I have decided to make a former client my role model. I met him half a dozen years ago, when he was in his early eighties and moving to a retirement community. As we began planning his move, he said, “I lost my wife three years ago. Sorting through our belongings makes me feel like I am losing her all over again—I wish I could go away and come back after the move.”

And so he became our first “I’d rather go on vacation” moving client. Since then, I have often thought about his ability—and his willingness—to articulate his feelings and take a course of action that worked for him.

“Margie Dear, I am moving and I need your help.” So began the call from my 91-year old Aunt Betty. Never mind that I have used my real name, Margit, for 38 years. To Aunt Betty, I will always be Margie.  Betty has buried three husbands, and her only daughter, my first cousin, died at 20. So I went to Florida to help her move from a large 2-bedroom apartment to a retirement community.

Betty had moved into the community on Monday, taking only two suitcases.  New furniture had been purchased for the apartment, because she had brought none with her when she moved from Philadelphia 8 years earlier. My job was to help her go through her belongings at the old apartment, identify what she wanted, and have it brought to the retirement community.  In short, I needed to help her sort through and downsize. No problem. After all, I am a Senior Move Manager.  But I am also, I discovered, a niece, and throughout the weekend, these two different roles collided.

Like many of my clients, Aunt Betty had a hard time parting with items I knew she would never use. Sometimes, I could cajole her into letting something go.
“But I loved this lamp,” she said, pointing to a 40-inch tall lamp that was still in its shipping box from 8 years ago. “Well, not enough to use it for the past 8 years,” I replied. She laughed and said, “You’re right.”  These interactions – I refer to them as reality checks– were easy, because they did not diminish her as a person.

It was harder when we looked at large serving dishes.  “I may have a dinner party,” she said. Betty is very frail. She uses a walker and qualifies for independent living only because Bea, her aid, is with her 6 days per week. I couldn’t say to her, “Betty, you haven’t made a meal for yourself in months. “ She does not need to be reminded that reality is cruel. It was similar when we went through clothing she insisted she might wear someday. I couldn’t remind her that she wears only pants with elastic waists so she can pull them up herself, and that they need to be full enough to accommodate the disposable underwear she now uses. Some memories and images of ourselves need to be preserved as who we once were.

Even though much of what she wanted to take would never we worn or used, I knew there was space for it in the new apartment. Her decisions didn’t have to be perfect or wise, but they were her decisions, and the Senior Move Manager in me accepted that. Later that day we met with a Move Management colleague whose staff would handle the packing and transport of clothing and other items after I left.  When I took my colleague aside and said, “If you find any clothing that is torn or stained, discard it,” I was horrified. I would never say that about a client’s belongings! Suddenly, I was no longer a Senior Move Manager, I was a family member. The ease with which I had lost professional objectivity and slid into expediency was alarming. Yet, I understood why adult children are so often pulled in this direction. They’re coping with their own mixed feelings about their evolving role and added responsibilities, as well as with changes they see in their parents. When expediency wins, it’s not from lack of concern, it’s from lack of time.

As it turns out, the next day was when  the roles of Senior Move Manager and family member most collided. I had arrived Saturday morning and Betty and I had worked throughout the weekend. It was 8 PM Sunday evening when we arrived at her new apartment with a load of pictures and other items in the car.  Since Betty walks very slowly, I dropped her at the door and suggested that she start toward her second floor apartment while I unloaded everything onto the hotel dolly kept in the lobby for such purposes. When I reached the apartment 15 minutes later, there was no answer. Worried, I began walking through the hallways.  I found Betty on the first floor. “I got lost, I couldn’t find my apartment,” she said “Then I got so tired, I had to sit down.” “Your apartment number is on your walker and also on the keys around your neck,” I gently reminded her.  “I know, but I just couldn’t figure it out,” she said.  And then I realized, I was no longer the Senior Move Manager; I was family.

Like so many family members, I had come in for a weekend determined to get things done in the time frame I had allotted, and I had put my need for productivity ahead of Betty’s need to rest or enjoy my visit. I wanted to be finished; Betty wanted us to have time to talk.

The Senior Move Manager in me emerged again as I reflected on what I had seen and inadvertently, caused. Betty had moved on Monday, a transition that was both hard and emotional. She barely had time to adjust to her new environment, when I swooped in and created two incredibly long, emotional days. I was exhausted; I can’t imagine what she must have felt like.  As a Move Manager, I know that stress, emotions and anxiety take a particular toll on seniors, a toll that often manifests as memory loss and disorganized thinking. Whatever cognitive status Betty had before the move, what I had observed Sunday night was Betty under the worst conditions.  I had caused it, and I should have known better.

When I visited Betty Monday morning, I apologized for exhausting her so much over the weekend. “Oh honey, I just feel so badly that you worked so hard,” she said. And there she was, the Betty I knew, parenting me, rewarding me for coming down to help.  Yet, in her next sentence, she was confused about whether she was in Florida or Philadelphia. The juxtaposition of the old Betty and the new Betty was sobering.

In the days that followed, I alerted family members who might call that Betty might not be herself for a while. I explained that the stress and emotions of the move had taken a toll, and that with time, I was hopeful she would rebound and be more like her old self. And in fact, in recent phone conversations, she has sounded more like herself.

Yet Betty is aware that she has changed. “My memory has gotten so bad’ she said recently, clearly disturbed, “I am not the person I used to be.” To dispute what she knows to be true would be condescending. I want her to know that even if her cognitive status is changing, she is still the same person to me, and that I still love her. “I have noticed a change from months ago,” I responded. “I think you are about 90% of the Betty I know, and that’s OK with me.” Betty smiled. I think being 90% of Betty was OK with her, too.

In sailing, the technique used to move upwind (or against the wind) is called “tacking.” Although tacking is actually a combination of vector mathematics and boat design, to most of us, it refers to the concept of making forward progress by zigzagging rather than moving forward directly. For adult children helping their parents transition from one home to another, tacking can be a very useful concept.

I met recently with a woman in her early eighties. She suffered a stroke last summer, and a few months later, she lost her husband. They had planned to move to a nearby retirement community, and my client decided that she wanted to continue with that plan even though her husband was no longer with her. As she recuperated from the stroke and dealt with the loss of her husband, one of the tasks that gave her great pleasure was planning her new home, a large two-bedroom villa separate from the main building on the retirement campus. She worked with a decorator and implemented a number of changes that made the villa her own. Both financially and emotionally, she was invested in the villa.

For nine months after her stroke, she was not permitted to drive. Shortly before her planned move, she underwent an evaluation to confirm her ability to resume driving, and was crushed to learn that she did not pass. Without driving, her children argued, moving to a villa detached from the main building was a mistake. She would be cut off from activities and opportunitiies for socializing — key factors that had motivated the decision to move in the first place. It was likely that she would need to move again within a few years, to an apartment within the main building. Wouldn’t it be better, they maintained, to move just once?

While I understood the children’s point of view, I saw the issue through different eyes. In less than one year, my client had lost her health, her husband, her ability to drive, and now she was leaving her home of forty years. The villa had been something to reach for and move toward, something in which she had invested time, energy and passion. Now her children were suggesting that she lose that as well. How much can a person lose at one time?

My client clearly preferred the villa to the main building. I hoped her children would support her decision, and fortunately, they did. If and when my client moves from her villa to an apartment at some point in the future, the difficult transition from the family home will already have been made. She will change spaces, but will be staying within a community that she already calls “home.”

The lesson here, for both adult children and Senior Move Managers, is to remember this sailing metaphor — how moving forward in the face of a strong wind requires going from side to side, not straight ahead. Sometimes getting parents or clients to agree to move requires supporting a decision that is less than optimal, but may be the decision that is accepted. Keeping this perspective will reduce conflict and improve the quality of  interaction for all involved, because faced with formidable obstacles, going sideways is sometimes the most straightforward path.

As a Senior Move Manager, I see all sorts of client treasures, so it has made me think about my own l treasures as well. If you went to my home, you probably would not notice my treasures, even though they are in plain view. That’s because they look ordinary. They don’t have a lot of material value. They’re my treasures because they have special meaning to me.

My first treasure is a common blue and white mug — a souvenir from a trip to the Bahamas with my friend Karen when we were both single. For years, the mug had no special meaning; I kept it on my desk to hold pens. Eight years later, at 36, Karen was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. She died at 38. During this same time period, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, except 21 years later, I am alive and well. It seems so arbitrary; it is hard to make sense of it. So over time, that ordinary blue has taken on new importance. It reminds me of Karen, yes, but even more, it reminds me how lucky I am. I went on to raise a family, to start a business, to help found an industry. That’s one thing about personal treasures. They may not start out as a treasure; they can evolve.

Another one of my personal treasures is a large, framed needlepoint that hangs above my desk. My mother did the needlepoint as a girl in Hungary. She told me how they gathered together to embroider, and one person would read aloud while the others sewed. She ran out of red in the final corner and substituted pink. I love this imperfection. When I graduated from college, my mother had the needlepoint framed and presented it to me as a graduation gift, and that’s when it became a personal treasure. My mother came to America when she was 12, and was put back a grade so she could learn English. When she was 17, she caught TB and spent a year in a sanitarium. By the time she was released, she was two years older than her classmates and never returned to high school. Growing up, I knew my mother never went to college, but I was in my twenties when I realized she had never finished high school. Her brother, my uncle, went to college and became a physician.

Like many baby boomers, I grew up knowing I was expected to go to college. But for my mother, it was more than an expectation, it was a need. I knew how much it bothered my mother that she did not have an education, and how much pleasure she took from my academic successes. From the time I was in junior high, I asked her to read every novel I loved so we could discuss it together. Over the years, we shared dozens of books we laughed and cried over. If in part she lived thru me, I didn’t mind; I enjoyed her support and was happy to give her pleasure. So when my mother unwrapped the needlepoint, I knew it was the perfect gift. It was our graduation gift, hers and mine together.

As I think about my personal treasures, I realize that I have neglected something important. They are personal treasures, it’s true, but I have kept their meaning personal and private too; I haven’t shared their story. That’s why I am sharing it with you now, and why I will share it with my children. Perhaps that is the real value of personal treasures — the story behind them that only you can share. Because when all is said and done, passing on who you are is the most important legacy you have.

Several months ago, I met with a hoarder; I’ll call him Dr. F. An 89 year old retired physician, he lives alone in a 5 bedroom house, in which every room is literally filled with “stuff.”

His kitchen has an 18-inch aisle to walk through; all other space is piled 6 feet high. He has no access to his sink or stove and receives home delivered meals. None of the bedrooms in the house can be walked into, and his bed cannot be slept on. He sleeps on a cot in the basement. We found two chairs on the first floor on which he can sit. Every other horizontal surface is occupied. His garage and basement, like the other rooms, are accessed by narrow aisles.

Dr F is aware that he hoards. In fact, he has read many articles about hoarding and talks of the Collyer Brothers, two famous hoarders in New York City who suffocated when the tons of paper and debris in their apartment fell on them. He never has company and admits that things have replaced people in his life. He knows that he is under great risk of falling and that for people his age, falls are often life altering.

We discussed all these issues, and suggested a plan to make one room in his house—the den next to the kitchen – a space he could sit in. That was a modest goal. We were not trying to change him or clean out his home; we just wanted to provide one area where could sit and talk to friends. Although Dr. F is well to do, we wanted to remove money as a barrier to our services and offered help at no charge so he could experience working with us and develop trust.

Dr. F seemed to truly enjoy our visit and we believe he would enjoy simply having people to talk to, regardless of what got accomplished.

Repeatedly, however, he turned us down. “I know what hoarding has cost me in terms of connections to people,” he has said. “I know what could happen if I fall. But this is how I live. I’m doing pretty well for 89. I haven’t fallen yet and I hope I don’t, but that is a risk I am willing to live with.”

I thought about what he said. We all take risks. Some of us smoke, some of us are non-compliant with medications, some of us are overweight, some of us postpone mammograms, and many of us talk on cell phones while driving. Even though we know the potential consequences, we assume risk everyday.

I thought about adult children who worry and try to convince their parents to use grab bars, to move to one story living, to stop driving, to move to a safer enviornment. I respect Dr. F and his right to assume risk and live as he chooses. But he is not my parent. How much harder it must be, I wonder, to watch those we love put themselves in harm’s way, regardless of how competent they are to make that decision. Our parents protected us from danger when we were young; we feel an obligation and a desire to do the same for them. But they are not children.

“Honor thy father and mother” has never seemed so complex. My parents died when I was very young. I wonder how I would honor my father and mother if they were alive today.