaned out the books she had bought in the last few years that I had read and had no interest in owning and donated them to the city library. I took a piece of furniture and a few things I wanted. I cleaned out the medicines and turned them over the local police department who dispose of them in mysterious ways so as not to harm the water supply, or the wildlife, or the drug addicts who rummage through garbage. I donated an old printer and an old red lamp that I didn't remember ever seeing before until this week when discussing it with someone and suddenly remembered we used it for putting together the Christmas puzzle. I got rid of various back and neck massagers and shoes that I didn't want or didn't fit me or my girls. The rest of the donated items consisted of small items like wallets my dad always insisted on giving her for Christmas that she never used, picture frames with broken glass, and bags and purses and odds and ends. By the time I got to the outside closet and dug into those boxes I was pretty much over it all. She had one Rubbermaid container, a large one mind you, full of nothing but seashells she had collected over her lifetime. Seashells. Another box had driftwood. Driftwood. What am I suppose to do with that? I closed up the boxes and put them back into the closet to deal with six months from now or whenever I feel the need to purge. How cool would it be to take the seashells one night or early morning to the beach and walk up and down the shore dropping them for others to find?
I quit last week. I called her friend, the cleaning lady who had also been her evening caregiver for the last three and a half years, and asked her to do a final cleaning. She knew the place as well as I did, if not better, and she was highly impressed and complimentary with all the work I had done. Which was the exact opposite of my older daughter who promptly burst into tears when she saw The Condo because "It doesn't look like Grandma lives here anymore." I had a heavy heart for a day after that because I knew that feeling, have experienced it myself after the death of my aunt and my father. But one thing I have also learned from these experiences with my mother these last five years is that no one should judge one's ways until one has gone through it for oneself.
My husband has said for years that we have too much stuff. He use to tell me that he only kept enough stuff to put in a box that he could carry with him. He has been surprisingly quiet about the stuff that has been slowly added to our house and the stuff piled high in our dining room and Steelers room. Some days I get overwhelmed by all of it and just wish I had my own closet to stuff it all in. Sometimes I wonder why I brought it home, but then I think what if The Condo had a fire? I ignore the fact that could happen at my own house too.
My brother hasn't been back since our mom died. He hasn't checked in with me on what I'm doing, and now that I'm done and have witnessed my daughter's reactions I worry about him. He didn't want much after my dad died; no pictures, no movies, no slides. I suppose I figured he would feel the same this time too, but now I worry he might have wanted that red desk lamp. My aunt I think is just waiting for us to grieve through it all before she speaks up on what she may want. .
It would have been nice to have spent the time going through everything with family, but realistically that wasn't possible. I am responsible for settling her estate and there is much involved with that and I had to search for paperwork and documents and doing that led me to my OCD of cleaning. So I trudge on, digging through the boxes and files I brought home and every once in awhile I come across a little gem. And that little gem cleanses me and motivates me to find more. Because I still think I'm searching...
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