I spent half of October working on big out-of-town projects. First was a return visit to my client with Parkinson’s. She’s moved to assisted living, and I’m helping to clear out her former home. Disabilities make it difficult for her to participate in the work in a meaningful way, but we continue to include her in decision-making—even when the decisions are largely symbolic—to help her cope with the transition to a new living space.

Mom’s garage a month later—still clutter-free enough to park the car inside!

The second project was my mother’s garage. She’s in great health and still fully engaged in her life. But she hasn’t been able to park the car in the garage since she moved to North Carolina 10 years ago, so I went to help dig it out.

She stalled by any means possible—we had to shop, mulch the backyard, and clean her closet—but eventually she surrendered and we got to work. For three days, we sorted through boxes that belonged to her mother and files that had never made it into the house. We discarded broken furniture and old paint, repackaged Christmas decorations, and sorted a huge pile of books.

It was hard for Mom, but she participated all the way. At one point she quietly said, “This process really makes you face your own mortality.” She found herself clearing away old parts of her life, and it gave her pause. But I was glad to listen as she identified photos of herself as a child and pictures of my grandparents as young adults. A great treat for me was her artwork from college, much of which I’d never seen before.

Mom’s beautiful art, no longer a buried treasure

To me, this experience was familiar—I work with many clients to sort through the contents of their parents’ homes. Not knowing why their parents kept what they did makes this tough process even harder. It magnifies the sense of loss to know that there must be untold stories attached to the objects that I carry off to Goodwill.

But working with Mom made the routine process highly personal. I had to admire her for doing the work of sorting and purging her life’s collections now, while she could give the gift of her memories to me. I hope she’ll share more history and tell me why her treasures are special. I’ll cherish those stories when she’s no longer here to tell them. 

I’ve been working with an older woman, the mother of a friend. She’s in her seventies and has Parkinson’s disease. The illness went undiagnosed for a while, and the condition has been hard on mother and daughter alike. I’d say that this doesn’t have much to do with me, except that I’ve been sorting through the mother’s things so the daughter can better manage her mom’s care. And I can’t help but notice and be touched by the special circumstances this situation creates.

As we go through the mother’s things, I’ve been struck by the indignity of the process for her. I try to let her decide what to keep and what to give away, but the truth is that she’s lost most of the ability to make those decisions. That makes the work I do an exercise in balancing respect for the mother and the needs of the daughter in organizing what remains of her mother’s life.

Normally, when I work with clients, I help them make decisions about their personal belongings. I encourage them to keep what’s important to them in their present lives and to let go of what no longer serves them. The work we do together is an active partnership. But my friend’s mom isn’t able to work with me in making those decisions. She can’t actively participate in this aspect of her life, and I can tell that she feels as if she’s giving up more than she’d like.

As an act of defiance against her circumstances, she hides things from me. Before my last visit, she told someone, “Gayle’s coming, I’ve got to start hiding things.” It’s her last stand against losing control of her life, and that makes me sad. It makes me wish I could have helped her earlier, when she could still make decisions about what to keep and what to surrender.

So here’s the lesson for all of us: Make your own choices about your stuff while you can still consciously choose. Don’t wait until those choices are taken away by declining health. Ask for help now, so you can make decisions with your dignity intact. That’s what it’s all about, really. Respect yourself enough to make your own choices. I want to help you with that.