What We Leave Behind

Swedish Death Cleaning. Yes, that's an actual thing.

“Yeah, start bringing them out here,” Dad said.

So I did.

One by one, box by box, I carried his life’s collection from the den into the living room. We sat surrounded by decades of memories—his, ours—and together, we began sorting.

He told me where things should go, who should get what. It was our own version of döstädning, also known as Swedish Death Cleaning. And no, it’s not some trendy American spin on grief; it’s deeply rooted in our heritage.

I’d spoken to our family in Sweden; they do this:

“Inge and I have döstädat regularly since some years now. Now and then. Try to sort out, ask our kids and grankids what they like, we write it down, give to them as fair and just as possible...”

It’s practical.

It’s sacred.

And no, you don’t need to be dying to do it. But in Dad’s case, we knew.

And he knew. And that made every item feel like a final conversation.

As someone who once ran a cleaning and organizing business in Pensacola, I’d seen firsthand what happens when this doesn’t get done.

Families left overwhelmed.

Fighting over heirlooms.

Haunted not just by grief but by the guilt of not knowing what mattered most to the person who left it all behind. I’ve watched love stories disintegrate into estate battles. I’ve seen siblings stop speaking over a box of photos or a ceramic angel no one even liked.

When loved ones die, people get weird.

It’s just a fact.

And I’ve witnessed it too many times to count.

But this was different.

This was my dad giving his love a destination. He had a voice in what stayed, what went, and who would hold his memories next.

It wasn’t easy.

God, it hurt.

But it was also full of unexpected joy.

Every time I pulled out a vinyl record, he had a story. Every photo had a face, a place, a laugh attached. Every antique camera—most of which he’d already passed down to Logan—came with family history tucked behind its lens.

“I want to show Logan how to develop this film before I go,” he said.

He didn’t get the chance.

But that bond between them—that quiet, magical connection forged through vintage cameras and shared curiosity—will always stay with me. I remember when Mom and Dad first moved to Spring Hill. Dad laid out every camera on the kitchen table like old friends returning home. He and Logan sat for hours, talking, examining, remembering.

It was their language.

Always had been.

When Mom came home from work and saw the living room covered in boxes, she just shook her head. “Well, this looks like fun.”

That day, I left with a carload of heirlooms. But more than that, I left with pieces of him—his stories, his voice, his energy etched into every item. I’ve always been a believer in preserving family treasures.

They carry love.

Legacy.

Laughter.

And I’ll make sure Logan knows the stories too, so he can pass them on—well-worn and well-loved.

Dad was specific.

He knew what he wanted to go where.

And we honored that.

Not everyone likes to talk about death. Dad sure didn’t—not for a long time. But this process softened the subject.

Made it approachable.

Tangible.

He was able to remember, reflect, and speak those memories into the world one more time.

I’m staring at his vinyl records now as I write this. Some of his old cassette tapes, too. I remember being little—me, Mom, and Dad, sitting around listening to music. I even had a Disney Cinderella record that he’d let me play over and over. Mom once told me Dad used to mark his initials on his records so his roommate wouldn’t steal them. That was so him, equal parts meticulous and mischievous.

He lit up when I pulled out that box of records. So I ordered a record player, brought it over, and Logan dove in like he’d just discovered buried treasure. Next thing we knew, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” was echoing through Dad’s den. Mom walked in after work like, “What the heck is going on in here?” But that was just us, keeping her on her toes.

Dad would name a record, and Logan would put it on. I left the player there, so he could keep spinning songs.

And he did.

One of the last nights Dad was mobile—before he became fully bedbound—he was on steroids. I’d asked his hospice team to approve a short course to give him some relief, and it gave him a burst of energy.

Mom was already in bed.

But he was in the den, moving things around, playing records.

Dangerous?

Absolutely.

He was using a walker, barely stable, and technically shouldn’t have been up at all.

But as he told me the story, he looked at me with this proud grin and said, “I even walked and danced without my walker.”

“Oh my god, Dad. You’re not supposed to do that!”

He just laughed. “I made so much noise, your mom came in to see what I was doing.”

He was thrilled.

Defiant.

Alive.

That was one of the last moments he truly felt like himself—boogying to some classic rock, rearranging his sacred space, trying to drive Mom just a little bit crazy in the process.

That’s the magic of Swedish Death Cleaning.

It’s not just tidying up. It’s reclaiming bits of yourself. It’s letting your stories breathe one last time.

That night gave him joy.

Autonomy.

And for just a moment, a feeling that maybe he wasn’t dying—he was simply living on his own terms.

Looking back now, I see how every strange little business I ever ran somehow led me to this moment. The organizing/cleaning business in Florida. The apothecary. Even my death work—before I even knew what a death doula was.

And Dad, he saw it too.

“Maybe that’s why you were meant to do all of that,” he once told me.

Maybe it was.

To help him.

To guide him.

To hold space while he let go.

And I did.

With boxes. With records. With stories.

With love.