Lois Flowers

During my parents’ months together in the nursing home, I kept the paperwork for managing all their affairs in two accordion files, which I stored in my kitchen desk.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever envision myself having this sort of paperwork in my house. When the time came for me to handle all the things, though, I tried to set it up in the most logical and organized way possible.

Categories like “Paid Bills,” “Receipts” and “Bank Statements” were fairly innocuous. But “New Mail to Discuss with Dad” and “Home Sale”—written in green Sharpie because I added it later, after both of my parents died—caused me a pang when I pulled them out of their slots many months later.

I had already gone through much of my dad’s files and documents from his life at home. I had a couple of boxes ready for shredding.

But these papers in my drawer were heavier. They represented what I did during my parents’ final months, day after day—paying bills, working out insurance issues, figuring out the next step.

I had this project on my list for months before I finally gathered up the gumption to tackle it.

I sorted all the funeral stuff, all the Medicare statements, all the tax documents. Some would be shredded, some kept for later processing.

I hadn’t planned to go through the black accordion file—the one with the most daily stuff—one particular day, but there I was, sifting through a pile of receipts.

I texted Randy about it: “Is there any reason why I should save receipts from all the payments to [the nursing home]?”

I thought maybe my husband who hates clutter would tell me no, get rid of them all.

“Only if they mean something to you,” he wrote back. “I like to think of your folks at home” (as opposed to in long-term care).

I understand how he felt, for sure.

By the time I saw his answer, I had already settled in my heart that what I wanted to do was write about the pile of receipts—to document my feelings and thoughts about it just so I’ll remember.

When I saw the receipts, I thought of the thousands of dollars we spent on my dad’s care every month. Money that he scrimped and saved his whole life, never intending that a single dollar would be spent on his own room and board at a nursing home.

But when we needed it for that, there it was. Along with the funds he paid so that my mom could have a private room for a year and a half (and what a blessing that was).

In a way, it’s almost easy to write checks for several thousand dollars every month when it’s not your own money. Even then, though, I wondered what we’d do when the funds ran out. It would have taken a few years, but it still weighed on me.

Turns out, I needn’t have worried. My dad lived the last five months of his life in the nursing home. My mom beat him to heaven by five weeks.

The last piece of paper in the receipts file might have been the most poignant for me. It’s the statement that came with a refund from an assisted living facility a few miles from my home. I had paid $500 to reserve a room there for my dad—the plan was for him to move in after he finished rehabbing from being hospitalized for congestive heart failure.

Instead, his health declined further and he became my mom’s roommate at the nursing home.

I got rid of all the receipts but this one. Even now—three years after my parents died—it reminds me of Proverbs 16:9: “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”

♥ Lois

This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.

Photo by Valentina Locatelli on Unsplash