Mom moves to Boise

My mom, Gevi, moved to Boise last week.  It’s the first time in thirty years we have lived within 400 miles of one another.  Not only do we now share the same zip code, her two-bedroom apartment is exactly one mile from my house. So far she hasn't tried to mother me and I haven't slammed my bedroom door while screaming that she just doesn't understand anything about me. Not yet, anyway. I did drop an F-bomb in her apartment when I scrapped my knuckles while assembling her new TV stand, and she let that slide.  So we'll see.

This is a big move for my mom. She’s moved before. Many times in fact. But this one is different because this time, she's moving alone. In February, just days before turning 70, her husband of 32 years died at their home in East Wenatchee, Washington. Last fall the cancer that Larry had been fighting for years spread to his lungs and nothing more could be done except to help him remain as comfortable as possible.  Mom became his around-the-clock caregiver and support system and was at his bedside when he died.  

I made several trips from Boise to East Wenatchee last winter to spend time with Larry and to give Mom a chance to leave the house for a haircut or go to church or attend to other errands that become impossible when you are caring for a dying husband alone. Just finding time to take a shower was a challenge. My brother KC, who lives about an hour away from East Wenatchee, regularly stopped by for the same purpose. Larry was never convinced that KC or I knew how to change his oxygen tank in an emergency or to get his meds right or to help him out of his chair properly, but he knew that Mom needed a break. Still, he was visibly more relaxed each time she returned.  

After each visit, my seven hour drive back to Boise provided time to reflect on how tragic yet in some ways uplifting it was to see Larry and my mom and how their relationship grew in Larry's final months. If I had to endure what Larry endured, I suspect my caregiver would smother me with a pillow just to stop my incessant bitching and moaning. And I secretly fear that I lack the strength to provide the kind of around-the-clock, non-stop care and support my mom provided for Larry. I often wonder whether it would be harder to die from a terminal illness or to provide care and comfort for a dying loved one. What I know is that I admire the courage and strength I witnessed from two people doing their best in a bad situation.

Larry's death left a void in Mom’s life. She has many supportive friends in Waterville, the small, wheat-farming community where she lived and worked at a local bank  for many years.  Waterville is a relatively short drive from where she had been living in East Wenatchee. KC and his family were nearby.  Mom had  (and continues to have) strong ties back home.  But KC’s kids are grown or nearly grown – Jake is away at college and Jessica is an uber-active high school sophomore. For the first time in nearly fifty years, Mom had no kids, no husband, no job - nothing and nobody for her to look after and worry about. I should  note that my mother is a first-rate worrier. It's just what she does. A worrier with nothing to worry about is like a hoarder without her cats. Something had to give. As Mom explained it when she finally made up her mind she was moving Boise: she needed a “purpose” to keep her engaged. 

That “purpose” in Boise, I assume,  is me , her oldest son and dearest child.To hear her tell it though, she's talking  about my kids, her granddaughters Sydney, 11, and Kendley, 4.  Carissa, my wife, travels frequently due to the nature of her work.  I travel less frequently, but sometimes litigation deadlines or client needs don’t care that Carissa is in Washington, D.C., that Kendley’s pre-school has a dollar-per-minute late fee for missing the 5:15 p.m pick-up deadline, or that Sydney has a 5:30 p.m. piano lesson followed an hour later by a basketball game on the other side of town.  We are a family in need of a grandmother to come spoil granddaughters, and sometimes to shuttle them to activities or pick them up from school and give them safe place to hang out with someone they love for a few hours.  Maybe even watch them for a long weekend once in a while so their parents can escape to somewhere not designed for children or even just for an evening to watch a movie that doesn't feature talking animals or teen-aged protagonists.

We all are adjusting to this new arrangement.  It’s been less than two week. We don’t want to turn Grandma into a glorified babysitter and she resists our efforts to join us for dinner every night, fretting that she doesn’t want to be intrusive. Actually, the girls have adjusted fine. They have already spent one night sleeping at Grandma’s and they love the pool in her apartment complex. They’ve helped bake chocolate chip cookies and helped eat brownies. Although confession time: the parents of the grandkids may have actually been the ones who got into the batch of brownies.  Funny how the bulk of baked goods are consumed by those who need them least. 

So Mom has moved to Boise in search of purpose. If you define purpose as keeping track of a family of four who at times is headed in eight different direction, then yes, we have purpose here in Boise. We only hope Grandma doesn't get too much of what she hopes for. I suspect, however,  that Grandma and her granddaughters will make a pretty good combination. Mom is stocking her kitchen with treats and snacks and her spare bedroom with books and toys she know the girls will enjoy. She's getting spare toothbrushes and other items so the girls don't need to pack when they spend the night. Early indications are she will have a purpose and thrive. If I can persuade her to keep her fridge stocked with beer for her son, this experiment will be golden.