The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men......

I have always been in awe of people who ‘plan their work and work their plan’.  I wouldn’t say my life has been a complete accident, but that would be closer to the truth than to say I’ve always had a plan.

Even when I have one my plans just never seem to work out.  As I was thinking about this blog entry it occurred to me I have seldom worked in a job for which I formally applied.   My pattern during my working life was to decide on a job, work on my resume, apply for the job….then end up doing something entirely different for someone who came after me.  Somehow that seems to have gotten me where I am today; retired.

Anyway, as I closed my fifth year as editor at Heart of Ohio Magazine my mother’s health was declining.  I made my plan to retire so I would have more time to spend with and care for her.  At the close of October I would retire, write articles on a free-lance basis and spend more time as caregiver. 

Making the decision wasn’t easy because I’ve enjoyed watching the magazine grow and develop; it may be the most satisfying thing I’ve ever undertaken. Still, I knew I could satisfy my need to write without being in the office.   Mom didn’t have to know exactly why I was stepping away, and I could give her the attention she required as her needs increased.   Sounds like a plan, yes?

As we moved into October we hired my replacement at the magazine.   Adelyn Belsterling and I got to know one another, and I felt comfortable knowing the editor’s job was in good hands. 

My mother has always been a strong willed woman who had to have the last word.  It is a trait I share with her, but she perfected it long before I mastered the technique.  In mid-October she became ill and passed away October 21^st, just ten days before my retirement became official.

Even though my plan had changed I decided to go ahead with this (second) retirement.  I now had my mother’s affairs to take care of, and her house to prepare for sale.   A new plan slowly formed; I would use the winter to empty the house, paint the rooms and prepare it to be put on the market in the spring.  I imagined myself, a mug of hot cocoa beside a chair, going through mom’s papers and pictures; then moving on to drawers and closets.  This sad but necessary task had to be accomplished while I wrestled with this new feeling of being an orphan.   No matter how old you are when your parents die there is a loneliness that cannot be explained…only experienced.

Larry and I spent the days after mom’s death just doing the paperwork such an event produces.  We waded through the funeral…the burial…thank you notes and returning calls…cancelling services and policies and direct withdrawals that were, sadly, no longer necessary.  It is the kind of thing that, for me at least, is always mind numbing and sometimes maddening.  He took the lead and I followed behind making my curmudgeon noises. Finally, we were done.

Sitting in the family room one evening, three weeks to the day after my mother’s death, I was settled in with a late cup of coffee and a movie recorded eons ago.  My deep sign of relaxation caught in my throat when Larry appeared in the doorway, “Get your shoes on, your mom’s house is on fire.”

Racing across town we drew as close to the house as the gathering of fire trucks would allow.  No flames were visible, but the smell of burnt wood and belongings filled the rainy night air.  The fire had started in the back of the small house and it burned, scorched and melted everything in its path.  Firemen in yellow slickers and helmets showed us around the rubble of what had once been my parent's home.  The flashing lights of the trucks created a surreal illumination that revealed the damage in pulsing bursts of light.

My latest plan lay smoldering around me.  No papers to go through…no walls to paint…no drawers or closets to empty.  Instead smoke rose from the black, sodden mess that had been my bedroom as a child and mom's room after dad died.  Now the discussion would be with fire investigators and insurance reps.  It crossed my mind that my mom, a very private person who would not appreciate anyone fussing around in her belongings, may have once again had the final word. 

Mom always worried that I worked too hard, that she demanded too much of my time, and that she was a burden.  Even tho I knew none of that was true, she never would have wanted to put on my shoulders the sad duty of clearing away the remnants of the sixty plus years of life she spent in this house with my dad.  Now the work was done, and everything she would have wanted left untouched was gone.

The wheels of the insurance industry are slowly turning; there will soon be a time when we decide what our next course of action will be with mom’s house.   I refuse to think about it constantly, I refuse to give in to grief….and I refuse to call our next step, whatever it might be, “a plan”.

                                                                     Life is Good