3 Generations Under One Roof: Part II . . . The Move In

So, who was the woman with the tear-stained face shaking in my living room?  Normally, one of the most intelligent and driven people I have ever known.  She was a war baby, initially raised by her mother and her grandparents.  She didn’t meet her father until she was nearly two. 

Gorgeous, even as a baby, she was eventually raised by parents who had an ongoing love affair for over 50 years.  She began college at 17, and married my father at 18.  She thought he was the smartest man she had ever met. They went to Disneyland on their honeymoon. 

A little over a year later, I (the accident originating from an interlude on their living room floor) was born. . . my mother was only 9 days out of her teenage years. My Grandparents were very excited, but my mother’s mother did caution her to remember to give me water. My parents had no idea what to do with me so they adopted a laissez faire approach to parenting. I was like a fulltime pet and my mother had to quit college.

Almost forty years later, when my father decided he “no longer wanted to be married,” my mother went back to college, got her B.S. in rehabilitative counseling, her real estate license, and became a stock market guru.  Did I mention she is also an artist, an interior designer, and the best negotiator I have ever seen?  Quit frankly, there is nothing my mother can’t do if she puts her mind to it. 

In the four years preceding my brother’s death, she was divorced and was forced to sell the dream house she loved (and designed).  She was her own agent and sold it in one day — an amazing feat considering the house was priced at well over a million dollars.  She had 30 days to empty the mega house she had lived in for 25 years.  One of the first pieces that sold was a chalk drawing she had done for the great room . . .  it wasn’t even for sale, but a man offered her $800.00 so she sold it. As she was frantically trying to move out of the house, one of her best friends died. 

My ever-industrious mother found a little apartment to stay in for a bit. Almost a year later, her father suddenly passed away.  Six months later, my brother, who was everyone’s favorite, was gone. . . and she was notified that her apartment was being sold.

So, there she was, shivering and crying in my living room — the spark and spunk completely knocked out of her.  Blessed with close friends, family and the emotional support of the community, we coasted in our shock for a few of months. . . until the apartment she was renting sold.

I sat down with her and offered that she come stay with me until she could find a place she really liked.  She was so sad and I didn’t want for her to be further stressed or alone.  It was not a well-thought out plan — I didn’t even have an extra bedroom and we had no idea how long it would take for her to find a place.  I knew, however, that I would feel more comforatble if I could keep an eye on her and take care of her. . . the thought of her scrambling around in that state seemed profoundly unfair and the cruelest of hands.

For the first two months, we shared my Queen-sized bed. My hair had begun to fall out from the traumatic shock of losing my brother and I had lost fifteen pounds. My Mother could only fall asleep if the television was on and I couldn’t fall asleep with any noise around me.  I was very tired, becoming hairless, but Mom seemed to feel comforted, somewhat, by being in our house. My daughter seemed happy to have her with us, as well.            THE END OF PART II

                                                   KudoSurf Me! ’′’′’’’’’′The Blog Directory