The Things That Are Not Forgotten - Catherine’s Story

In 1985, Catherine left New Jersey and moved south with the man she loved. Not everyone approved. Their decision cost her something. Catherine was disowned by her family. But she moved anyway. Their daughter, Stephanie, was four years old.

“My dad is from Charlotte,” Stephanie said. “His mother was sick and he wanted to be closer to her.”

They bought a ranch house in Hampshire Hills, close to an elementary school. Three bedrooms and a yard big enough for a little girl and a bike.

“My uncle was a real estate agent,” she added. “He helped them find this house.”

Her parents worked constantly. Catherine worked as a bus driver and cab driver. She worked multiple jobs at once. Her father was a psychiatric nurse. He also drove trucks for weeks at a time.

“They did everything,” Stephanie said. “They always had more than one job.”

When Stephanie remembers growing up there, she shares, “My bedroom was my special place. I had New Kids on the Block all over my wall. But I was outside. I was on my bike. Up and down The Plaza. My mom would tell me not to leave the neighborhood. I’d be gone.” 

The three of them built their life in that house. 

Twenty years later, her father passed away. When Stephanie moved back home, her mother, Catherine, was already in a wheelchair, living with congestive heart failure and dementia. Caregiving is steady work. It is lifting. It is guiding a wheelchair through narrow doorways. It is catching someone when they trip on carpet that has bunched from decades of wear.

The hallway carpet has caused falls. The bathroom is difficult to access. The shower tub is too high. Mold gathers in corners where ventilation barely works. Old galvanized pipes once caused the washing machine to back up into the kitchen sink, soaking cabinets and weakening floors that Stephanie has patched multiple times.

Stephanie watches her mother navigate a home she knows, a home she built a life in, but doesn’t always remember. Some days are clearer than others. Many days begin the same way.

“She asks me every day, ‘Are the people coming today?’” Stephanie said. “I tell her, no, Momma, that’s next week.”

She asks because she knows the house needs work. She asks because she wants it fixed.

Catherine received a postcard in the mail from Rebuilding Together of Greater Charlotte about no-cost home repairs for qualified homeowners. Stephanie applied, and they were approved for the program. 

When Rebuilding Together of Greater Charlotte arrives, the work will focus on safety and access. A new metal wheelchair ramp will replace the aging wooden one, providing safer entry and exit. Old carpet will be removed and replaced with durable flooring that will not bunch or create fall risks. The front door will be restored and secured with new hardware. Smoke and carbon monoxide detectors will be installed throughout the home. A new crawl space door and secured vents will protect the foundation beneath. Bathroom ventilation will be improved. Electrical outlets will be updated. The dryer vent will be replaced to reduce fire risk and a pedestal sink will be installed in the master bathroom for greater accessibility. 

These are not upgrades. They are acts of care.

They make it possible for a daughter to keep her mother home. On her street, there are few who have been there since the beginning.

“We’re the OGs over here,” she said. “There’s not that many of us left.”

The house is one of the last originals on the block. So is her mother.

“I grew up in this house. It has memories of my father,” Stephanie adds.

A nurse practitioner recently suggested palliative care. Maybe hospice.

“She said my mom is so weak,” Stephanie said. Stephanie shook her head. “Not yet.”

Once, Catherine held multiple jobs to keep this roof overhead. Now her daughter steadies her in the hallway. When asked what the repairs will mean, Stephanie did not hesitate.

“A smile on my mom’s face.”

Catherine may forget the day. She may forget the schedule. She may even ask again tomorrow when the workers are coming. But she has not forgotten this. “She wanted to fix it up for me,” Stephanie said. This may be the last way she remembers how to take care of her child.

Parents are the original caregivers. Sometimes the roles reverse inside the same walls. Catherine was once a daughter cut off from her own family. Now memory drifts, but her daughter remembers.

Some things are slipping away.

The house is not one of them.