The Move Out

Long ago, in my childhood home while sitting across from me at the same desk he now has in the apartment I need to empty, my father told me the story of the start of his consulting business.  He started confident.  While employed in the mid 1960’s at Jerrold, engineers at many of the companies with whom he interacted would ask him if he’d be willing to consult for them.  Jerrold was a top manufacturer of antenna equipment and my father a well-regarded engineer.  In time, he grew to believe that these sincere offers proved that launching his one-man show would prompt an avalanche of business.

Once he left Jerrold – involuntarily – he decided to start out on his own.  He named the company Biro Associates, dutifully printed up business cards and stationery, and phoned many of these people back to announce that he was ready to work with them.  Suddenly the fast offers evaporated.

This is where he learned, the hard way, about the difference between the role and the man.  That is, that people were talking to the engineer employed at Jerrold, and not actually to Steve Biro.  He was merely the person occupying the job.  Once he was on his own, things were different.

I know the feeling.

For a little while longer, I am still a little bit Sandwiched Man.  Among the tasks related to my father that I still own is clearing out is his apartment.  I am traveling, however, back with my family in Italy after flying back to Boston last week for the funeral after having been in Europe for only about 48 hours.  What I need now is some actual help from one of the many people who said “if there’s anything you need, just ask.”

I am biased in this regard as the father of twins.  When Sophie and Lily were infants, we fed them every 3 hours.  10am, 1pm, 4pm, 7pm, 10pm, 1am, 4am.  Needless to say, we were perpetually exhausted and in a haze.  But they were our only children, so we didn’t know any better.

We also didn’t know any better than to politely decline offers to help.  We accepted all of them.  Definitely don’t ask if there is “anything” they need.  Because I can tell you: they need the laundry done.  And they will ask, and mean it.

Fast forward to last week and an offer from a social worker if there was anything we needed, and in particular to help move things out of my father’s apartment while we were gone.  It felt too good to be true, so Rob and I decided to test the proposition. We left her very detailed instructions via email on what should go where.  The desk, the scooter and the power recliner to my home in Wellesley.  The cable box back to Comcast if she had time, otherwise back to my house.  Everything else to Goodwill.  We sent photos, garage codes, and anything else she might need.

As the hours ticked by, we knew how this would end.  Sure enough, an email from her appeared.  My apologies, she said.  I didn’t mean I would actually help you myself.  I meant more that I could give you a contact with movers we know if you wanted.  Would you still like that?

The moral of the story for caregivers and parents is this: although you will find many people who can help, you are responsible.  Even if Nova and I had spent small fortune to hire night nurses for our kids for the 10pm, 1am and 4am’s, we would have had to manage them and handle emergencies anyway.   For my father, I made difficult decisions many times that no one was going to make for me.  It was lonely.  And now that I am not in a position to steer caregiver dollars toward my father, I cannot help but notice that while offers of help are still abundant, actual help is more scarce.

That makes sense though.  In the eyes of those I’ve worked with for some time now, I’m no longer caregiver-with-a-budget Peter Biro. I’m simply Peter Biro.  A different person altogether.

Again, this doesn’t particularly surprise or disappoint me.  I sort of expected it.  I never forgot that lesson sitting at my dad’s desk from all of those years ago.  My father got a lot wrong, but on this one, he knew.

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