Tags
cemetery, closure, completion, death, dogwood tree, elderly parents, endings, estate, executrix, family, home, lilac bushes, Parkinson's Disease, persistence, physical therapy, responsibility
This past week I closed my dad’s estate account. My job as his executrix is complete. Most of the work was finished within the first seven or eight months. He passed away in June of 2010; by the end of that first year, the house and car were sold and most of the financials dealt with. This last year was spent waiting for one little detail or another.
Finally, it was all done, and my job is done, and the account is closed, and I am sad because this was the last earthly thing I could do for my father and closing the account ends that last thing.
I am glad it is done, and my siblings are glad it is done. We worked together so easily and well, the five of us, our spouses, the three grandchildren. My brother John, my sister-in-law Cheryl, my sister Janet– that first summer, they spent weeks away from their own homes, cleaning out our parents’ home, taking care of the kinds of things that– had they been left to me to do– would not have gotten done. I could not have gone through all the closets and dressers and cabinets, the boxes of letters and photo albums, sifting through what we would keep and put into storage, and what we could part with. The days I spent there with them or by myself, going through papers that needed to be looked over before we could shred them or file them– those days, I would spend my hours skimming through piles of forms and then be stopped in my tracks by my mother’s handwriting, or a photo of my father as a young, strong man. I would have to stop to read, or look; I’d break down and weep.
If we had depended on me to do the work that John, Cheryl, and Janet did, I would still be doing it, and the house would not now be occupied by a happy family, a mom and a dad and two young boys with a yard and a deck and a dogwood tree and lilac bushes.When Dad was first diagnosed with Parkinson’s in January (six months before he passed), his doctor told us that he was going to have to have in-home physical therapy two or three times a week, for as long as Medicare would pay for it (about three months). My first thought was: How on earth are we going to accomplish that? I was working full-time in the city; Barb and George (our sister and brother-in-law in Dad’s town) also worked full-time; Alyssa (their daughter) was a high school senior. One of us would have to be there with Dad so that the physical therapist could get into the house. Dad would never have let in a “stranger” (even one he saw three times a week) without one of us with him. For those three months, for each physical therapy appointment, one of us was always there, helping Dad’s physical therapist, cheering Dad on.
It was a wonderful opportunity for closeness, and he loved the attention he got in those sessions. He would spontaneously break into song sometimes; at the end of his session, he would do a little dance around the dining room table with Analyn (the PT). On my days, I brought soup and bread and Zaro’s walnut yogurt loaf from the city and we’d eat together after he was done.
I treasure those memories. I know that what we did added joy to my dad’s last months on this earth.
One of the things I kept when we went through my folks’ house was the little white shopping bag with my father’s hearing aids. When I look at that bag, I think of the three trips into Manhattan to DC37’s Hearing Clinic that my brother-in-law George and I took with Dad. I never could have gotten Dad to the union clinic on public transportation without George’s help.
My brothers-in-law Walter (Janet’s husband) and Chris (Nancy’s husband) would work with Dad and his hearing aids with endless patience and focus whenever they came to visit. While the guys would work with Dad, the girls would clean Dad’s bathrooms and kitchen.
The thirteen of us– the five children, the five children-in-law, the three grandchildren– each one made a unique, valuable, loving, full-hearted contribution to Dad’s last years.
People keep telling me how unusual it is that in such a large family, there isn’t at least one person who acts out of venal (or at least selfish) motives. There wasn’t, and there were precious few disagreements among us along the way.
I believe that my parents can see us from wherever they are, and that they know that their life’s work was a success.
On Thursday, I went to Union to close the estate account. I probably didn’t have to go to the branch where I opened the account, but I wanted to. I’m big on ceremony and ritual.
When I arrived at the Roselle Park station, I walked down Chestnut Street, the way I had (in all kinds of weather) so many times in the last months of Dad’s life. This past Thursday was a gorgeous day; it was the same kind of day that it had been the day that Dad took his last walk.
I walked down Chestnut to Rutgers Lane, walked up to Galloping Hill Road. When traffic broke (I always ask my mom to watch over me as I cross this busy road), I walked across and up Forest Drive to the next intersection, then right, up a small hill, and on to Huntington Road, where my parents lived for fifteen years.
I slowed as I walked past their former home. The dogwood tree is still there, my mother’s lilac bushes, too; the windows on the screened-in porch have been replaced. Their house seems content, which pleases me.
I walk up to the corner of Livingston, and turn left, retracing the route I know my father took the last morning of his life.
I step into a mud puddle as I approach the shortcut path through the woods of Union. (In my mind’s ear, I hear my dad stifle a giggle, laughing at my muddy sandaled foot…) On the path, I look down into the woods where my father’s life ended. I wish I could know what he saw or heard that drew him in, but I will never know that, not in this life. I say a silent prayer, and continue to Salem Road.
I prop my muddy foot up on a fireplug, and pull a Wash-n-Dry out of my purse; three Wash-n-Dries later, foot and sandal are clean and I continue my walk down Salem Road to Chestnut Street and the Bank of America branch where I opened the estate account almost two years before.
The banker who closes the account is the same banker who opened it. It takes less than ten minutes, and I am done. I thank him, leave the bank, walk up the street to my sister’s house.
Barb drives us to the cemetery; at our parents’ grave, the bright colored daisies that she and George brought for Mother’s Day are still fresh, and I put the dark pink roses I brought right next to them. Barb waters both bunches of blossoms.
I say to my parents: “I did my best to do as you asked. I’m done now. I finished what you asked me to do. I hope you’re proud of us. I’m proud of us.”
Barb and I say a prayer; a gust of cool wind comes up; it chills her and she shivers, so she gets back into the car. I stay for another minute, and then join her for the ride back to her house. Before I go, I take a small stone, and as my friend Mitch once did, I leave the stone on the corner of my parents’ gravemarker. It signifies that I was here.
I am done.
Writerlious said:
Such a difficult time for you and your family. It is a testament to how strong the family bond is that you were able to work together so well.
Beautiful words you’ve written about it. 🙂
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Thank you, Erin. The difficult parts are done, and we got through by helping each other. I’m only beginning to understand just how unusual our experience was…
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sorrygnat said:
Well done noble daughter; sounds like a wonderful dad and a wonderful family; i hope the days are gentle with you all
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Thank you, Esther. I appreciate your kind words more than words can say.
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nancy said:
Beautifully written and beautifully done by you and all of us. I’m very proud of us as a family unit!
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Thanks, Nancy. I keep hearing how different our experience was from what siblings usually go through after the deaths of their parents. I didn’t think we were all that unusual, even given the two generations of sibling separation prior. I wonder if seeing the pain that caused accounts for how we all were with each other? Even the kids-in-law pitched in, cooperated, helped with everything.
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Kelly Williamson said:
You capture such an important time with beautiful writing. The emotion was palpable, I cried myself! Be proud of what you did for him, and the strong family to which you belong. When all Is said and done, that’s what matters.
Another great post from one of my favorite bloggers!!!
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Kelly, thank you so much. Your experience with your family in dealing with your mom’s illness is close to mine, in that you are sharing and supporting each other. May it ever continue thus. Love can get you through almost anything.
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stephanie said:
That was beautiful, Claudia. I wish I could have done this for my parents, but it was not to be.I read your post through tears. Of course, they are and always have been proud of all of you. You worked as a team to get the work done, that needed to be done. What you couldn’t do, another in your family had the strength to do it. What they couldn’t do, you were able to do it. What a great plan your parents had in place. They knew each of your strengths and they provided a plan that would allow each of you to fulfill that strength. As a team, a well oiled Karabaic Machine, you found success in a very challenging task. They are proud, I just know they are. And, they are always there watching and inspiring…..
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ckswarriorqueen said:
I was saying just this to one of my oldest friends yesterday: in some ways, it’s easier to get through this experience with a big family, because you have so many choices for creating alliances and voting blocs if it becomes necessary.
When it’s just two of you, if you disagree, that’s it: you are roadblocked from resolving your issues unless one of you caves or you are both willing to compromise. My friend is one of three, and she is always outvoted by the other two, despite being the caregiver.
My parents knew our strengths, for sure, but I don’t think even they would have predicted how everyone came together to deal with what was before us. My brothers-in-law and sister-in-law were every bit as involved and genuinely helpful as my sisters and brother; even the grandkids helped as age and opportunity permitted.
I really had no idea we were such an unusual story. Now, I wonder why it worked so well for us– what did we have, what did we do, that kept sibling drama to a minimum and allowed us to work together so seamlessly?
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Sabra said:
Claudia, your post moved me on many levels. I closed my husband’s estate and related to many things you wrote. I wish you all the best as you continue your journey without your dad.
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Oh, Sabra, I cannot even imagine what it is like to go through this process for a beloved spouse.
I wish you peace in your grief, and I wish you joy in your memories.
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Shelley said:
You are indeed a Warrior Queen! Looking through your parents stuff and seeing your mom’s handwriting gave me goose bumps. I know of what you speak.
Fantastic that your family could honour your parents wishes in agreement. That is so beautiful, losing our parents is difficult enough.
Feel warm in your knowledge that you did what your parents wanted. That you carry with you as your symbol of love, while the tears continue and the sadness overwhelms…
Family and love and memories are so important. Thank you for this entry. You cannot possibly know how many others this will also help. xo
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Thank you, Shelley. I hope our experience is helpful to others. I feel that what I need to do now is examine why things went as well they did for us; what things did we do right?
When we were kids, we fought like cats and dogs. As we grew older, we grew closer in spirit, but further away geographically. A lot of the day-to-day burdens were on our youngest sister, her husband (who treated my parents as though they were his own), and their daughter. They were always in and out of dad’s house, and he was in and out of theirs; their lives were so entwined and it was from love, not duty. The rest of us provided what support we could– I was in the next state, but the other were hundred of miles away.
Still, in emergencies, each one dropped what they were doing to pitch in.
I used to think that that’s just what families do; I am finding out now that we were different (not just in our usual odd way, but in a productive and supportive way).
We all married the right people, too, and that was a huge help.
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Yomaira said:
This is wonderful. My dad has Lewy’s bodies a combination of Parkinson and Alzheimer and that goes faster. i know that it is matter of time and my mom is his caregiver at a time that she is not a “spring chicken” herself. I see the love and patience she has in dealing with him. I pray and hope that we too as their children with our partners will also act civilly and loving in his and her memory. It is not a small accomplishment for I have seen the turmoil and fights in my parents family when their parents died. That is why it is so heartening to read this. I will send the link to my siblings in hopes a seed is planted to how it should and can be.
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Yomaira, I wish you well in your journey.
Something we did that made communicating easier was we always kept in touch by email, especially as our parents’ health began to fail. Whenever one of the out-of-town sibs came to visit, they’d send an update of what they saw and felt about how things were going, because someone who is there on a day-to-day basis can miss the tiny, incremental changes that are obvious to someone who hasn’t seen your parent in weeks or months.
We also kept all our contact information updated with each other and with our parents. Our parents had made their wishes and intentions explicit; we had their health care proxies, we knew who had Power of Attorney, and we always agreed to do the things we needed to do by taking votes and going with consensus. None of us decided to do important things without consulting with all the others. And the sibs-in-law were all AMAZING.
Keeping the lines of communication open between the sibs and with your mom, and supporting your mom as caregiver (making sure she has breaks, that she gets what she needs to continue)– those things are critical.
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Peg said:
This is both movingly written and exemplary in so many ways. I do think that it’s valuable to tell this story of a family finding its way in uncharted territory and working cooperatively. That’s what makes the story unusual since the family script, regardless of how many children there are, is usually that the task of managing falls to one, most usually a daughter. One thing that strikes me is how you and your siblings learned to be patient, not just with each other, but with the situation you found yourselves in. Keep writing!
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ckswarriorqueen said:
Thanks, Peg. We were very lucky, and very blessed. We all have very strong personalities, and we are all different– as my cousin Stephanie pointed out upthread, my parents did a good job of identifying our individual strengths, but there were so many ways this could have gone wrong.
What happened was that our choices were driven by love and concern, both for our parents and for each other. At the end of the day, and at the end of life, that’s really all there is.
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April said:
you write very poignantly and I can imagine the exact paths you walked. what really took me aback was actually the fact that now a new family is living in his house – it’s really silly but it hadn’t occurred to me really that someone else would be living there now. but I agree that both your parents must be so proud of you and your family – you are so close and it shows in the tough times like this.
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ckswarriorqueen said:
April, it’s so great to see you here on my blog! I always think of you when I am in Union; I know you know those paths even better than I do. I will never forget how and you and Claire and Kevin stayed with Alyssa all through our days of searching.You and the others helped so much, just by being there.
Passing by the house is a strange, disjointed experience for me; in my mind, I cross the grass and go up the steps, and ring the bell and expect my dad to answer. In reality, my feet keep moving along the street and past, while my heart is drawn in.
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