Feeling of Home is from the People Inside It

This past weekend I traveled to my parent’s home in New Jersey for the Easter holiday.  Thomas Wolfe wrote the novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again”, and I understand the reference: When I travel to my childhood home, my heart gets a lift the minute I see the “Welcome to New Jersey” sign at the top of the Garden State Parkway.  My parents still live in the home in which I grew up.  The room we stay in during our visits is the same one in which I slept as a child.  I am surrounded by reminders of the 18 years I spent in the house, as well as the countless visits in the 30 years since I moved out.  But I can never quite recapture that same feeling I had as a child; innocent and blissfully ignorant of the responsibilities I would assume when reaching adulthood.

On average I visit my folks four or five times a year:  Easter, summertime, Thanksgiving or Christmas (we alternate) and perhaps one or two other visits shoehorned in over long weekends or school vacation.  I love spending time with my parents, my sisters and their children.  But in recent years, my visits have been tinged with a feeling of nostalgic melancholy.  I can no longer ignore the fact that my parents are getting on in years and that our time together may be drawing to a close.

My mother is 76 and my father is 81.  Both have slowed down significantly in the past few years.  While my mother is still active in church, bible study, chorus and exercise classes, my father’s health issues have impacted his mobility.  He’s unsteady on his feet and gets winded walking from one room to another.  His mind is as razor sharp as ever; in between zipping through the New York Times Daily crossword puzzle, he devours stacks of books and magazines.  But I worry as I watch him cross a room, grabbing his cane or a piece of furniture for support, wheezing slightly as he settles himself down in his favorite chair.

It doesn’t help matters that on this visit, my father presented my sisters and me with our own copies of his “book”: a comprehensive binder, complete with a table of contents, that lists every investment, life insurance policy, bank account, funeral plot or any other info we might need for that unthinkable time in the future when one or both of our parents pass away.  While I applaud my father’s unparalleled organizational skills, the binder is yet one more physical reminder that, despite my most fervent wish, my parents will not go on forever.  I liken myself to Scarlett O’Hara, saying to myself, “I won’t think about that today,” but I can’t stick my head in the sand forever.

During our visit my father received the unfortunate news that his best friend from childhood had passed away.  I watched his face change as my mother relayed the message from his widow, and after hanging up the phone he remarked, “We’ve known each other since first grade.” Another one of his friends passed away just a couple of years ago, and though he would never say anything I know these deaths weigh on his mind.

How many more visits will we have together? That’s the thought that crosses my mind as we pull out of their driveway and head back to our own home.  Will this be the last time I see one of them?  How long until I get that phone call myself? 

My parents halfheartedly joke about what will happen if one passes before the other.  My father warns us that my mother has had virtually no experience with the financial end of things and will need a great deal of help from us children: hence “the book”.  My mother, who has done all of the cooking, cleaning and other household duties, says that if she passes first my father will immediately begin an affair with Marie Callendar (purveyor of frozen dinners).  Either scenario is unfathomable to me, as I cannot imagine a world without them.

Many of my friends have lost one or both parents in recent years.  With each passing, I’ve said a prayer of comfort for my friend, and a prayer of thanks for myself.  I consider myself blessed that I still have both parents and both siblings.  But I know this can’t last forever.  In the meantime, I try to cherish each visit, knowing that it may be months before I see them again, praying that in the interim they manage to stay safe and healthy. 

You can go home again.  It may not be the same as it was 30 years ago, or 20 or even 10, but that doesn’t matter.  As long as my parents are alive there, it will always be home to me.