Triaging a life to make a new home for the 23rd time | A Dorothy Wilhelm column
By the time the movers get here tomorrow, I’m tasked with getting rid of the clothes I no longer need “like things with sequins.” But I think I’ll keep the red-sequined gown with the thigh-high slit because you just never know when a red sequin moment will arise.
“The new home is just 1,224 square feet from wall to wall but it’s all mine.” That’s what I wrote in this space in November 2006. I had just moved from my two-story, spacious 2,300-square-foot home in Lakewood, and was making myself at home in my new slimmed-down condo in DuPont.
When I settled into this condo in November 2006, I had moved 22 times in 25 years and confidently believed that I’d done it for the last time Well, it’s happened again. Exactly 18 years later, my 23rd move is underway, and my new apartment is a scant 714 square feet. It calls for downsizing skills I never wanted to discover.
After 18 years in this perfect condo, it’s hard to choose what to leave behind.
Last Saturday night I had a “Downsizing Everything but Friends” party and all attendees were required to take away some item that seemed to be calling to them. From paintings to Fisher Price toys to Pyrex mixing bowls, everyone found something and it cheers me to think they’ll happily go on in their new home.
Luckily, all of the memories can come with me, like the one of the young soldiers living in the upstairs condo when I moved in. Bound for deployment, they seemed bent on producing their own version of “From Here to Eternity.” Night after night. After Night.
Finally, I made up my mind, no matter how hard it might be, that I’d have to speak up.
I caught up to the young lieutenant in the parking lot.
“You see,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “my bedroom is right below yours and I can hear EVERYTHING.”
“Everything?” he asked.
I nodded mutely.
“You’ve lived a very full life,” he said respectfully. Then he brightened.
“Did it seem to you that it went on for a long time?” he asked hopefully.
I nodded gravely. “A very long time,” I said.
“I do have a lot of natural energy,” he said happily, walking away with a bit of a swagger creeping into his step.
That spring the soldiers went overseas and sold their condo to a family with two toddlers.
The 23rd move is underway. This time I’m entering assisted living, needing a little extra help to deal with Parkinson’s disease. I never expected to need this service, but more than 818,800 Americans currently reside in assisted living communities, accounting for 88% of all senior residential care communities, according to Angela Stewart, vice president of clinical services with Touchmark, a Beaverton, Oregon-based senior living company.
During the years of my husband’s military service, we learned to move with smooth efficiency. This time, I haven’t been moving very fast. I seem to need to turn over each treasure and decide whether it goes or stays. Mostly, perplexed, I put everything down without deciding at all.
I’ve had a lot of trouble working out how I’ll cram everything I need into that 700 square feet. My oldest son who spent his Coast Guard years on an icebreaker and learned how to manage in very small spaces, went to the new apartment and carefully measured where my furniture can go, placing yellow post-its to mark their places, while my daughter-in-law made quick decisions about outsize mixing bowls and cookware that can’t go along for the ride.
There are so many items that simply can’t be discarded — and yet, there’s no reason to keep them. Like the Bible that was the very first purchase of our married life 70 years ago. We were stationed at Castle Air Force Base in Merced, California. I bought the “eternal keepsake” from a traveling Bible salesman, who called my husband’s commanding officer at work to see if we could charge the $8 it would take. The cover is falling off, but I can’t seem to throw it away.
Family and friends are the priceless treasures. My older daughter, a nurse, whose Super Power is organization showed me how to triage my possessions (Discard, Donate or Keep). My grandson will take the porch swing my father (his great grandpa) made. His mom will take my Grandma’s ornate kerosene lamp.
When I walked into my living room this afternoon and the couch and dining room table were gone, and the room was filled with packing boxes, it was OK. It isn’t my house anymore. New adventures on the way. Time to move on.
Where to find Dorothy in October
Catch Dorothy’s podcast, Swimming Upstream Radio Show, at https://swimmingupstreamradioshow.com.
Contact Dorothy by phone at 800-548-9264 or via email at Dorothy@swimmingupstreamradioshow.com.
