You’ve read my last post  and you know about Saturday evening when I spoke to my mother and she revealed tremendous upset. In turn, everyone around her became unsettled. I took a break and did not speak to her or the aide on Sunday. I needed to chill, rewind, and take a deep breath.

I inhaled deeply at the latest Woody Allen movie, had a couple of scoops of ice cream, and tried to remain objective about what has been going on over the last days, weeks, months and almost a year.

What I learned is that my mother’s outbursts represent her fear of the future, her loss of control, the aging process, the upheaval of the move and possibly terror. But by Sunday, she was back to herself. The aide reported episodes like this over her time with my mother since February. They are like storms that blow on shore from a roiling sea. The trees bend and eventually go back into place. But watching the storm, experiencing the sudden change and unknown of outcome is fear-provoking.

And then this happened:

At 7:00 am this morning, the moving truck arrived without notice from Florida with all of my mother’s possessions. Despite the the lack of warning of the arrival, that the apartment was not ready to receive anything as it was full of loaner furniture, that the building was not ready for the move-in, that I was not ready to dash over, the aide was fine to run the show, my mother was happy doing what she does in the morning, without a trace of Saturday evening showing.

The temporary furniture was graciously removed by the building staff on a minute’s notice, the Florida stuff was rolled off the truck and into the elevator and placed bit by bit into the apartment. There it all was, never to be visited via a plane again. Somehow looking out of perspective  in New York City. Most of what was in two rooms was now fit into a studio, minus several pieces. A little too much, a little too big, but it was home. And after all the complaining that her clothes weren’t unpacked, my mother finally understood that had the aide unpacked and put her stuff in the loaner furniture, in no time it would have to go back into the luggage, to be triaged and then the process would have to take place all over again to get everything into where it belonged.

It will take a while to get through all the boxes but considering this is a 350 square foot studio, it will get done.

My mother moved out of Florida on July 30, 2013 after living there since the 1980’s. She never thought she would live anywhere else. She never imagined moving back to New York.

The road was tough, the flight was bumpy, the journey was almost a year long.

She sometimes cooks up a bubbling brew of emotions that spill over. Is this what I was like as a child who wanted the doll in the window? Does a distraction disarm the confusion and fury?

She has the ability to move on, to let go once she airs her grievances.

And in this journey she has reached what I hope is the last stop. Just a few miles away from me, no planes or tolls, less than fifteen minutes away. She is back in New York and has moved into her new home.It’s a little small, a little cramped, but cozy. She is rarely in it: in Florida she never left the apartment or enjoyed her meals. Now she is out all day and first on line to get into the dining room.

For now that is all that is important. Everything else will be a day at a time.

This series is linked: see “continued here.” Also, below the line there will be links for the previous post and the next.

The series starts here

continued here