I recently read an article by an author who wrote about his emotional fallout when his elderly mother moved into assisted living. Among the plethora of emotions was sadness at selling the farm where he’d grown up – the only place he felt was his true home in the world, even in his adult life. He also articulated the pang he felt at losing that phone number – how it was as familiar to him as his own middle name.
Admittedly, a telephone number seems like a fairly trite touchstone of a time and place -- but I get it. My parents recently made a similar move from my childhood house to an apartment complex for an aging population. While I am genuinely pleased about their relatively smooth adjustment, downsizing of possessions and more comfortable living situation, the loss of my old phone number was one of the biggest hits I took.
Worst of all, they could have kept it -- and they didn't. This wasn't even a consideration when they became official residents of New York City, accepting the dreaded 347 area code as their new world order, along with seven additional numbers that are, frankly, impossible for me to memorize.
There's no cadence, no rhythm to the new phone number. I miss the familiar touchtone melody of the original numbers -- it's a tune I know as well as any song I've ever heard. Then there's the fact that I'm screwed if I need to call them in an emergency and I don't have my cell phone handy -- talk about a new world order.
The process of helping my parents move was filled with many poignant moments. I am struck by how the less obvious losses are the most powerful reminders that you can't go home again.