Why

They are stacked 5 bins deep in my front room, my mother’s clothes and shoes. Cindy and I were summoned by dad a few weeks ago to help clear out what she can no longer use and make room for other necessities that end of life care requires. I’ve tried twice to go through them and separate the ones in the best condition to donate. My mom, however, was meticulous about what she wore so much so that she made all her clothes until just a few years ago. It was no surprise that I’ve only found a shirt and a pair of pants with bleach stains that have my dad’s name written all over them; his struggle with the technology and my mother's care has made for several hilarious moments between me and my siblings. 

I can’t seem to let them go. It’s as though I’m being watched by eyes that reach across my memories and pull from their closets the visions of mom in each item. I’m becoming a professional at refolding and replacing them right back where they had rested. My thoughts have wrestled me to the ground again this early morning and sit across the width of my reason wanting to know why. Why can’t I let go? She will not return to my world and reclaim them. Each day brings evidence that barring a miracle this woman who now wears adult diapers and cannot do anything for herself is not going to hop out of bed one day and throw open her closet door and yell, "WHERE THE HELL ARE MY CLOTHES!" Still, I stare at them with wishful eyes-eyes that no longer remember how she was unless a weathered photo pulls its windows open and blows her through my mind.

There have been justifiable moments when I wished she had gone quickly and unannounced. Instead, the invitation to her decline came stamped with my RSVP and even though I didn’t want to attend this event, I'm here. This new role of caregiver is the hardest role I've played in the relationship with my mom. End stage dementia has cleared the roads of her memories out of her mind and left her with broken words and sporadic thoughts. There actually was a recent day that made me severely question my desire that she left sooner. The day she threw me a curve ball when she laughed and called me Charlie Brown. It was the nickname she bestowed on me at such a tender age that I was thoroughly concerned when starting First Grade how long my name might be on the page (Ramona Ann Charlie Brown Willis). It’s funny to me now but it was very serious business at the time. One day I marched up to my mom to share my angst at possibly being laughed at for such a long name, not to mention the extra time I had to carve out to write it correctly. My mom laughed and then explained that it was a nickname and not my real name. As relieved as a 6 year old with a normal size name could be, I went outside to enlighten my playmates about how nicknames aren't real.

“Why mom?” I caught myself asking and asking again. “Why did you choose that nickname for me?” She mumbled something about green sheets and cucumbers that some man had lost indicating that my answer would not be coming around the corner to meet me that day. Cindy thinks it might be because of my brown eyes but I’m not satisfied with the simplicity of that reason. I’m a person fixated on the complicated and hidden meaning in everything. There must be some great life-altering reason she was so compelled to call me that. If I could only crack the code. It can’t be because I lacked the ability to punt a football. Paul and I played with the neighbor kids for hours and I was always his first pick … except for the time he picked Alan first, but, we were all tired of Alan being dead last, especially when it made him teary. It can’t be because I had a beagle dog, I had a silver tabby cat. It can’t be because I was a boy with a big head who didn’t like to change shirts, I obviously wasn’t. But that nickname stuck with me my whole childhood. When I reached Middle School, thanks to my brother’s coaching methods in football, I began to excel at other sports. Mom told me once that she felt like a celebrity after my games because kids and parents would come up to her and ask if she were Charlie’s mom.  By then the nickname wrestled itself free from needing two names and tied itself to the back pocket of my life. It stayed there until my first crush. At that point the need to untie the boyish nickname became paramount and I regained my given name.

I’ve not thought about that nickname in decades. When my mom said it, I fell straight through a trapdoor and splashed into the pool of my inner child. It took me back to that one short season in my childhood when my mom and I were close. It was her father’s suicide that took her away from me the first time, and, now, it's the strokes that are killing off her brain one inning at a time. The reason behind this nickname has become yet another item I should have secured from her memories before she left the game. 


I'm left to sort through her clothes and it just dawned on me that maybe it's really the memories contained in their fabric that still smell like her that will not allow me to let them go.

Mona McPherson