The closet full of his shirts, ties, jackets and slacks.   His well worn slippers next to his side of the bed.   His wallet and eyeglasses.   His razor and toothbrush.   The tool chest in the garage.   His tennis racket.   His harmonica collection and guitars.   His treasured complete set of vintage Beatles imports on vinyl.   All those science fiction books that fill more than half of our bookcases.

What do we do with all the “stuff” that belonged to our spouse who has died?

So many people stand ready to quickly offer glib advice on this topic:   “Donate it all to charity.”   “Find a good home for each thing.”   “Just clear it away as soon as you can and move on.”   “Don’t do anything with it for one year.”

Just as the grief for each loss has its own pathway and timeline, so too does the answer to the question “What am I going to do with his or her belongs?”

Dealing with Steve’s belongings was really hard for me.

Immediately after his death, perhaps the most pressing for me was dealing with all of his “durable medical goods,” including the hospital bed, the oxygen apparatus, the walker, the feeding tube pacer, and all the related items.   These were dismal reminders that he was gone and was not coming back, that all the treatments he so bravely underwent didn’t work.   Hospice had so kindly arranged to have all the stuff delivered, and it truly was a lifesaver during Steve’s final days.   However, after he died, it was left to me to figure out how to get it back.   We’d set up the hospital bed down in the den, so Steve could be comfortable watching TV, with easy access to a bathroom.   For days after he died, the now-empty bed lurked in the middle of the den, awaiting pick-up by the supplier, despite my many phone calls.   After several days fruitlessly awaiting their missed appointments, it was so depressing to see it that my daughters and I hoisted it out through the patio door and put it on our garden lawn.   I then called the supplier and said, “I think it’s supposed to rain tonight… ummm… if you want the bed, you might want to arrange to get it picked up this afternoon.”   One hour later they were there.

Steve had been on heavy-duty medications, and we’d just received a full month’s delivery shortly before he died.  These were really expensive items, some of them close to $600 per dose.   I called the pharmacy to see if they wanted the unopened packages back, and they said they couldn’t accept them, that I should just toss them.   I was reluctant to throw away medications that might possibly be of use to someone else, and called several free medical clinics.   Nobody was interested, and in the end, I tossed them.

The rest of Steve’s things remained where they had been left for several months.   I was unable to do anything.   The slippers sat next to the bed.   His toothbrush nestled next to mine.   I loved seeing his ties, so precisely arranged, in his closet.   I think it all gave me hope:   Maybe this was a bad dream, from which I’d soon awake and find all right with the world again!   On a more pragmatic level, I honestly didn’t have a clue what to do with all his stuff.

And I felt guilty that I had let so much time lapse without even touching it.   I just couldn’t.   One of my bereavement facilitators from the Grief Workshop advised me not to worry, that I’d know when to deal with it.   “How?” I asked.   Her answer was simple:   “When you are ready, you’ll be able to deal with it!”

She was right.  About six months after Steve died, I realized I was beginning to be ready.   I still could not do it all at once… every item seemed to be emotionally charged, like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to make me shatter into a long crying jag.   One of my friends told me to try drinking a glass of wine prior to dealing with it, to relax.   This wasn’t my style.   Instead my daughters blended me a frosty and potent strawberry daiquiri.   Liquid courage?   You bet!   I needed all the help I could get!

I started with just his socks.   He seemed to have thousands of pairs… I never realized one guy could own so many!   He literally had three big drawers, crammed with socks, all organized according to color and type.  I filled up a large Hefty bag with them, and took them to the local thrift shop.

This was a big step for me.   One of the things that had been holding me back was the idea that I had to find the “perfect home” for each of Steve’s belongings.   I’d think, “Oh, my brother Ernest would love that jacket.”   “Bud would fit these pants.”   “Ben might enjoy those boots.”   But I just couldn’t seem to part with anything given that train of thought.

Fortunately, at one point, an inspiration flashed into my mind:   I didn’t have to find the perfect owners; the new owners could find his stuff themselves, at the local thrift shop.   This may seem pretty basic, however, for those who are dealing with the broken heart of spouse loss, even basic decisions like these can be challenging!

After the socks, it became a little easier with each category I dealt with.   I next did the underwear.   Then his t-shirts.   (I kept all his vintage rock & roll t-shirts from the concerts he’d attended through the years – our daughters wanted them as keepsakes.)   (And I’ll add here, that prior to giving anything away, I let our daughters know that if they wanted to keep anything at all, they could.)  One of my friends actually had her husband’s t-shirts made into a patchwork quilt.   Another found a person who transforms golf shirts into teddy bears, and had one made for each of their children.

Steve had a mighty tie collection — he had received many of the ties as gifts from me or our daughters, and they held special memories of events he’d attended while wearing them.   I actually saved most of them, but gave several away to family and friends who I knew would appreciate them.

Of his personal items, I decided to keep his top left drawer intact, where he’d always stored his wallet and pocket stuff.   It’s still nice to occasionally poke through the contents, savoring the feeling of his well worn leather wallet, listening to the ticking of his wristwatch, trying on his eyeglasses.   I also couldn’t let go of his shaving kit.   I loved the smell of his aftershave and the way he’d so precisely arranged its contents.

For some reason, I got highly emotional dealing with Steve’s shoes — remembering his characteristic gait, how he’d dance, him running all over the tennis court, hiking in Yosemite, his wingtips running up the escalator to the BART platform, the cowboy boots he’d found on his cross-country odyssey with his best friend at age 18…. I tried to sort through all the shoes several times, but each brought a downpour of tears, so I decided to save these until the last.

Now, five years later, there are still many of Steve’s belongings throughout the house.   His vinyl record collection stands tall, intact, in the corner of the den.   His tennis racket hangs on its peg in the garage, ready for friends who are making up a foursome.   The tools have migrated from where he carefully stored them to their new homes, scattered around the house, as we’ve used them and neglected to follow his strict rules of rapidly returning them to their rightful place.   (We chuckle, knowing he’d be flipping out now about this, were he here!)    We’ve adopted his guitars, and actually even took lessons so we could learn to play them!   And Steve’s hundreds of books still fill the bookcases, even though I doubt that I or our daughters will ever read most of them.   Maybe someday I’ll be able to deal with them.

How will I know when?   When I can!

How are you dealing with all the belongings of your spouse? What feelings come up for you as you sift through what remains of this person you so loved?   I’d love to hear about your experiences …

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college.  She is Vice President and Treasurer of the Board of Directors for the Open to Hope Foundation, a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief.  In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus

Tags: belongings, funerals, grief, hope, money