The Lift

Over time, after a spouse dies, you begin to rebuild, make new life plans, redefine who you are and look for what the future holds for you as a person, instead of a couple. Much of this is done in the mind, with focused effort and tears. Sometimes, though, you just realize you’ve adjusted and it happened by itself without a conscious effort. I find that one of the most difficult considerations I’ve had to make is deciding how to manage items that require conscious, thoughtful consideration. These, for me are energy draining and painful.

Our house was adapted to allow Patrick to stay in our home throughout the ALS journey. We added ramps, grab bars, remodeled our bathroom and even changed door handles you didn’t have to twist to open. But, probably the most significant change we made, very early in the diagnosis, was the installation of a lift that allowed him to ride in his power wheel chair from the first to second floor. Don’t think chair on the stairs – this is a 1,200 pound lift that could accommodate about 600-700 pounds.

My sister, Denise, has mentioned to me over the past year, gently nudging me to consider removing the lift. I told her, like I told many of my friends, “it doesn’t bother me, its just white noise.” Recently, on a trip to the ocean with my buddy, Shirley, we were chatting about it and I gave her my automatic response of “white noise,” she looked at me and said “Is it, though? Is it, really just white noise?” And with that something clicked in my brain, what does the lift mean to me? For sure, the lift was a blessing, a device that allowed Patrick to sleep in his own bed and stay in a home we bought together and loved. But, what did the lift mean now – it hadn’t been used in years, the battery was dead, was it just white noise?

My hope and Patrick’s hope was that it would have a new life – another person would use it and find it to be a blessing. Since Patrick’s death I've had different people interested in it, but it really requires a specific home design to work. So, I made a call, to the engineer who installed it, asked if they would remove it and was there anyone he knew who could use it. And low and behold there was a lady they were working with that could use it. I was delighted and scheduled the date for its removal.

On removal day a crew came out and spent 6 hours gently removing it from my entry way. I work from home, so I sat in the kitchen during the removal. At one point the foreman, Wes, tells his crew “ok this is what we are going to do, if it all goes sideways?” Not something you really want to hear from the other room in your home. It really didn’t occur to me what a large device it is. Wes and I were talking later and he said, “Cheryl it weighs 1,200 pounds.” – Fortunately, nothing “went sideways.”

What was unexpected was my feelings of sadness and the stream of tears that came down as I looked at the empty entry way. Such emotion, such loss, such grief. As, I’ve found over the past few years – grief and tears can be so unexpected. I spent that evening with my dear friends, Amber and Shirley – we toasted the lift and wished it well. The process of making the wall “whole” again is in process and I continue to grieve over its removal. But I’m comfortable with my decision, happy the lift has a new life and someone else will benefit from it.

Mario, the mud, texture guy is working on the “hole” now. He says, “You’ll never know it was there.” I smile at Mario, but I’ll always know it was there. I’m not trying to erase the man or the memories, but the lift has served its purpose and will now have another home.

A word to grievers in the world, this is what I know… grief is messy, unpredictable, painful and above all – unique to the griever. Be kind to yourself.

Below are photos of the lift before, during, and after removal. It’s not done yet, I’ll post more photos at the end of the process.