What I Really Want to Say

Elaine stepped out of her life and into eternity. Carl, left behind by no fault of his own, was relocated to memory care just eight miles from the home he built with his own hands forty years ago. A plan was in place for Carl and Elaine. Words on paper make a difficult life transition less excruciating, in theory—the unbearable burden of turning the thousand-pound page to the last chapter. 

Robin, Steve’s mother, and Elaine were cousins. Their birthdays in August are 3 days apart. Robin, the elder, turned 96 last August, and Elaine 93. They lived on the same street in Tumalo after Carl and Elaine moved from Chicago to Bend in 1985. Robin and Elaine played cribbage every Monday afternoon, taking turns in each other’s homes. Over the years we included Carl and Elaine in holiday celebrations but rarely saw them otherwise.

Steve and I agreed years ago to serve as successor trustees for Carl and Elaine when they were no longer able to manage their own affairs. We all hoped it would not turn out this way—Elaine going before Carl. We preferred the reverse due to Carl’s deepening dementia. Magical thinking rarely follows our desires. 

It happened so quickly. We knew what we had to do—the path ahead was clear. We moved Carl ten days after he lost his wife, barely before Elaine returned in ashes in a box held in a cream-colored bag with handles. We had help—lots of one-anothering—and God doing for us what we could not do for ourselves. 

Six weeks earlier when Elaine returned from the hospital as a recruit for Hospice, she prepared for her end. She wrote four notebook pages of contact information of people to notify when she died. A three-ring binder held photographs and note cards of possessions to put in the hands of distant family and friends. I found a note in Elaine’s weakened script on a blue notepad from St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital stating that we would not be getting a Christmas card this year; the transition to “a home” would be very hard on Carl; and that she was at peace and ready to go.

I looked around the house that Carl built. Stuff that used to be money lined the shelves and adorned the walls. Beer steins, blue and white dishes, porcelain birds, Western series books, African safari-themed needlepoint pillows and wall art bearing the initials “EZ”, Leopard print throw pillows and blankets, an electric scooter Elaine used to get across the 1,900 square foot house, the dining room table covered with a plastic tablecloth and red cloth placemats, the chair where Carl sat to gaze out at the Cascade mountains.

There was no sense of urgency. Everything was tidy. The dishes were done and the counters were clean. Canes used by the former residents hung on the lip of the counter. The heirloom family mantle clock surrounded by German-styled mugs and the wall clock in the kitchen both displayed different times, having stopped their work years ago. The sense that everything was in its place was unnerving, paralyzing. Not enough time had passed for the dust to accumulate.

I went through the notification list of family members and shared the news that Elaine had passed. She did not want a memorial service and there were no plans to announce. Unable to find an email address, I called the bossy widow of the nephew who was Elaine’s last bloodline-connected relation. She wept briefly and asked if we would send all of Elaine’s clothing, shoes, and jewelry. They were the same size, her and Elaine. She called me back to add more things. The death of a loved one makes some people grasp for debris like survivors floating in the ocean after a shipwreck. 

Over the days I went through cupboards and drawers as time allowed. I brought home reusable bags of banking records, bills, and folders. I unpacked them in our shared office on a card table to organize them into years and perceived levels of priority. We notified all the people and places; and contacted the providers that would help us sell all the stuff. We needed to turn the stuff back into money to keep 90-year-old Carl in “the home” where he will likely spend the rest of his days. 

Eventually, the piles of papers translated into manilla folders. The process was not remarkable, only required to get from there to here. It is mostly done now, the bags empty, the card table free, and returned to the garage. A persistent barrage of calls, online portal messages, and letters placed us in the position of check signers and sellers of all things.

I cannot shake the possibility that Elaine has been watching over our shoulders as we go through her possessions, care for her beloved husband of fifty-nine years, and wrap her life into a beautiful story we can ponder in our hearts. Sure, we made remarks about her accumulation of decorative plates, books, records, and the expansive kitty collection of statutes, pillows, prints, and more. She loved beautiful decor. Carl’s passion was guns. He bought them, built them, and packed his bullets. In light of circumstances, his treasures faded into the hands of gun brokers and relatives in the last few years. Only a few Black powder pieces remain. It is easy to collect goodies over time. Some are better at this than others.

Bereaved, abandoned, overwhelmed, longing, responsible, invasive, disrespectful, unworthy. These feelings wash over me in waves as my eyes look where they do not belong—in the private spaces of another person’s life. Elaine and Carl did not have children. The luxury of holding what happened under their roof was not for them. I have done what I can to honor the position they placed me in for this purpose. There was nothing to see—only the crumbs leftover from a life well-lived.

Elaine was a lovely woman. I received calls and notes from some of the people I contacted with the news of her passing. She was a God-loving, card-playing, adventure-seeking woman with a great big heart. Pictures around the home reveal ski trips, sailing excursions, backpacking outings, cozy Christmas settings in their home, and true, long-lasting love between her and Carl.

I took a deep breath and called the Central Point, Oregon woman who wanted the wardrobe and accessories. Her countenance was relaxed. She’d considered that her closet was already full. She could not accept more than jewelry and a little colorful snuff box. I obliged her request, happy to be done with the task of gift dispersal left by Elaine.

That feeling of Elaine watching—did she approve of the care we took for her body as it slowly shut down in the dying process? Is she satisfied with the disbursement of her belongings, the installment of her husband in memory care, and the words I share on the page of her end? I may never have the answer to these questions. One thing I know for sure: it is better to attend a funeral than a party. Solomon was right in that regard. Life and death are both a gift and a mystery. This has been an excellent study of being and not having. I know now more than ever that I want to have less and be more.