January 2015

There’s always an emotional component to helping people declutter and organize, especially after loss. I was excited, but also nervous about how Dad would respond to my rearranging his living area. I did my best to be sensitive to him. After all, not only was I messing with his stuff, I was moving and removing many of the traces of Mom. 

I was excited for him to try out his reading chair now that I had put stable tables on both sides. Instead, he sat in another chair and just looked around. Then he stared off in space as if deep in thought. We spend a lot of time in silence together since Mom passed, so I thumbed through a magazine while I waited for him to comment. I started to wonder if my moving so much of Mom’s stuff stirred emotion in him. I didn’t think he needed a rock from each country they had visited on the coffee table (there were a lot of them), but they each hold memories. Had I moved some of Mom’s memories before he was ready? I gave him several more minutes, and then asked, “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking that our guests this morning wouldn’t recognize the place if they came back. It’s nice.” 

I was glad I asked. Instead of guessing, I learned that he welcomed the change.

Dad knew how much change he was ready for. He noted that there were medicines, clothes and other items of Mom’s in the rest of the apartment that would have to be disposed of bit by bit. “Would you like me to help you with that while I’m here?” I asked. “No,” he told me. “Let’s save that for another visit.”

This is the first man I ever loved and the first man I ever feared. This is the man I strove to prove myself to and the man whose opinion of me I sought to free myself from. This is the man I yearned to share my soul with and would find myself speechless with.

Eventually I did prove myself to him: this man read my books and savored them and learned from them and practiced my methods. Now, this man and I sit comfortably together in silence and speak freely about sensitive issues like moving memories. 

We did it. We made it through one of life’s most stressful events with our hearts wide open. 

Dad got up and walked over to his reading chair. He tried out his new setup. Yes. The changes suited him. 

Lean Manufacturing arranges things according to the point of use and flow. I continually “lean out” my own home so our various processes/activities flow. I wanted to streamline my Dad’s living area now that he lives there alone. With his limited mobility and vision, placement matters a lot. 

“What’s the master plan?” Dad asked me.

Those are words that send chills to an interators’ spine. They imply that one should anticipate every step before beginning a project. Once upon a time, I would respond to words like that by faking it. I have learned to stand up for my one-step-at-a-time iterative process. I told him:

“I’ll start by getting that big table out of here and then see what works. My desire is to give you easy access to the things you need when you’re in your chair. I want you to have stable surfaces to put things on when you sit. I want to get rid of obstructions and to clear a path to the light switch for the overhead lights. If you don’t like anything I do, I’ll put it back for you.”

He was good with that. He left to make his bed and take his meds. 

I had waited until late in my visit to initiate the changes. I had watched how he operated and knew what worked for him and what didn’t. Now that Mom is gone and he lives there alone, it just made sense to set it up for his low-vision convenience. He had expensive magnifying glasses that broke because he dropped them – because he didn’t have a good surface to put them on. He needed a lap desk to work on. He needed to be able to reach the lights. I wanted to make it right for him. 

I was almost complete when Dad returned. I expected some resistance when he saw it. I got nothing but appreciation. I think his words were something like, “Wow.”

And I did it without a master plan.

In Lean Manufacturing, managers are required to do a lot of observation. Often, they are asked to stand in a single spot and watch a single assembly process for entire days. 

One of the reasons I stayed at my Dad’s assisted living apartment is so I could observe my Dad in action. I wanted to see how he operates and what he might want help with.

Now that Mom is gone, the aides assumed Dad would want them to do the laundry. When I was there before, Dad propped the laundry basket on Mom’s wheelchair handles and pushed. She was his eyes at the laundry as he loaded and operated the machines. 

Now that she’s gone, he still does his own laundry. He can’t carry the basket so he drags it with his cane. He uses the tools he has. Once the machine is loaded, he does ask an aide to start it.

He can’t see much and he can’t hear well. His balance is shaky. But he is at home and he enjoys his sunset days, staying as functional as someone in his situation can be. He makes it work, using the tools he has.

It’s a sweet observation.