Too Much Stuff...Too Little Time

Winter holidays are a very challenging time of the year for memories.  Nostalgia competes with reality, and their constant push and pull give celebrations undercurrents of regret.

During quiet evenings and rushed holiday thoughts, I forget that Mom is no longer included on my gift list, and we won’t need an extra chair for her at dinner.  At these moments, I would do anything to see her again. 

Memories of my visits home slide in and out of focus, often bringing pangs of guilt. I remember all the time we spent together, when I turned on the television and sat a few feet away from Mom on the couch, and then promptly turned my attention to my laptop.  I don’t remember any of the Facebook posts/class essays/or random websites that seemed to be so important at the time.  I do have vivid memories of my mom, noticing I was ignoring her in exchange for something she didn’t understand, standing up and roaming the basement and living room.  She would return and show off something interesting she had just found, like year-old magazines or a deflated beach ball.  “Yep, looks good,” I’d say, barely glancing up. “Let’s sit down and watch your show.”  I knew her time was limited, but I was also unsure about how to interact with the new version of her that was constantly appearing.  What were we supposed to do for hours at a time when her conversations were only 45 seconds long before they started over?  When the weather was too cold for walks, and she stopped paying attention to books being read aloud, finding a mental distraction through my computer helped numb the destruction unfolding around me. And, honestly, I resented being in that position --I knew it was an unfair reaction, and I felt guilty about that, too. 

As the disease slowly continued crippling her, gift-giving took on a completely new approach.  The last several years of her life, Mom could not tell us what she wanted for holidays or her birthday, and eventually she stopped understanding what gifts or the objects were altogether. During her last Christmas, she was more interested in attempting to eat the wrapping paper than discovering what was inside.

Her eyes sparkled, though, when someone she knew walked into the room.  Holidays stopped being about physical gifts—she didn’t look twice at them.  Mom radiated during the holidays because she got to spend them with people who were special to her.

For a few Christmases before Mom moved to the Memory Unit, we gave her gift cards for a store she liked at the mall.  These were great.  She wasn’t able to use them on her own, but they were a physical promise that someone would spend time with her outside the house.  For over two years, I drove Mom to the mall on Sunday afternoons.  We walked through several stores just to see what was new, and the final stop was Mom’s favorite.  Here, we took our time and smelled as many lotions, soaps, and scents as she wanted.  Paired with coupons and sales, we could make modest amounts stretch several visits.  We stopped going when she forgot that the merchandize was not edible.

My family donated or sold most of the “stuff” we bought her for Christmas, her birthdays, Mother’s Day, etc., and, quite frankly, I don’t really remember those gifts anymore.  There were a few important items to her, like the kitty hat/scarf, but if it didn’t make her laugh, she didn’t know what to do with it.  Shoes, pants, and most of her shirts have been passed on to new adventures with residents at the nearby assisted-living home, women’s shelter, and city mission.

Still, my parents’ house is full of physical reminders.  Though Mom has not touched these objects in almost five years, many of her possessions are where she left them, patiently collecting dust as emotional time-bombs.  Moving them feels like a betrayal to her memory. Her jewelry box is still arranged on her half of the dresser. The photo of my sister sitting next to letterpeople in her kindergarten classroom is just where Mom propped it against the mirror.  Her toothbrush is in the bathroom with a half-used, crumpled tube of Crest, left behind the morning in 2013 when she fled the house for the hospital and did not return.  Moved from the countertop to the cupboard, it still stands in its holder, the bristles silently yellowing, as a miniature testament that Mom lived here.

Occasionally, she visits my dreams and I forget that she is gone.  I point my index finger at her and complain that she is sitting in my chair.  She drapes her arms around my shoulders and smiles, and I am horrified.  “Mom!” I cry, “You’re embarrassing me-- in public!” 

Time is possibly our most undervalued resource, until there is very little of it left. Now, I am more diligent with my own, preferring to spend precious minutes/hours/days with people and activities important to me, rather than finding myself buried in “stuff” and constantly fretting, “Is it worth it?” Through everything, I am much more aware that of everything I spend to show people they are special to me, the real currency of love is time.