Home is wherever I'm with you (revive. . .)

(Bob and Jen at the benefit . . .)

A good morning for a walk with the dogs and a good cry in the rain. . . beautiful morning, really, overcast, misty, maybe 40 degrees when I was out with the doggies. . . the kind of morning Bob loves get lost in, camera bag slung over shoulder, slogging along mucky wooded paths in early morning, nearly swallowed by fog, capturing the meaning of life through the lens of a camera . . .

I'm still reeling from the after-effects of the benefit on Sunday, and I think the tsunami of emotions finally caught up with me on my morning doggy walks, started crying and couldn't stop . . . thank god for fog and drizzle and raincoats to hide one's face from passing cars . . I still cannot believe the immeasurable outpouring of love and support of the day—all year, really—but Sunday was the first day Bob was able to truly experience all of this first hand, face-to-face, hand-to-hand, heart to heart . . . we both want everyone to know just how grateful we are for each and every person who were part of the day; whether in spirit or in person, we felt it, throughout the day, like nothing we've ever felt before . . . you may have sent a message telling us you couldn't make it but were thinking of us, or you might have been in a cut-throat bidding war at the silent auction—no matter what the role, we felt the love, and are still rolling in it . . . thinking of renting an aer-o-plane and dragging a flashy banner across the white winter sky, something dramatic and memorable to convey our complete and utter gratitude . . . but that wouldn't be enough, nothing could ever be enough, to let you know how utterly grateful we are . . . so instead, I'll continue to ramble on . . . lucky you. . .

Sooooo . . . we decided to take the house off the market . . . it's been such a stressful but seemingly necessary decision to sell the house and simplify our lives, move closer to hospitals, doctors, friends and family . . . a decision that made sense a few months ago, but now, not so much. . . now, the focus is quiet, peace, reconnecting, calm . . . so just want to care about nothing but our time here and now, not be bothered with constant, disruptive showings, panicky thoughts of: Shit, I have to clean the joint again for another pointless showing for some snotty, critical buyer who doesn't give a shit about what's going on in our lives right now? But, what if the house sells? Then what? Where do we go? How will this work out?!" These, among a thousand others, are thoughts that keep me up all night, every night. . .

Bob has had nearly every thing near and dear violently ripped from him—health, friends, work, nature, photography, life as he knew it—an exercise in torture that has endured over a year. When we decided to sell the house back in November, it was in a different frame of mind. Bob was in rehab at Bethesda, the direction of our thoughts were, "We've got a long road, but Bob will eventually go back to work, I'll go back to work, let's simplify for a year or so . . . "

Now, we're in a hospice setting. Rules have changed, for the 1000th time, and we still don't know really, how to play the game . . . the more I think about it, the more I can't bear the thought of selling the house, moving to an apartment or a rental house . . . we'd do it, if it comes down to it but . . . the thought progression went something like this: Bob has already lost so much, selling the house means taking that from him, too. It is only a house, just a thing, I know, but the whole idea of uprooting and settling into a new "home" during this in-between-world-time seems more than either of us could bear. . ." never any easy answers to these questions, peeps . . .

The benefit has eased an immense burden. For now, we will stay put. The astounding generosity of family, friends and even complete strangers has helped immeasurably in that decision, and I want you all to know that. You all, all our peeps, have made this possible. Now, we can focus on Bob, his comfort, staying at here for as long as we can . . . and, if we're going to leave for an hour, I'd soooooooooooooooo (enough "o's" fer ya?) rather it be quality time in the form of lunch in Stillwater, or a leisurely stroll through Target for t.p. and laundry detergent or meeting friends for dinner, than a fruitless showing in a shitty housing market . .

Our home is modest but is Bob's little dream home, his "Wrenwood." The benefit on Sunday has made it possible for us to stay here, for the time being . . . so blessed, so grateful, so full of love . . . (pic to right is Bob, Dan from Alaska and his bro-in-law, Al, ready to toss back a shot of Grand Marnier. There's s story behind that, some day, with Bob's permission, I'll share it . . .)