Questions about a task that should be simple—but somehow isn’t

Offering my daughter my wife’s clothes—all the outfits she didn’t need when she moved to memory care—was really not a problem to me. My daughter carried more than one armload out of the house one weekend months ago, and I was glad. I also opened Evelyn’s jewelry drawer for our daughter to survey, and she found a few items there she wanted, too. I have no mental inventory of what she took, but now and then she reminds me when she’s wearing something that was Evelyn’s. She looks as pretty as her mom did.

But after she had taken everything she wanted, Evelyn’s closet was not yet empty, so I invited others of her close friends who are about her size to “shop” there. I also doled out necklaces and earrings to several friends who were close to her. At Christmastime I distributed her scarves to family members and friends. I’ve taken sacks of shoes and purses to the Healing Center for their clothes closet that serves hundreds every month.

But it’s not all gone yet, which means now it’s time for me to get rid of everything.

I know this. I’ve said I want to do it. I know where I want to donate her dresses and work outfits. Since Christmas I’ve told myself, “This month I’ll do this.” But now, in the middle of April, those clothes are still hanging here. I have several theories about why.

Why are they still here?

It can’t be time. There’s not THAT much here. I could have it all folded and into my car in the couple of hours it will take me to write this post.

It may be because I’d rather eat with friends or work in the garden or write or volunteer or watch TV than tackle the mundane task of a closet clean-out. Hers isn’t the only space in this house that needs my attention. Can I chalk up my delay to everyday procrastination? Maybe.

And it’s not that Evelyn needs what’s left here. I know she doesn’t, but I think it’s difficult for me to admit this. I see pictures of her wearing these dresses and skirts and sweaters, and it grieves me to realize she won’t wear them again. She’ll never need them.

Why am I reacting this way?

I’m surprised by my reaction to all this. I’ve talked with my support group and my daughter and a friend about taking this step. And each time, I’ve felt my throat constricting and my eyes overflowing. Why has this particular task sparked such emotion in me?

Part of it is simple grief. Bereaved widows and widowers hang onto their departed loved ones’ belongings; it’s so common you could call it a cliché. I know a widow who didn’t touch her husband’s study—his books, his desk and the papers on it, his calendar—for months after he died. It’s comforting to see even a remnant remaining from all we’ve lost.

How is this different?

But mine is not a simple grief. Not unique, mind you; many caregivers of dementia patients experience it. But it’s complicated to describe and understand—and explain.

You’re losing this person you love, but they’re not gone. The relationship you had is dead, but you still see them and laugh with them and consult with their doctors. As life changes, you’re making adjustments, constant and sometimes small, all the while not noticing that the decline means some things are gone forever.

In my case, Evelyn’s friends helped me assemble all the clothes she might need in the memory care center. But I didn’t rush to admit that she will never dress up again; she will never wear the clothes she wore to work and church and concerts and weddings and anniversary dinners.

Giving them away will be my statement that I know and have accepted this. I will still have the pictures of her wearing these outfits. That will be—at least it should be—good enough. This is a season to celebrate “good enough.”

What do others say?

Some reading this might think, This is silly. Just get on with it. I’ve had those thoughts myself, along with many others I processed out loud while others patiently listened—and then offered helpful reactions:

“Give yourself a break. You’ve done a great job. There’s no hurry. You’re not moving. There’s nothing wrong with putting this off.”

“It was healthy for me not to need to look at all his stuff after he was gone.”

“Don’t do this alone. Ask someone to help you.”

I decided “get help” is the advice I should follow. A friend volunteered to accompany me on the day I make my donation(s). In a way it seems to me I should just do this alone. But I know if we set a date, I will get it done.

Soon.

Really.

Soon, I’m going to set that date.