After my husband entered a dementia facility and I had been on my own for several months, I still found it strange to be living without responsibility to anyone and having no one responsible to me. I tried to keep up old routines that were satisfying...early morning swims or walks along the ocean front. I wrote, I practiced the piano, I read a lot, I cooked and baked. Sometimes I spent my evenings with my daughter and grandchildren. Mostly I was solitary.
One morning as I looked in my closet for something to wear for a day of writing, I saw that something had fallen from its hanger. It was a beautiful red suit, one of the pieces of day and evening clothing I wore in my former life of travel and grand occasions and which I had brought into my new and very different life. I held the suit to my body in front of my mirror. My husband loved that suit. Said it made me look like an hourglass. I stood there realizing that I hadn't dressed up in a very long time, and I didn't see on my horizon parties and fancy affairs where I would be able to wear any of the beautiful outfits hanging at the back of my closet, some still with price tags attached. I'd promised myself many times that I would get rid of what did not suit my new life style. But they were still there because I had dreaded giving away those beautiful dresses, their threads woven with so many memories. I took the fallen red suit as a sign. I'd do it that day.
I took out of the closet all the elegant clothes that I had worn, some only the year before. I laid them all on my bed with their matching shoes, handbags and jewelry. One by one, I tried them on, remembering, crying, sometimes laughing at the surfacing memory of a joke told. The first was a long black dress with a plunging neckline. I suddenly heard music, saw my husband and me dancing, my face pressed close to his. Next, a silk dress my husband's best friend loved. He would run his hand up and down my back whispering sweet nothings. All in good fun. He died suddenly the night after I wore that dress. That one went straight into a giveaway bag. But several hours later, all I had to show for my promise to rid myself of what no longer served me were 4 dresses. The rest I returned to my closet. I could not part with them. Somehow I'd find a way to wear them again.
I sat down on my bed, suddenly weary. The worlds of reality and fantasy collided. Wear them again? When? Where? Maybe the cute delivery guy would invite me to the UPS wing ding. Maybe my fairy godmother would host a ball in my honor. Maybe some old friend would remember that I was alive and invite me to go dancing. Maybe not. Why was I hanging on to those clothes? They were my past. I needed new clothes for a new life.
I went back into my closet and got everything out again. This time I put them all into garment bags, the shoes and purses as well. I saved the faux gems for my grandchildren to wear on Halloween.
I kept only 3 dresses, which I may never give away. They were dresses I wore when I gave piano recitals. When I looked at them as I often did when I was low, I felt happy and proud. Proud of the woman who had worked so hard to make it to the stage, who hated playing in public but fought the fear and did it anyway. I stood there looking at the dresses but I was really looking at myself and the strength and power of the woman I had been. And I knew at that moment with certainty, that I would make it through because I was still that woman, with no less courage and ability to face my fears and to move through them. It was a heartening self revelation.
I made several trips down to my car and put my giveaways in the trunk. I would find good homes for all of them. I came back to my apartment. It felt cooler, the air lighter. I looked into my closet with all the added space and empty hangers. I thought I'd feel sad. Instead, I felt relief. The cleared out closet cleared my head. I had let go a little bit more. I was able to say goodbye to what no longer served me and to deal with the reality of the ‘now.'
It was a good day.
See: Moving to the Center of the Bed: The Artful Creation of a Life Alone
