Unlock memories to reconnect and advance
My 92-year-old dad has been living in a nursing home for the last three months. It’s been a painful time for both of us. His mind is still pretty sharp, but his body is just not capable of independent living. He really doesn’t want to be there, and the thought of him spending his remaining days in a wheelchair makes my heart hurt in all new places.
It’s especially hard to see his eyes dimming. He’s always been the social life of the party, his charismatic engagement with others has been his signature trait, so when he tells me he’d rather stay in his room rather than sit with others in the lobby, I’m sad.
I like to wheel my dad outside so that the sunlight and fresh air can at least for a moment refresh him. One such “outing,” my cell phone rang. I dug into my purse; lifting my wallet onto my lap, uprooting my pocket calendar and moving the 8 tubes of lipstick in order to reach my phone, vibrating amidst the plethora of stuff. By the time I found my phone, the call went to voicemail.
“You need a bigger purse,” my dad offered with an emerging twinkle in his eye I hadn’t seen for a while. My eyes responded in kind. “You think so Dad?” We laughed, and I felt grateful for the momentary respite from his grim reality. Next thing we knew, our conversation traversed to a common ground of love.
“Dad,” I said, “Do you remember mom’s purse?”
He chuckled with knowing. My mom’s purse was bottomless. She carried her life in her bag. Nothing was beyond value. Years-old thank you notes from her children were clumped inside her birthday-noted date book bound by a rubber band. Cough drops and chewable mints were embedded beneath the last week’s iced-tea purchase receipts from Steak and Shake. Any restless church-attending toddler had plenty of entertainment options among the endless supply of scrap paper, decades-old wallet-sized school photos of her children, and decorative pens.
You knew who my mom was by the contents of her purse. Nothing fancy or pretentious; everything important to the heart. She tried smaller purses in hopes of simplifying, but that never seemed to work. She tried bigger purses to accommodate her traveling “story,” but with more space only came more treasures. I guess it depends on how you look at it, but you could say my mom’s purse content was full of soul.
My dad and I shared a conversation about my mom and how her crazybusy-purse tendency was apparently a genetic trait. He continued to shake his head as I returned the contents on my lap back into my too-small bag. Other women I know carry only the essentials — wallet, keys, Kleenex and lipstick of the day. Not us.
My dad’s look became wistful, as if he were visiting my mom’s memory. I kept the dialogue going, pulling up funny stories about her to engage my dad in happy thoughts. We remembered a different time when joy was much more accessible, and I cleared the cobwebs of his memory bank at least for a minute or two. We ended our visit. My dad seemed a bit peppier then he had upon my arrival. As I left him parked in the lobby of his facility greeting those who entered, I was grateful, yet again, for my mom’s presence. She still exudes life even years after her passing. And the best part is that her beautiful essence is as accessible as an unzipped purse.