One Sweater at a Time

On Saturday mornings, I’d arrive at Mom’s and we’d go sit in her private room while her caregivers vacuumed and picked up the house. Her room was very pleasant, well-lit by natural sunlight and with a window overlooking the pool – “the oceanfront room,” as Tim and Cristina, the owners of the group home, lightheartedly referred to it.

In the fall when it was cool enough in Arizona, the bedroom window could be opened to let in the fresh air. At some point, Gabriel or Angela would enter with an armful of clean laundry, folded and still warm from the dryer. I’d take this as my cue to sort through Mom’s closet and bureau drawers. I found myself doing this quite often, constantly weeding out her clothes for various reasons. I had already thinned out the heavier clothes and winter jackets that had made the trek to Arizona from earlier days in New York. Now I’d pull out the blazers that were too stiff for her fragile frame and dresses for occasions no longer on Mom’s calendar, as well as the higher-heeled shoes that went with them. I’d take out sizes that became too big for her as she continued to shrink in stature.

Many items had already been removed and donated to charity. How was it that I was still sorting sweaters? I suppose the answer is that it is a gradual process. Letting go of the clothes was also letting go of the things Mom could no longer do and the events she would no longer attend – ever again. The finality of it had to be accepted. My way of dealing with that was to make sure Mom was in nice, comfortable clothes that were also pretty. Colorful tops that flattered her. If the pants now needed to be elasticized at the waist, so be it, but they’d be good quality and soft cotton. The moment I noticed a spot or stain, out the item went. There would come a day when there would be no more pretty tops to buy for Mom. But not today.

On this particular Saturday morning, I positioned Mom’s wheelchair beside me and said: Let’s organize your closet.

Bringing Mom into the process, I asked: Should we donate some of these sweaters you no longer wear?

Yes, she said.

Okay, let’s make a pile on the bed.

There we were, Mom smiling at me as I took two steps back and forth from closet to bed, making piles of sweaters and deciding certain hangars were no longer in good shape.

I arranged the items in the closet with a hint to Mom’s caregivers to assemble certain outfits. Long-sleeved tops that were easy enough to pull on. Short-sleeved tops in an array of colors. Pants: navy, gray and camel-colored. Cardigan sweaters for indoors. Sweaters for outdoors. The two sneaker-shoes that fit better: one slip-on, one with Velcro strap and the new slippers that were more comfortable than the old. One robe and a few pajamas. There was a relaxed amount of space between the items on hangars and what remained was in good shape.

After about an hour of this, I stood back to admire our work, a beautifully organized closet. Mom smiled and laughed, shaking her head at her silly daughter, yet pleased.

When we were done, she said, “How’d we do it?” I answered: “One sweater at a time.”

It was an apt metaphor that offered a feeling of calm to us both that morning.

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Note: Names have been changed for privacy.