Good-bye, House...

 

Good-bye,  House…We’ll Never Forget You

Most of you know that my father passed away in May and we held his funeral on June 1^st. If you hadn’t heard that news, here’s the link to that blog post: https://katiekolbergmemmel.blogspot.com/2023/06/saying-good-bye-to-my-dad.html    

Celebrating Dad's 99th b-day

What many of you don’t know is that Dad still lived in his house until shortly before he died. He personally began building it for our growing family back in 1954. I remember my older siblings talking about the early days of living there. My parents moved in before the second story was finished, so my brother and sister shared the bedroom off the kitchen. When my next brother was born, Mom and Dad simply added his crib to a corner of their own bedroom until the upstairs work was complete in ‘56. Life went on until several years later when in August of ’61, yours’ truly appeared on the scene. That house was the only one I lived in until the day I married Todd in 1981. It’s been a part of my life for… well… for my whole life!  

Before he fell, I often talked with Dad about how his “end days” might play out, and how he thought things should be handled after he was gone. He advised that if nobody in the family wanted to buy the house, I should sell it. He knew I had worked on the administrative side of real estate for many years, and that I had a friend or two in the business. He trusted I’d handle the sale without any trouble.

My father had never been a pack rat. That said, he was 100 years old, and had not moved since building the place, 70 years prior. Let’s simply say he’d accumulated quite a few things, especially when you factor in that he was from the generation who’d lived through the Depression. He didn’t like to throw out or waste anything that might have a use some day.

After the funeral, I spent lots of time at the house, detailing each room’s contents, and weighing out the best way to empty each. I started by making an announcement to the family. “If anybody wants something, tape your name on the item. If more than one person wants it, we’ll figure it out.” (For the record, no two people ever wanted the same item). I was often present as our loved ones came through the house. I felt privileged to witness their tears, as sweet memories spilled out. “I remember holidays when we’d play ping pong in the basement…” “Remember when Grandma baked cookies with me…?” “Remember the games of basketball on the driveway…?” On and on...  

Slowly, the items were taken from the house, which then left me with decisions to make about the rest. The Salvation Army came and picked up some clothes, dishes, and furniture. I only became emotional once. It was when the movers carried my father’s brown leather recliner out the front door. I could still envision him sitting in it, all of us gathered to celebrate his 99th birthday. How many sports teams had he watched on TV from that perch? Movies? I must admit that the sight of it leaving made my throat close and my eyes mist. But… there was still work to do. We made many trips to Goodwill (and yes, even to the dump). Todd cleaned the basement, then packed up and boxed paint brushes, nuts and bolts, and any/everything else that was scattered around Dad’s workroom. One brother faithfully took care of the lawn and flowers. My oldest brother and my sister seemed to enjoy sorting through the numerous boxes of photos and news clippings that had accumulated. As we laughed, reminisced and even rolled our eyes, we created a pile of pictures for each of us, plus a stack to go through “later”.  

As I waited through the probate process, I received many phone calls, as well as a large amount of written correspondence, from realtors and “we-buy-houses-for-cash” businesses. I really didn’t want to sell our family home that way - to someone who only wanted it to turn it around and re-sell. Rather, I wanted a buyer who would enjoy living there, and who'd make the needed repairs because he/she liked the place. I received a couple of offers from those cash dealers, but just couldn’t see our family going that route. Before I listed the house, I asked my realtor friend for advice about the process. In the end, and to my delight, it was his son who purchased the house. In my opinion, the deal was a win/win – a young man who liked the home and neighborhood, and wanted to live there.

The phone was in the corner by the fridge

With a solid buyer in the wings, I knew our days at the house were numbered. I found myself looking more closely at every room, closet, cabinet and drawer. Talk about a trip down Memory Lane! I remembered back to when I’d sit in the kitchen, talking to my friends (and eventually Todd) for hours on our family’s one phone. I remembered friends standing by the backdoor in the kitchen, talking with Mom and Dad while I finished getting ready to go out. I remembered special occasions like Homecoming dances, when my date picked me up. We exchanged corsages and boutonnieres, then took pictures near the piano. I reminisced about walking out to our old mailbox, hoping and praying that in amongst the water and electric bills, I’d receive a letter from a pen pal or current love interest. And I remembered the Thanksgiving when Todd and I sat on the couch, and announced our engagement to my whole family.

My room and closet where I "hid" my journal

My biggest memory of the house itself will probably be my upstairs bedroom. After my sister got married, Mom and Dad let me move up to her old room. How many homework assignments had been completed there? How many books read? How many notes had I written to friends? Most importantly, that room was where I started journaling; not just about where I’d been that day or what we’d had for supper. No. I started journaling about the real stuff – the “who, what, where, when and why” of teenage life. Every night before bed I wrote my thoughts about it all, then hid the ever-growing pages in a shoebox in my closet. Had I really thought that was a good hiding place for such precious thoughts? Yes, for some reason I had.

And so… after the house was emptied out and cleaned by us for the last time, I signed the paperwork that permanently ended our family’s time there. It had to happen sometime. Was I ready? Yes… and no. Is anyone ever fully ready to let go of such a large part of their history? Their life?   

But I can say that just as love and care had been shown to each of us in that house over the past 70 years, first from our parents, then finally from our dad; love and care was given through our preparation of selling it, too.

Mom and Dad

Each of the four of us got the opportunity to walk through, take pictures, and say good-bye one final time. I was last. 

“Good-bye, Mom, good-bye, Dad. Good luck, old house. May you thrive with your new owner. Love, your one-and-only family… well, to this point, anyway. We’ll never forget you."  

Then… I closed the door.

 

Katie Kolberg Memmel is the author of three books: her recently-updated “Five Fingers, Ten Toes – A Mother’s Story of Raising a Child Born with a Limb Difference – 10-Year Anniversary Edition, now with Photos”; “Silly Stories and Sentimental Stuff”; and “From This Day Forward…” All are available in paperback as well as electronic versions. For more information about Katie and her writing, please go to her website: www.katiekolbergmemmel.com

 

 

 

 

Saying Good-Bye to My Dad

Hello Dear Readers! 

If you have been active on Facebook over the past month or so, you’ve likely read that our family endured some sadness recently. My dad, the guy who turned 100 years old last fall, passed away. Some folks reminded me, “Well, Katie, he was 100. He couldn’t live that much longer.” I know, I know… Of course they are right. I know they are right. Yet, when it comes to your own parent, your own father, it doesn’t feel quite that simple. 

My dad was sort of “one of a kind”, you know? After my mom passed, he lived alone for 20 years. He golfed pretty well until about three years ago when balance issues got the better of him. He was still driving his car at 99 - just short distances, mind you - but was still able to get around. Unless he was at work, he drank two beers a day for probably the last 80 years, solemnly swearing they aided in his good health. His blood pressure was still okay, his breathing and pulse rates were still okay. But then, back in February, he fell. Nothing would ever be the same for our dad – or any of us - again. 

He hit his head and developed a brain bleed. Just as its name suggests, his brain started to bleed and began clouding his everyday functions. At first, we thought he might recover - get some rehab and live another couple of years. My brothers, sister, and I tried for a few weeks, watching as things were possibly, slowly (like turtle-crawling-slowly), improving. However, about two weeks in, his progress stopped, and he seemed to reverse, and went downhill fast. 

A final CT scan showed that the bleed was spreading and taking with it his ability to stand, walk, feed himself, and more. There would be no more rehab. Hospice is what they recommended. Within two days, I was signing the paperwork. We knew the day we’d thought about was now inevitable. Our 100-year-old dad was going to die. 

At first, we watched his every move. “Is that normal? Does he always do that? Is he talking the same? Is he happy? Is he angry? Does he know what’s happening at all?” We didn’t know, but he didn’t pass. My siblings and I read two books about hospice care, and the information they provided made us see that indeed, some of his behaviors seemed like “end of life” signs. 

Early in the hospice process, during one of his brief moments of alertness, he told me, “Kate, I feel like something is happening to me.” I perked up, and encouraged him to continue. “I had a dream where I saw the Lord – not his face, of course, but it was him.” Intrigued, I told him it was okay if he needed to go, and actually told him to “walk toward the light”. But he said, “No, the Lord’s not ready for me yet.” 

Dad’s dream was so clear to him, like nothing had been since his fall, or ever was again. If the Lord wasn’t ready for him yet, then what was all of this about? There had to be another reason this was happening to him. I watched him closely for every possibility, but I don’t think I’ll ever truly know, at least on this side of Heaven. 

Another week began with us asking the same questions. Two weeks. Three. “Did we do the right thing by admitting him to hospice? Maybe the bleed will clear. Could he ever live alone again?” Oh, how naiive we were. Maybe, maybe, maybe… We kept wondering. Week four, week five. We didn’t know if we should get our hopes back up or leave them abandoned on the ground. It seemed as though every time we encountered something positive, the next day, afternoon, or hour, his situation changed again. Nothing was certain. No timeframe seemed to be present. Week six, week seven… visit after visit… holding his hand, saying good-bye. Sometimes he’d respond coherently, appropriately. Those were good days. Many times, we’d think it was the end. 

His pain became more and more evident - not just verbally saying so, which were some of the most heartbreaking sounds I’ve ever heard – but visually, too. Lines on his face, furrowed brow, clenched jaw, visible weight loss. By week eight, we seemed to have no more choice. It was time for heavier pain meds. With that, he seemed more restful, more at peace. Then finally, during week nine, the inevitable happened. 

It was a Friday morning, exactly three months to the day since his fall. Todd and I got up and started our morning routines, planning what time that day to go visit Dad. My cell phone rang, interrupting our schedule-making. It was a woman from Hospice. She explained to me that earlier that morning, my dad had passed away. I blinked, not knowing what to say. 

Even though I knew it was time, that it was best, that it was inevitable… I was still shocked. My brothers, sister, and I were now parentless, sort of like orphans - in their 60’s and 70’s, mind you, but orphans, nonetheless. I cried. 

My siblings and I cooperated pretty well, and planned a beautiful funeral. Ten years ago for Father’s Day, I had written a short essay for my dad about his and my relationship. Back then, he asked me if someday I’d read it at his funeral. I told him I would… so I did. Tony was able to come to town and sang/played guitar for the service – How Great Thou Art, Beautiful Savior, and Abide with me. My daughter and her family drove up from Tulsa, Oklahoma to say “good-bye” to their grampa. Dad would have loved it, had he been there. 

Our father was a retired fireman, so the city for which he’d served, provided him/us with an honor guard ceremony. As the visitation time began, about every 15 minutes, three guards ceremoniously rotated in and out of their post near where our dad lay, one of them always at attention, near him. I’d never seen that before. It was really cool… and emotional. 

Dad was a WWII vet, so he received a military honors burial, complete with the three gunshots. After they folded the flag that had draped his coffin, they handed it to me. Such a somber moment. My jaw quivered and my eyes misted. I swallowed hard, trying to be brave. Then, after 100 1/2 years of living, our dad was gone from this earth and out of our sight. 

He had been a Christian throughout his life. We know he is now at rest with the Lord. some of dad’s favorite scriptures are in John 14. There, the disciples are told that Jesus is going away to prepare a place for them. As much as we’ll miss our dad, we know he is now pain-free and perfect, living with the One who prepared his place. Oh, how that vision brings me peace. 

Three months doesn’t seem like a long time, yet it felt like an eternity. My siblings and I each had time to say what we wanted to say to our dad, even if he wasn’t always awake or comprehending. I hope they each took those precious moments and used them. I know I did. 

And so… we now move forward. Here I am, blogging about the experience, hoping that someone who is reading these words will know that they’re not alone - that our family has also endured something hard.  

That said, we do know our dad’s okay. Better than okay. Actually, he’s finally home. 

Both in good times and hard, I wish you God’s every blessing, 

Katie 

Katie Kolberg Memmel has written three books: “Five Fingers, Ten Toes – A Mother’s Story of Raising a Child Born with a Limb Difference” (Ten-year anniversary edition, now with photos); “Silly Stories and Sentimental Stuff”; and “From This Day Forward…” All three are available through Amazon - paperback or Kindle edition. Visit her website at: www.katiekolbergmemmel.com for more information about her, and for links to her books.