The Time to Leave Your Homestead Is Now

The chorus of my son, my daughter, and my granddaughters sings a refrain: “Why are you doing this? Why are you leaving your beautiful home, in the community you love, to move into a retirement home? You are still alert, physically well, and energetic. Why are you doing this now?”

The answer is multifold, even if not satisfying to my family’s voice. I am 79 years old, have lived longer than many of my friends, and am not able to predict when I will become disabled and when my life will end. Anticipating these events, however, is realistic and practical.

Many of my peers, some widowed and disabled, now live in dwellings too large for them. They are unable to face the task of sorting mementos, of downsizing, of moving, and therefore remain in a place that has become more of a prison than a home. One of my octogenarian friends, who has had major health problems, can no longer safely maneuver the stairs in his home, and becomes frightened when he drives at night and loses his way. He is becoming more and more isolated. He is a poor cook, and most of his friends are his age and can no longer drive or visit him. He requires help disposing of his things—his miniature trains, his record collection—which he accumulated over many years. His wife, anticipating a move, had started the process of sorting and disposing before she died. Her widower needs to realize that he is not abandoning his wife by moving out of the house.

Often my friends put off the decision to move for too long. Before I retired, many of my patients with elderly parents consulted me, stating, “My parents should no longer live alone, and yet they refuse to move. What can I do?”

Some years ago, my neighbors, both vigorous and active, moved into a retirement home. They continued to volunteer in the public schools as tutors, to travel, and to make friends in their new surroundings. They were questioned, “Why are you doing this?” Their answer was, “We don’t want to leave one of us alone in the house when the other dies.”

I decided on an earlier rather than later move because now I am still able to make decisions: what will happen to the sofa, the computer, the family heirlooms. I made sure that valuable antiques and family pictures stayed with family members. It takes time to dispose of things in an orderly manner, and my son and daughter, both busy physicians working long hours, don’t have extra time to help with these tasks. Moving is always labor-intensive, and it behooves us, as we age, to arrange for our own moving whenever possible.

One of the most difficult decisions in this whole scenario is when to stop driving. Our lives are so dependent on personal transportation that not driving significantly changes our lifestyle. To cross that divide becomes easier once a move has been made, since most retirement homes offer some transportation and often are located near public transportation. Nonetheless, not being able to jump into your car on the spur of the moment requires adjustment. Stubbornly holding on to the car keys frequently leads to unsafe driving. My husband, who was living near my son, had 20 sets of keys to his car. Every time my son was able to persuade his father to hand over the keys, my husband would find another set and weave his Cadillac over to my son’s house, unaware that the vehicles following him had to constantly change lanes to adjust to his driving. I finally had to relocate the car to another state to resolve this dilemma.

Not everyone can afford to live in a retirement or assisted living facility. Everyone, however, can downsize to an efficiency apartment, some of which are available in government-supported housing. The major wrench comes when we have to let go of things, of treasures we have lived with for years. Things—lifeless objects—can become tyrants in our lives, demand time, care, even love. My mother spent an inordinate amount of time caring for, cleaning, maintaining machinery—her vacuum cleaner, her toaster, her coffee grinder. She was critical of, and heaped guilt on, those who did not devote themselves to inanimate objects; for her this demonstrated willful, inexcusable neglect, a character flaw. Driving a dirty car, such as mine, in her view, meant that the driver had no character at all. I suppose my lack of empathy for that attitude may have its roots in my early life experience. When I was nine years old in Germany, I had to leave all my toys, my books, my home, and flee from the Nazis to Holland. When I was 13, I left all my possessions in Holland and, once again, fled from the Nazis to the United States. Each time that I had to leave behind what I treasured it became easier, because I no longer attached myself to possessions. Although painful at the time, perhaps that was a useful lesson.

The answer to my family’s question, “Why now?” is: “If I am lucky I might live happily another ten years in my two-room apartment. I made the move out of my house early, because I am hoping that you will be relieved of the burdensome caring I may need in the future—driving me to the dentist, to the doctor; I am in a place now where help for this sort of need is available. I also, purposely, furnished my new home with things that you can give away when I die. They have no family value, no memories attached. In spite of that, I find my two rooms gemütlich (cozy, comfortable) and cheerfully decorated with the pictures my grandchildren drew, with the clay animals they made when they were younger. I moved when I was still able to do so, before independent living became impossible for me. Thus we, as a family, have avoided the difficult confrontation when you would have to tell me, ‘It’s time you move out of your house, Mom!’”