I was going to say “someone has to deal with the hard stuff,” but in writing this, I now realize that she was dealing with things I could not have imagined, and I was left to pick up the pieces. In retrospect, there were a lot of things to be thankful for: that I was there to help, for one, and that John the Con came along at just the right time to make the move easier through its difficulty. She had taken all her money and bought this home and, in the spirit of partnership, put his name on it. This could be problematic. We did not have much left to work with.

Mom needed her own space. She has always needed her own space and these recent attempts to share it only emphasized the point. So we went home shopping. It wasn’t quite the retail therapy we were hoping for. It quickly became apparent that our area with prices inflated by California implants was ideal for wealthy retirees, but not for people trying to live on a shoestring. Mom’s income was a measly $850/month social security. She had worked hard all her life, but nurses in those days didn’t have retirement plans, and she was a single mom with two kids and a lot of debt. Husband #2 (the gay Morman alcoholic) had some funds that were donated to the divorce escape, but husband #3 quickly gambled them (and lost) in an “if you love me, you will support this endeavor” argument. So here she was, once again, penniless, homeless, and shafted. 

We decided a modular home was our best option; however, banks would not give a lower-interest home loan if there wasn’t a piece of land that went with it. A home not grounded was, well, just a thing. She only qualified for a high-interest personal property loan. In frustration, I borrowed the full amount from my 401(k) to buy her a new single wide. We had searched for used ones, but everything seemed rather weathered. My mother, a retired nurse, needed something clean and neat. Something to make her own.

“Coffee?” I asked, on our way to the sales center.
“If you’re having some,” she replied.
“Ok – what’ll it be?” as we rolled up to the latte stand window. Buying coffee in the Pacific Northwest is not just buying a cup of coffee. You have options. Espresso, latte, breve, hot, chilled, poured over crushed ice, with foam, without, and 101 different flavors.
“Oh, whatever you’re having.”
It drove me nuts. She always went along with whatever I did. She was simply incapable of making a decision these days. I ordered us two doubleshot hazelnuts. We were going to need them. Personally, I needed a quad, but I didn’t think I could handle my mother bouncing off walls.

The salesman greeted us like we were old-time friends, and Mom responded immediately. Dave was our man. He would change our lives. We sat down at an octagon table beneath a splendid chandelier. The furniture and pictures were all coordinated and arranged exquisitely. We became a part of the display.

We poured over catalogs of more and more options. We picked out carpet, linoleum, cupboards, and countertops; the latter we chose in a deep wine to go with the floral pattern in her couch. Actually, I was the one who chose the bold maroon, something that was later pointed out to me. Mom could not decide on even the simplest of options. We were going to set up house right here in the salesroom if we didn’t get through this stuff; Mom was certainly comfortable enough. The seller was patient, and although we were admittedly not his biggest sale, he was genuinely warming up to this mother-daughter comedy act. Maybe business was slow.

With a bit of haggling on my part, we were able to get the complete energy-efficient package for less than what it would have cost her for a used doublewide. It was going to be beautiful inside and out and just for her. We found a nice little park to plant it in, located 5 minutes of my work. On a corner lot by a wooded area, it had a nice yard, and the neighbors seemed friendly. Each for our own reasons, we couldn’t wait.

The place was delivered in early October. We got it hooked up to plumbing and electricity. We had some steps built up to the front and back doors. The boxes on our list got checkmarks one by one. Mom was content to let me handle it.

But we still needed to get her stuff. Mom didn’t have a lot of things, as she had left much behind in her moves, but what remained was either very large, very meaningful, or both – plus, everything was stored in the house she just left – the one with John still in it.

John, however, was quite cordial and seemed to hold no animosity. He agreed to help us move. We set a date for when the trailer would be ready. We planned a gourmet dinner as a thank you.

As moving day approached, my husband came down with a serious Crohn’s disease attack. In a matter of days, he had lost over 50 pounds. This 6’4” man, always of slender build, was down to a mere 125 pounds. He told us to go ahead and go; he would be alright until we got back. Severely dehydrated, dizzy, throwing up one end and bleeding out the other, privately, he wasn’t sure he was going to pull through.

We had a van reserved, we had the help of a strong teenager, and John was expecting us. “Let’s get it over with,” I said.

Mom was like a nervous schoolgirl on the trip down. We kept the conversation light.

It turned out to be the moving day from hell, literally. The moving van we had reserved had not yet been returned; the rental had no others available. We scrambled around town to find another. When we got to the house, John was all dressed up. He had a “hot date,” he informed us with a sly look in his eye, purposefully mysterious, watching the effect it had on my mother. I am sure it was planned all along.

So Andrew, our strong teenage helper, to whom I will be forever grateful, and Mom and I, two 100-pound weaklings, somehow managed to move tables, chairs, beds, sofas, the works. Numerous boxes were still in storage. John couldn’t find the key. Not his problem. It was pouring down rain and very late by the time we got back. The van had to be returned early in the morning, so we worked until nearly midnight getting everything unloaded. I put sheets and blankets on the bed.

Her first night in her very own home! I am sure Mom plopped on the bed, exhausted, and passed out, her little dog Lambchop at her side. When she awoke, I imagine she looked around and asked two questions she was to ask frequently in the times to come: “Where am I?” and “How did I get here?”

She didn’t realize it, but it was her 75th birthday.