Dirty Laundry

The email message was cryptic: "Dawn's mother died this afternoon. She will be out of the office next week." I picked up the phone and called her to see what I could do to help her. Dawn's mother lived with her. So do her daughter and two grandchildren. She is the pillar of the household and of late, a very tired one.

Her voice sounded like she'd been crying. I almost didn't call her because I was afraid she wouldn't really want me to call her, or would wish to be left alone or something. But no, she was glad I called. Would she allow me to bring her supper? She was thrilled. So a couple hours later, I pulled up into the driveway armed with beef ravioli, salad and fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. She probably wouldn't be able to eat much, but the kids would be happy for something good.

Dawn and her daughter, Suzie, were sitting in a darkened livingroom. Kids were running in and out of the house playing (mostly) in the back yard. When I reached to hug her, Dawn clung to me. A few moments later she shared with me that both of her siblings had already preceded her in death. Her father has Alzheimer's and lives in a board and care facility. She is my age.

She invited me to sit for a few minutes and she told me the whole death story. Her mother, who had severe emphysema, diabetes, and an amputated limb, had with great difficulty gone into the livingroom to sit for a few moments before she got her breakfast. That is where the caretaker found her at 2:00 in the afternoon when she let herself in the house. Mom looked like she was having a very peaceful nap.

As we sat in the front den I noticed mountains of what looked like dirty clothes in the chairs. Bags of clothes were all over. "Dawn, let me take all your laundry home and get it taken care of for you." It was a struggle, but numerous negotiations later, I triumphantly drove off with dirty laundry in the trunk and back seat, obscuring the rear view mirror in my car.

Her mother's bedding smelled like urine. But her sheets were brilliant blues and fuschia colors--crisp and light. Her damask bedspreads were pretty navy blue and sky blue. She had enjoyed good taste. The kids' socks were filthy--just as all socks get when you run around on a tile floor without wearing shoes. Their darling little outfits filled six paper grocery bags.

It wasn't until I had begun to fold the million or so washcloths that I realized that one must really trust another to hand over their dirty laundry to them. You can tell a lot about a person or family by washing their clothes. All these washcloths must have been used by Dawn's mother for a variety of reasons. She had been a very sick woman with many special care requirements. Washing her clothes, bedding and washcloths made me feel like I was able to do something for her. She would have been grateful.

It's humbling to handle garments that need mending, or have raggedy edges, or stains. Because I have clothes, old towels, mismatched sheets, filthy socks, just like Dawn's family has. One could find all sorts of regular dirty laundry in my cupboards and hampers. It seems to be the great leveler: soiled clothes. Everyone has some.

Cleaning our clothes can be a dreaded chore or it can be a reason to pause and reflect on the people who wore them last. I suppose that mothers around the world have been doing this for centuries. But on this day, as I folded up the umpteenth load of laundry, I was the one thinking about how much I really do care about Dawn and her family. She is all alone--without sibling or parent who can help--trying to arrange the service, get the obituary written, plan a reception at her home following the burial. It reminded me of what happened in my life one year ago this week when my own father died. The helpful hands and hearts of others made it possible to endure the aloneness that I had to face. It may have been only running an errand or picking up something from the cleaners or taking over a small detail. But it was one thing less that I had to concern myself with.

As I washed and folded clothes today I was again grateful for the love of those who make our grief and aloneness endurable. And I was blessed in passing that along to someone else.