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Posts Tagged ‘decisions’

Savings passbook

My mom even saved our passbooks from our children's savings plan in grade school.

Going through some of Ken’s and my acquisitions I couldn’t help but be reminded of moving my mom and dad from their lovely country home in Sonoma County to the Bay Area.  It was my job to sort through and pack their house filled with years of accumulations.  My father was a collector of tools, but Mama saved everything.  When they arrived in San Francisco during the Great Depression, someone told her she should never throw away a receipt.  She didn’t.  I suppose she was allowed to toss grocery receipts, but for bills she saved every single paper marked or stamped “PAID IN FULL.”

With her Alzheimer’s already noticeable and my dad’s decision for them to move closer to me and Ken, I spent a week at their home packing, sorting and tossing.  My best advice to anyone living anywhere is to keep your files up-to-date and clear of any unnecessary paperwork.  It’s also the best gift you can leave to your children who will be responsible for the disposition of everything which has been left behind after you’re gone.  Mama literally had every receipt given  to her or my dad.  Drawers and boxes of them were filed in an orderly manner going as far back as the mid-1930s.  In addition, she had every bankbook ever delivered to any of us.

As I recall from my youth, we had bank day on Friday at our school.  To participate, we were issued our very own passbook, blue in color in its own pocket envelope. A little bigger than a cell phone the book was given to each student with his/her name placed on the first inside page with the name of one parent.  Into this account we could make a deposit of as little as a few cents every week.  A bank official was at the school to make the entry into the book which was signed and dated in neat, very legible handwriting.  This weekly ritual taught my sisters and me to be thrifty even during those economically stressful years.  Eventually, the total grew to a few dollars, but never more than $4. or $5. and, perhaps, a few odd cents before we advanced to junior high school. I suppose by then the banks had decided the practice was more bother than worth, and the accounts were soon forgotten by most students.

In my mother’s filing system, I found our passbooks stamped closed, the few dollar having been withdrawn by Mom – it was actually her money.  In addition to our canceled books were several closed savings accounts belonging to my parents as they became savvy about more advantageous ways of investing. The books, in addition to other obsolete transactions were, no doubt, saved because Mom considered them to be important records.  Accepting that she believed they were important, but not totally certain of her reasoning left a fragment of doubt causing me to question the obvious.  Consequently, I called each bank for closure verification as I cleaned and tossed.  Countless hours could have been saved if Mom had been “brave” enough to dispose of what was closed, canceled or no longer current.

One of Irene's saved pictures

She was also an artist in her own right, and I found so many pieces of early work.  Okay pieces – showing the structure of learning — not wonderful — but painted by my mother which tainted them with sentiment.  At first I thought I would save them, and then asked myself, “Why?”  They weren’t good enough to hang, so who would want them?  I decided it best not to ask, just do it: discard.   If her mind had been clear I would never have been so presumptuous, but she was in the first stages of a terminal mental illness. It was a fact, yet that same nagging thought kept running through my mind about the possibility of her waking up some morning and the AD would be gone.  I still haven’t figured out if that’s denial or hope.  Whatever it is, it’s somewhat of a nuisance – not only a nuisance – it can paralyze decision making.

So I made the decisions: item after item, file after file, sketch after sketch, painting after painting – I alone decided their fate.  Keep it in case she remembers, or discard but don’t tell her?  It sounds so mean – so intrusive — but I knew Alzheimer’s already from caring for Ken’s parents.  Furthermore, no new strides had been made with the disease.  Mama would never even look for her old work. Chances were she may not have remembered even doing the selections I fretted over, much less the receipts, files or ancient bankbooks.   Besides, I reassured myself, it was easier to discard, destroy, recycle, or donate while she was still alive.  I could get rid of what was useless, would never be missed or needed which would ultimately relieve me from some of the packing, moving, unpacking and sorting again once they were settled in their new home.  Respectfully, I did what I felt I had to do.

And then, eventually, one day when both Mom and Dad were gone and the remaining chore was to dismantle their home much of the difficult decision making had already been done.  Meanwhile, without so much “stuff” to manage and create clutter I could do what was most important: spend more time with them.  Now I am striving to apply that same philosophy as I continue to downsize the home where Ken and I have lived, loved and shared for more than a half century.  Wish me luck.

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The first week of November is a different time of the year for a 40th Class Reunion, but for whatever the reason, I was really looking forward to having our oldest daughter, Deborah, travel from Utah for the event and spend a few days with us, as well as her children and grandchildren.  She and husband, Mark, moved to Utah when he was downsized from his graphic arts job, located just south of San Francisco, with a package deal for an early retirement.

Wisely, they took their California money, retirement from her school teaching job and settled in Ogden.  The good part for them is they have several children who also live in Ogden; hence, grandchildren.  So wherever they are — Bay Area or Utah — there is family, but we miss them.

Our other four children, three boys and a girl (correctly put, it should read three men and one woman) live no more than an hour away from us, and that’s a good thing.  In the event of an emergency for either Ken or me, someone is only moments away.

Interesting, though, whether they live a mile away or 800 miles away, Ken doesn’t know any of them.  When Debbie arrived she greeted her father with a non-threatening hug and, “Hi Dad.  I’m your daughter, Debbie.”  He viewed her with suspicion and replied, “I don’t know about that,” which is similar to the same response he gives the others, even me.  His very brief moments of knowing me are sandwiched in between his mood swings amounting to not more than 10 to 15 minutes each day.

Even if the visit is lengthy it doesn’t matter; further recognition of his children does not take place as the hours move on.  All of us are just “someone” to him, as I was only “someone” to my mother as she slipped away into the more advanced stages of AD.  It was the same way with Ken’s parents, Rose and Nick; we were nobody, welcome nobodies, a few middle-aged people who kept showing up for a visit.  Their memory of family was and is gone.

I’m not sure if acceptance is an instant thing or if it’s gradual — probably a little of both.  When those first tears stop is that total acceptance?  Or is it when the patients look at the beautiful faces of family and sees them not?  I’m also certain that the timing is different for each family member.  Furthermore, acceptance isn’t just about the disease, there is always something new to accept as the victim spirals down the bottomless staircase.

In a recent response to my Blog, a follower mentioned that when the family fully accepts that Alzheimer’s is terminal, they could better come together in determining what is best for the victim.  That’s true, but, again, each case is very different and must be carefully evaluated.

For Ken’s parents and their particular situation and condition, we found it best to place them, at different times, in full-care facilities.  My mother, however, remained in the family home which included my father (with a live-in caregiver) until she took her last breath.  These decisions even in retrospect, for all of us, were what we believed to be best, not only for the AD patient, but for all concerned.

Never meaning to undermine the wrenching decision of children being called upon to put their parent or parents in a care facility, that relationship doesn’t compare to decades of intimacy and oneness shared by a husband and a wife.  Nor does anything compare to the agonizing decision reached by the well spouse who finally must declare, “Now is the time.”  And then, it is with support of family, all agreeing, that placement is necessary, which includes that which has already been declared and accepted:  Yes!  Alzheimer’s is terminal.

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