As I was driving away with my parents this morning from the home where they have lived for the last almost 4 years, I found myself singing an old top 40 hit--"We Gotta Get Out of This Place," and laughing to myself.
We did it. All of my mom's many many clothes (most of which she has never worn, and some of which still have tags on them), all of my dad's gardening stuff and plants, all of the books, papers, magazines, etc. my dad just can't let go of, all of the books of photographs and framed pictures, my dad's worm farm, and my parents themselves are out of there.
I found as I was signing papers to acknowledge receipt of their medication that they were not using current medication information, but information from early last year, which means that they were giving my parents the wrong amounts and in some cases the wrong medications entirely. But they seem none the worse for wear, and are happily adjusting to their new place.
We scouted around the grounds, arranging my dad's plants. These grounds are so large, dotted with little houses where the caregivers stay, gardening sheds, picnic benches, umbrellas, and tchtchkes of various kinds, including cherub fountains and a large plastic dinosaur of uncertain origin, that one could get lost in them. They will make a good place for a birthday or holiday party for either parent during the year.
I found the nearest Costco, delivered mom's diapers and their vitamins, then went shopping for my son's frozen foods, and went home, too late for yoga, but satisfied and admiring the gorgeous blue sky, stratified with clouds of various textures--one layer like a ribbed palate, the next like a length of white silk ribbon, the next like a field full of dandelions gone to seed, happy to be finished the move.