You are so NOISY. Why are you so NOISY, cat? Stop licking my computer. Go away.
/cat lies down on the rest of the table/
On Friday I was driven to distraction because Mabel didn’t go to school and I couldn’t get anything done. Now Mabel’s at school (praise be) but this cat is giving her a run for her money.
The other cat is fine, he’s somewhere else. But no doubt they’ll swap and it’ll be his turn in a little while.
Stop looking at me, cat. Floofer, floof thyself.
I need more coffee.
The last several times I’d gone home to Ireland before last May’s visit, I’d thought to myself “This might be the last time they’re here” – meaning my parents, both in the house I grew up in, the house they should have sold years ago so they could move to somewhere with no stairs, no hill, less upkeep. They were increasingly aged, increasingly in need of more help than they had, something had to give, and I was just hoping from afar that it wouldn’t be something tragic or drastic.
Similarly, every time I was in the house I’d spirit away a few bits and pieces – mostly books – and look around my bedroom to gauge whether there was anything left there that I’d be distressed at losing, if it all had to be done away with in my absence. As if one day a magic wand might wave and the contents of the house would disappear, the house would be sold, and someone would just let me know, as an afterthought.
Every now and then I’d acknowledge to myself that there was no magic wand, and if the contents of the house were to go anywhere I was the one that would have to be instrumental in the doing of it. On the spot, not from afar. It’s not the sort of thing you can orchestrate across an ocean, the dismantling and disposition of a household’s worth of belongings. And then I’d get stressed about when it would happen, and how, and how I’d know it was time, or who would tell me, and who was in charge, and if it was me.
The crisis happened in March, and it wasn’t terrible. My Dad went to hospital, my Mum went to a nursing home; then my dad went to rehab, they said he couldn’t go home, I went back to find a nursing home for him, he went there. Now the house needs to be emptied. The house needs to be sold. I’m the one who has to put it all in motion, because I’m the only one there is. My dad’s in charge, but he’s tired, and he can’t get about much. I’m in charge too.
I’m the one who will be emptying out my childhood bedroom, bringing the rest of my books to the charity shop, throwing out all my feis medals (it’s fine, I’m over it), my school awards, my recorder exam certificates, the mug I always used with the harvest mouse and the poppies on it. I can’t keep much – just enough to go in a suitcase and a few things to store with extended family, perhaps.
So many things, though. So much stuff. So many categories of stuff. In my mind I open another cupboard door and go “Oh no, all the cleaning things. The hoover! That ancient carpet sweeper! There’s an ironing board in there! And all those 70s serving platters and canapé trays that only came out once a year. Argh!”
Maybe by the time I come back I’ll have put together a really helpful list of how you too can empty a house in four days. Maybe I’ll tell you that I did as much as I could but the job overwhelmed me. Maybe there’ll be an emotional, midnight, mid-purge post over the weekend. I suspect I’ll be telling you how I couldn’t have done it at all without the help of friends and family, about how people are important, and knowing when to ask for help is a vital skill of the fully formed grown-up.