Six months. . .

Nearly a month has gone by since I last wrote and I debate, every day, whether or not to keep this thing dragging on. . . It's been six months since Bob left this earthly world, but it still just happened, in my world. How do I possibly put into words this journey of immense loss and subsequent rebuilding my life without my best friend, the person I loved most, by my side . . . every day is an adventure in widowhood, and I can hardly keep up simply living in the minute-to-minute fluctuations of emotions, memories, thoughts and feelings that yank me in every direction, simultaneously, much less write about it, do it justice, make sense of it, convey all there is to this journey. Impossible.

I think back, often, to a guest at Bob's Celebration of Life service, who told me in the receiving line—much too giddily—that I should look at this time as an opportunity to reinvent myself! How exciting, she gushed, we all wish we could do what you get to do! Two and a half days after Bob died, after a 19-month journey through hell. I was too deep in shock to say what I should have said: Oh, really? You want your husband to die a horrific death so you can have a do-over? Instead, all I said was, "No, it'd be exciting if I'd had a choice in the matter . . ." Timing, people, timing . . . but as time passes, I am finally, grudgingly having to admit that that is, indeed, what I get to do. Reinvent. All the while reinventing, I am reminded why it is I get to do this in the first place. Because my beautiful husband died.

I find it an astounding phenomenon, that when one suffers an immense loss of someone so close, one can still get out of bed every day (but at the same time, I completely understand if one simply cannot), go through empty motions of living, when those on the outside say, "You look so good! You seem to be doing so well!" Fake it till you make it . . . When every second of every minute of every hour of every day is intricately laced with thoughts of Bob, I am astounded that I can still carry on conversations, pay bills, shop for groceries, drive a damn car and keep it on the road, go through the act of living, while feeling dead inside. To be able to do all this, when no one else knows that the all day, every day, Bob is in my thoughts. How can there be room in one's brain for all of this thinking, all these images, so many memories are tangled up with all the day-to-day stuff we have to process. Astounding. . .

Since moving, I have been reaching out more, to friends, to a grief therapist, to other widows (that label still does not fit me well, I cringe at the sight and sound of that word . . . I'm going to have to work on that one, perhaps try to embrace it, own it, maybe come up with a better word. Or, perhaps I could market widowhood, make it trendy, like pregnant women now are . . . I am now visualizing a whole line of clothing and accessories, emblazoned with the silhouette of a black widow spider, maybe encrusted in rhinestones, sequins, a chain of stores across the country, reality show to follow . . . yes, you can say it—I'm temporarily, maybe forever, insane), trying to piece together some sort of meaning for this journey. . .

Gotta admit, it's been much easier, being in the city, closer to "civilization," to make myself get out and about, make myself more accessible to family and friends, baby steps back into the land of the living. But being "out of it" for so long, it can get overwhelming at times. And damn scary. The neighborhood where I now live has had a rash of burglaries and break-ins all fall. Both next door neighbors and a neighbor behind me have been burglarized. It's enough to make me want to pack up and head back to the safe, sad loneliness of my "old" home. I now have a security system and told my landlord I was getting another dog; amazingly, he agreed to it, but I have yet to do it. . . on the plus side, the string of events have spurred my neighbors to band together and form a block club—we exchanged phone #'s and e-mail addresses and even have a facebook page, where police reports and other helpful info are posted. From an unfortunate string of events, we're rebuilding a stronger sense of community. . .

I met two amazing women with eerily similar stories to Bob's and mine, at an event sponsored by Fairview Hospice several weeks ago. Of all the people to connect with at the event, I was inexplicably drawn to these two 40-something women, who had also lost their beloved husbands to gruesome battles with cancer. We now try to regularly meet for dinner and drinks, to cry, laugh, curse, vent, share our stories in the dim corner of a restaurant in a northern suburb, our own little support group. . . I have connected with another group for widowed, called The Grief Project (in a crazy, round-about-way, I met the founder of this organization who is an acquaintance of an acquaintance of my sister, Jill), and have again, found a hidden tribe of people who speak my crazy language, who know the customs of this fucked up world to which, against my will, I now belong. It's both sobering and comforting, to know there are so many people walking around wearing heavy, nearly debilitating cloaks of sadness, but also to know that these are the ones who truly understand. . . and that there are those among the mourning who have been on this path longer, who offer hope, peace and even love and happiness to those of us new to this world of grief . . .

I find it equally astounding that, even beneath this crushing shroud of grief, wondrous and beautiful things continue to happen, to me, around me, to others, around others. . . I don't believe in miracles the way most people believe in miracles. I believe it's a miracle that when we suffer immense loss, we are able to inexplicably pick ourselves up and continue living, hard as it may be. The resilience of the human spirit and its ability to heal is a miracle. I find it miraculous that no matter what happens in the world, the leaves still change colors, the sun still rises, the day slides into night, that babies are born and love is found, that friends and family are still by my side, still willingly hold me up and love me as I stumble along through this strange land, most of the time, not knowing what I'm doing, but doing it anyway, in spite, despite, who knows why . . . I find it wondrous, if not a miracle, that so many people have told me that they now immediately think of Bob when they see or hear an owl. . .

I was recently accepted into Hamline University's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program, to start in February. I am still in shock, still half-expecting someone from the department to call me and tell me they've made a huge mistake in accepting me, that they meant to accept Jenna Hildebrandt, not Jennifer. . . I haven't been a real college student in over 20 years and I'm scared to death, but also deeply honored and excited about the whole deal. Bob would be so proud of me; he had encouraged me, for so long, to go back and pursue my advanced degree in writing. At the time, I wanted to, but couldn't fathom it. I had my business, the timing wasn't right, I was too scared, endless other excuses . . . And now, at the heart of the deal is the glaring reminder of why I finally applied for the program this summer. Because Bob died. Because life as I knew it is no longer. Because I get to reinvent myself.

Walks in the neighborhood . . .

Walking Rocco the other day, I encounter a neighbor, a man I've met several times already, lives around the corner from me. We often pass each other as we walk our dogs through the park near the house I am now living in (I initially typed "my house," there, but immediately, it looked and felt all wrong. This is not my house, or my life. I don't think I will ever get used to any of this. . .). Sometimes we stop to chit-chat a bit, other times we simply wave from across the park.

Today, he's standing outside with his grown son, I stop to exchange a few words, and eventually, he asks, "So, what's your sweetie's name?" Sweetie? I thought he was asking about Rocco, and then it suddenly hit me. My sweetie. He's asking about a significant other. Shit . . . no way around these scenarios. His name is Bob, he died in May. I tell him with a voice that's not my own, with words that shouldn't belong to me, but do, fiercely. "Oh," he says, his voice changes abruptly, clearly not expecting this answer. "Well, he went through the same thing," jerking a thumb toward his son. "His woman left him, and stole his dog, too. . ." shaking his head. I stare at him. Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly think "his woman left him" and adding a stolen dog for effect, is even remotely similar to my husband dying? No, no, no, I scream all of this at him, in my head. . . "Left him" means someone had a choice in the matter, "left him" means he probably will still see his woman, that they might have a chance at getting back together, slim as it may be. It's very possible he'll get his dog back, at the very least. What part of "died" don't you get?!? "Died" means neither of us had a choice in this matter, "died" means there isn't even a slim chance I will ever see my sweetie again, much less, a chance to be with him again . . . .

I don't remember exchanging good-byes, maybe used Rocco as my excuse to continue my walk, but I do remember feeling that it's often easier to not talk to strangers. The widow thing freaks people out, myself included, makes them, us, say strange things. What I just said (or didn't say) to my neighbor was such a dishonor to Bob, to all he was, and all we had, the good, the bad and the ugly, and suddenly I am thinking, I have to tell everyone I meet that not only am I a widow, but my husband was only 44 when he died, and had the most beautiful brown eyes and the silkiest Superman-black hair that I loved to run my fingers through . . he possessed the sharpest wit, a most wicked sense of humor and could infuriate me like nobody could . . . but was the best person I have ever had the honor to know in this life on earth, that he died an awful death that is the stuff of nightmares, but fought his incurable disease like nothing I will ever witness again on this Earth, right till the end, I loved him, still love him, would have taken care of him and his broken body forever, if I had been given the choice. . .

On the rest of my walk I think of how horribly inept the English language is. We say died, and love, and widow, but mean nothing when we say them. To have one word that would sum it all up for me, tell our story, who Bob was, what he meant and still means to me, how he died, would be o-so helpful, for me, for everyone I encounter. But I can't tell his story, our story, to everyone I meet. I will just have to learn to be okay with the fact that most people will never have the honor to learn who my sweetie was. . . and somehow be okay with how very tragic that is.

Fake it till you make it. . .

This is how I get to spend the better part of my Tuesdays and Thursdays, with my dear little nephew, Otto. He is the coolest baby ever, and I can say that with pretty accurate certainty, being the (favorite! ;) auntie of 13 nieces and nephews. NOT that the others aren't cool, awesome, amazing—all of the above, x 100!—because they are, but there is something undefinable about this newest kidlet . . . as a baby, Otto is so full of Zen, so loving, so peaceful, so awe-inspiring, beyond what a beautiful yet simple baby should be able to convey (and let's be real—not many babies are like this, ever,

I have never been in the company of a baby who gazes dreamily into my eyes, for minutes on end. . . an old soul in the heart of an adorable little boy, so evident in his eyes, his spirit. I have a hard time taking my eyes off him, my green-blue eyes gazing deeply back into his own baby green-blues (though I do recall thinking this about each of my nieces and nephews as I held their tiny bodies in my arms). Still, Otto is different. Can't explain it, just different. Not a bad thing, to be different.

And one of the sweetest things he does, is babble, "Bob bob, bob, bob, bo-bo-bo-bob," over and over. Jill swears he never does this anywhere else but at my house, or when I'm around. He often does this while gazing off, beyond my shoulder, or above my head, with the sweetest smile on his face, as though he's talking to someone . . . I like to imagine he sees Bob, is talking to him in a way babies only can, letting me know all is right where Uncle Bob is . . . I truly believe babies see angels, speak to angels, because their little baby spirits are so pure, so untainted by all the shit of life that gets in the way of that which is pure. . . either, that, or Otto thinks my name is "Bob." I'll take the former . . .

I am still "settling" into my new digs in St. Paul. It doesn't feel like home, nothing will feel like home, for a long time, maybe ever. A stranger in a strange land. But, I am inundated with visits/calls/e-mails from friends, near and dear, near and far, old and new, and it definitely has increased in frequency, since I moved closer to the masses, and I embrace it, feel very connected, very loved, if not at times, overwhelmed. Went to the Selby Avenue Jazz Festival with a dear friend a few weeks or so, have had numerous lunches/dinners out with family, friends, even strangers whom I've just met (that isn't as weird as it looks in writing . . .). Walk the dogs endlessly, weaving in and out throughout the blocks that tie the neighborhoods together. . .

Bob's cameras have sat unused for months, and a few days ago, I hopped onto National Camera Exchange's website, to see if they offered any novice photographer's classes. . . saw one that was being held that very night; called my sis, Jill, and after a flurry of conversations/phone calls/craziness, her husband, Jade (who works at NCE), I was signed up for the class. I lugged Bob's beloved backpack, full of camera and lenses, and got my first "real" photography lesson. Elementary as it was, I felt fully enveloped with Bob's spirit, hearing the "technical" insights to all the things that Bob knew, inherently. . .as the instructor explained various techniques, I could picture endless photographs Bob had taken, using the same technique . . .

Next day, I proceeded to snap endless photos of beloved Otto . . . it's going to take me a while to get a "handle" on these intimidating, impressive pieces of photographic equipment, but when I pick them up, I feel Bob reverberating through the metal frame of the camera; I am slowly learning why he chose nature over churches, as religion. And love him even more than ever. And am more sad than ever, with his loss.

(the picture to the right was Bob's last stay at the U, when he had the GI bleed right after Christmas. He was never prone to kissing babies, despite the many nieces and nephews we have. . . love the way Otto leans into Uncle Bob as he kisses. . . )

A journey that won't end till I take my own last breath

For every sweet memory I want to share about my time on earth with Bob, I'm flooded with countless images that I will never be able to share with anyone, that will forever be imbedded in my head, in my heart, a 1:1,000,000 ration of good to bad, at any given moment, and the astounding thing for me is that people live like this all the time, very minute of every day of every year, and we have no idea how many and to what extent. . . an inexplicable world to be living in, going through the motions with everyone else while your mind is anywhere but . . . I'm continually amazed that I move right along with life, as though I'm a part of it, but feel anything but. Over four months since Bob's passing, I am continually, daily, by the minute, bombarded with thoughts, memories, images, flash-backs of the past year and a half (October will mark the two-year "anniversary" of the onset of his cancer, though we weren't given the diagnosis until nearly three months later), that refuse to vacate, and yet I "function" damn near as good as most others walking the face of the earth. Fucking astounding. . . no two ways about it . . .

The season changes are especially hard, maybe that's why I've had some rough days of late. This time of year, we'd be camping, hiking, traipsing the trails of the north shore, camping with Penny and Jim, dogs in tow. The smells, the sounds, the sights of each season tear through me like a bullet, and every day, I'm astounded that I get out of bed and do something. Last year at this time, Bob was still at the U, in the very beginning stages of "recovering" from that cursed, god-awful, torturous 13 hour surgery he'd endured a few weeks prior, endless complications ensuing. . . But, a year ago, he was still with me.

Went to a bbq at my cousin, Erin's last weekend. Was talking to a couple, somehow Bob got brought into the conversation (how can he not? He was my husband and everything I am doing now is because he is no longer with me. How do I explain just up and moving from Stillwater to St. Paul and not explain why my husband is not with me . . . just an example of how, in multitude of layers, this loss never leaves my side, continuing to define every action, every word. . .)

The wife of the couple stood in wide-eyed disbelief as I fed her the condensed version of Bob's story. "My god. . . " she slowly whispered. "For all you've been through, you are so, ummm, well, I don't know the right word—so put together?" I stared back at her in equal wide-eyed disbelief. Is that how people see me? I think. Put together? Maybe I need to break down in public a little more frequently. . . Who really goes around sobbing in public, at bbq's, in Target, at the grocery store, ? (well, there have been times . . .Tootsie pops always do it for me. And Dr Pepper. And Trader Joe's frozen fruit bars. . . and . . .) How do I tell someone I've never met that every waking minute of my day, at this point in my life, is immersed in memories of my husband, of our lost lives together, of all he went through for a year and a half, and I have no fucking clue how I get through every day? I simply don't.

A few days ago, I ran into neighbors of ours from Stillwater. More than once in the conversation, the husband of the pair said, "I don't think I could ever do what you did for Bob, for as long as you did, Jen . . ." Again, I am the one in wide-eyed disbelief. How do I tell the neighbor that I hope he will never have to find out if he has "what it takes" to do what I did for Bob, for as long as I did? All I can say to that is, you'd be surprised at what you're capable of, given the circumstances, I tell him. And that's all I can say with any certainty.

That, and that I truly believe that the sole purpose we are here on earth is to care for one another. Doesn't matter how we do it, whether one by one, or in droves and throngs. Just take care of one another. However you can.

A slow motion dance with my new life . . .

I took a walk in my new neighborhood with my sister, Jill and her kids last weekend, a long stroll down Summit Avenue, oooh-ing and aaaaahhh-ing over the gargantuan mansions we passed along the historic boulevard. No sooner would we decide on the one we liked best when we'd come upon another, even more opulent and dramatic, if that's possible. The architecture of the homes on Summit is the real-life definition of breathtaking. Truly, I could waste an entire day, gazing at a single edifice and still not see all there is to admire. . . kalidescope stained glass . . . intricately detailed Victorian "painted ladies". . . ornate yet stately carved stone. . . even chimneys are spared no elaborate attention—one home (even calling it a "home" sounds insulting) has towering chimneys with wrought-iron calla lilies imbedded in the masonry. . . and that doesn't even begin to touch the grounds and gardens . . . this alone could become a full-time job, admiring historic buildings . . .

Our meandering brought us to a party gathered on the lawn outside yet another grand residence, a wedding in full-swing. I immediately recognized the location—Bob and I had attended a wedding here ourselves, and suddenly, I was whisked away with the memories of a good ten years prior, sharing them aloud with Jill and the kids, though I was talking more to myself than anyone. . .

That beautiful fall night, Bob and I dazzled the wedding party with newly acquired ballroom

dance skills, waltzing, two-stepping, jitter-bugging and polka-ing, sometimes cheek-to-cheek, sometimes whirling around like tasmanian devils, like a scene from a movie movie—the crowd parted, including the bride and her father, and circled around Bob and me, as we danced the night away, in perfect time to the music swirling along with us . . .

Jill interrupts my story. "Wait a minute— Your Bob? Danced? Really?" More an accusation than a question.

A few seconds pass, and finally, Not willingly, I confess.

Bob and I had been married maybe four years the summer of the wedding of conversation. Shortly before the wedding, we'd embarked on a camping trip to northern Minnesota. Camping, as in, in a tent. Trip, as in, a whole week. Northern Minnesota, as in, no hotels this time, Little Miss Flat Iron Dependent. This wasn't our first camping trip together, but it was the longest, with no "buffer" night in a cabin or hotel at the half-way point, to ease the pain of "roughing it." Buffer, as in, appeasing Jen. Hardcore, in my book.

Bob decided we should explore north central state parks this time, and painstakingly planned our trip to include Itasca, Lake Bemidji and Hayes Lake, damn near to Lake of the Woods, mapping out our trip based on seasonal wildflowers in bloom. The morning we departed, it had started to rain and increased in intensity as the day went on. It not only rained all day but continued the entire week. And not just little sprinkles or soft drizzles. No, we were subjected to full-blown soakings, downpours—torrential deluges—as in, Each. And. Evey. Day. We had a "two-man" tent, as in, if you're lucky and happen to be African pygmies, and a smelly, sopping wet Alaskan malamute sharing our sleeping quarters. Smelly, as in, a vat of sweaty football players' post-practice laundry. The tent leaked, our sleeping bags were soaked, we couldn't cook a thing because it was too wet to make a fire. Bob, the eternal Ranger Rick at heart, said, "It's not that bad, Jen! We have Power Bars and Dr. Pepper! The rain'll quit soon!"

After three days of huddling in soggy, smelly quarters, gnawing on granola bars, I snapped—I tore open the tent, screaming, "I hate this—I'm going to go sleep in the van!" and stomped through ankle-deep mud puddles, yanked the passenger door open and slid into the blissfully dry interior of our van and slammed the door. And flipped the switch to lock. Bob sloshed through puddles after me, dragging Gaia behind him, but was too late. Doors were locked and I sat in the front passenger seat, crying. He pounded on windows, "Let me in, Jen! It's pouring out here! Let's talk!"

"No! NOt until you tell me we will do something with our time together, other than camping! I am done camping!It's not fair! It's all we do on our vacations—we never do anything I want to do, and I'm finally done with it!"

Rain streamed down his face as he continued to pound on the window. "Let me in, Jen—I meanit! I want to talk to to you, but I can't out here in this goddamned rain! Let me in, and we can talk! Please!" The genuine desperation in the emphatic please got me. Reluctantly, I flicked the switch on my door handle to unlock the doors and continued my sob fest as Bob quickly ledGaia into the back of the van before hopping in behind her. He slid his rain jacket off and slipped into the driver's seat and faced me.

"What the hell was that all about?" he sputtered as soon as he got into the van, grabbing an old dog towel to dry off. "What—are you five years old or what—we can't just talk, can we? You had to resort to dramatics to make your point?"

I was in no mood for logic. "We always do what you want to do for our vacations!" I interrupted. "For five straight years, all it's been is camping, camping, camping and I'm sick of it! I hate it, in fact, and as of this vacation, I've decided no more camping until you do something I want to do! Period!"

"Fine, fair enough! All you have to do is say the word—just tell me what you want to do."

Ballroom dancing.

"What did you say?" He stopped rubbing his head.

You heard me just fine. Ball room dancing. I want to take balllroom dance lessons. And I want you to take them with me.

"Oh god, Jen, please. Anything but that—and I mean anything. I can't dance! I don't have rhythm—"

You're a liar! You do too have rhythm—I know you'd be a total Deney Terrio! You'd love it, if you just gave it a chance. I gave camping a chance. . .

"Is there anything else you'd want to do?" his voice was weak and thin. He knew he was done.

No.

Anything at all? A cooking class? A language class?

Nope.

Heavy sigh. Defeat. "Okay. Fine." Another heavy sight. Dramatics have taken a turn. "Fair enough. Dance lessons it is."

I signed us up for dance lessons through Community Ed in Roseville, from a man whose hair was a little too greasy and seemed to pay a little too much attention to the little redhead in the class, according to Bob. I didn't care. I was happy, he was Fred Astaire, in my eyes, and a month later, we were able to show off our newly-acquired skills at a wedding on Summit Avenue. . .

Hours after I shared this story with Jill and her kids, I got the following e-mail from Jill:

Tonight, while walking with my you and my kids, it was moving as we passed gorgeous homes on Summit, to hear you talk of lovely times you and Bob had at a wine tasting benefit here, or how you two showed off your newly honed ballroom dance skills at a wedding reception there. Later, when we stopped into one of Bob's former wine clients, Solo Vino, the wonderful memories continued. Since his illness and his passing, this was, for me, the first time in a long time where I felt so connected to that healthy, energetic, hilarious, hard-working, uber-intelligent man who loved you with all his soul, and whom you loved and will continue to love with all your soul. He's so greatly missed, but hearing these stories, stopping by SV touched me so very much. Thank you, Jennifer and Bob.

Benefit Account for Corey Harder. . .

I just wanted to take a moment to share information about a benefit account set up for a dear friend and his family, Corey Harder. I went to high school with Corey and his wife, Ronda (Duerksen—Ronda's family were neighbors of ours, amazing family in their own right), and they have been and continue to be, such awesome supporters on this this long journey . . . recently, Corey, a cancer survivor himself, found out that his brain tumor had returned, and his prognosis is critical. . .

The parallels of Corey and Ronda's story to Bob's and mine are uncanny: Corey, like Bob, is a many-years survivor of cancer (his, a brain tumor); Ronda, like me, is a hairdresser. Corey was interviewing for his dream job when his cancer returned (Bob had just started his "dream job" back at Surdyk's when his returned); Ronda has taken a lot of (unpaid) time off from work, to be with Corey on this journey, and will likely be taking more time off as their journey continues . . . the frustrations, roadblocks and endless hair-pulling events they've experienced mirror what Bob and I faced a lifetime ago. . . I could just scream along with them (and I do . . .)

Ronda and Corey live in Kansas with their adorable son, Zane. They've been to their local hospital, have traveled to the Mayo, for more tests/treatments/input on Corey's situation. They are now on the road to Texas, to MD Anderson in Houston, for another opinion on treatment opinions, as the tumor is growing fast and initial treatment plans are no longer an option.

I am now on the "offering" end of a crisis; I feel helpless, yet desperate, in what I can to do help them, especially being so far away. I recently learned from Ronda's sister Kendra, that a benefit account has been set up at Corey and Ronda's local bank. I can't even begin to tell y'all how much the benefit account (and subsequent rockin' benefit event) helped Bob and me, in endless ways. It helped in making the decision to quit my job, to be by Bob's side full-time as we traveled the horrific journey together . . . for that, I am endlessly, forever grateful to everyone, and that our friends had the foresight (and persistence) to set up the account (and bugged me endlessly, till I eventually conceded to the benefit event), which helped to make that decision possible. Jump, and the net will appear . . . faith, personified. . .

But, I also get it, too deeply, that the events at hand take precedence to any benefit account—the crisis that Corey and Ronda are facing right now is all-consuming, and when I say all-consuming, I can't even begin to explain what that means, other than that a benefit account/event, along with pretty much everything else in life, is the LAST of their concerns. It's all they can do to focus all their time, energy and emotions on the immediate situation, and even then, they are grasping for beyond what they feel they are capable of . . . and that's where friends and family step in . . .

Please—if you are able—help this beautiful family. Anything you can do is welcomed and so appreciated. If there is one thing I have learned on this nearly two-year journey of Bob's and mine, it's that we are here on earth to take care of each other. Simple as that.

Checks can be made out to "Corey D Harder Benefit Account," the "Corey and Ronda Harder benefit account," the "Ronda Harder Benefit account," or any variation of the aforementioned. Any amount that you might be able to share, I know, will be gratefully accepted.

Midland National Bank
527 N Main St
Newton KS 67114

I don't WANT this fake life anymore . . .

My sister, Jill, spent a week down in southern MN recently, to allow her kids some quality time with the grandparents before summer's end. . . ended up being an exercise in torture for all involved, as she carted a 5 year old, an (enormous!) 8 month old and carload of equipment needed to keep both kidlets entertained, between the Mankato and St. Peter grandmas' homes. Toward the end of the week, she was once again piling kids & krap from one grandma's to head over to the other grandma's, when Amelia pitched an award-winning meltdown of epic proportions. "I don't want to go to Grand Jan's!" she wailed, thrashing about as Jill tried to stuff her into the car. "I want my real life back! I want my real dad, and my real house and my real toys! I don't want this fake life any more . . ."

I've spent the past several weeks, cleaning, purging, donating, doling out to friends and family, all my earthly possessions, in preparation for The Big Move to The Big City, which occurred on Monday, August 15th. My mom came out last weekend to help me, a few friends showed up along the way, more help with more packing, unpacking, cleaning . . . Penny and Jim and my friend Julie, arrived early Monday morning to continue the process. Monday came and went with little incident—we moved several loads of belongings to my "new" house in St. Paul—many boxes, some small furniture items—came back to Wrenwood for dinner (i.e., to clean the fridge of edible leftovers) and then collapsed into bed and attempted to get some sleep so we could to do it all over again the next morning, when the moving company would arrive for the big stuff.

The movers, two young strapping lads (well, one was strapping, the other was questionable—rail-thin, but proved to be a helluva worker as the day wore on), showed up promptly at 7:30 Tuesday morning as scheduled, ready to roll. Great company to move with, btw, Good Stuff movers. I walked the movers through the house, showing them which things were staying (for staging the house once I get it ready for sale), which things were coming with me to the new digs.

"This house is so cool! Why would you ever want to move from here?" one of the young men asked me, looking around the joint with genuine awe. Pregnant pause. Do I lie? Make something up? Too late, as my mind doesn't work that fast these days. "Ummmm. . . because my husband recently passed away and it's too much house for just me," I said. I quickly walked past him, continued to point out which things in the bedroom need to be moved, what should remain. "Oh, I'm really sorry," he said quietly and followed me to the bedroom. "It's okay," I say, because it is. It's not his fault.

I am not used to saying such things—talking about my husband and my old life in past tense—will never get used to saying such things, and felt at once awkward, self-conscious and tears coming, again. I began wondering, as well, why am I leaving this beautiful tree-house in the woods? First nanosecond, I note how very lovely it is—nestled in a peaceful, hillside setting with lots of windows looking out in all directions, gleaming bamboo floors, vaulted ceilings, adorable kitchen that we updated almost right away upon moving in (we had planned to live here a very long time and wanted to do things the way we wanted them, so we could enjoy them, unlike our Roseville house, where a new owner reaped the benefits of our updates), endless deck space stretching out into the great outdoors. The deck space was what captured Bob's eye when we first found the house—that, and the overgrown wilderness that is the backyard; I fell in love with the open floor plan, the funky 70's layout. . . .feels like I'm thinking of someone else's entirely different life in another world, than what was mine, with Bob . . .

In the second nanosecond, I was quickly reminded why I need to move. My brain quickly registered the nicks and scrapes in the paint along the door frame, trailing along the trim, from Bob's walker, the steps to the sunken living room and bedroom that even in his most weakened, debilitated state, stubbornly insisted on maneuvering (and sometimes falling, in the process, to my horror) the endless winters snow-blowing the long driveway, raking tons of snow from the roof, shoveling tons more from sidewalks and decks, by myself. I think of the hand-held shower head I installed in our bathroom for Bob when he came home for hospice, so I could help him with his daily cares. I think of the TV in the corner that I can't watch, because it reminds me of what Bob's once vibrant, active life was reduced to, for far too long. I look around the bedroom I don't sleep in and the kitchen I can't cook in, think of the basement I never go down, except to let the dogs out. I think of the three bathrooms I have to clean, the 2300 square feet to maintain, alone, and in that nanosecond, was reminded again and again, the endless reasons for moving . . .

It took about four hours to pack up what was only a fraction of our belongings into the moving truck, the "essentials" I already had determined I absolutely needed with me in the new digs. The young men loaded box after box, heavy furniture, smaller pieces, with an unspoken, calculated formula for stacking and stuffing all my things, like a giant Jenga puzzle, into their truck. As they loaded, we filled my Jeep and Penny and Jim's pickup truck with additional odds 'n' ends. Finally, around noon, the young men came to inform me that they've fit all they could fit into the truck and would head out, taking a 1/2 hour lunch break ("off the clock," they quickly assured me) en route to the new digs.

We stuffed a few more loose items into our vehicles and took off shortly after, arriving at the St. Paul house a half hour later. I unlocked the door and we reversed the morning process, unloading the contents of the Jeep and truck into the house. I cleared a path for the movers to bring the couches in, more boxes, the dining set, more boxes, the bed, more boxes, directing them to the kitchen, the basement, the living room . . . an endless parade of things began to grow and grow and grow, like bacteria, inside the tiny house. My decisiveness quickly wore thin as more boxes and things began to overwhelm the house and me. It all fit into my old house, as did my old life, but here, in this ancient farmhouse with few closets and no garage, parked in the middle of St. Paul (built in 1858, the year MN became a state), there is no room for anything, most of all, my life.

I can't decide where anything should go because I suddenly I realize, with alarming clarity, that this life is not my life any more. Everything that fit into the house in West Lakeland is from a life that I no longer have, a life that Bob and I shared and does not fit in this new life. Not just my stuff, but my memories of Bob and me together. And, as much as I've already cleaned, purged and given away, I'll have to do it all over again, maybe several times, paring down to the basic necessities. More pieces of my life disintegrating in front of my eyes. Suddenly, I hate this house, I hate my life, hate what I have to do to "move on," because the harsh reality is that if I want to move forward, no one can do it for me. I quit giving directions to the movers and instead, drop to the hearth of the wood burning stove and start crying. Not just crying, but hysterical sobs that become more violent the more I try to stop. . . poor moving guys, poor Penny and Jim. Now and then, someone would tentatively approach me for direction and I would sob, "I don't care. Put it where ever there's room. In fact, maybe just start packing it all back up and haul it back to my real house, because I hate this one, I hate this life . . . " Penny sat down beside me and draped her arm around my shoulders.

"Jen—you can do whatever you want. Please remember that—if you want them to stop moving, just say the word. Or if you want to give it a few days, a week, a few months—whatever you decide, remember, you have choices and we're here for you. Whatever you want. . . when Bob was in the ICU, he asked us to be here for you, to take care of you, and we promised him we would, and we want you to please know that we meant that, that we are here for you. . . whatever you want . . . " I can't answer her, I can only cry. Again, the crazy, irrational, all-consuming nature of grief. . .

Julie arrived sometime after 2 and found me sitting at my dining table, head in my arms, still crying hysterically. She took Penny's place and draped an arm around me, allowed me to continue my epic meltdown. "I don't want this fake life!" I cry into my arms, echoing Amelia's earlier sentiments. "I want my old life, my old house back. . . I want Bob back, I don't want to move on, don't want to do any of this any more . . .this house is old, it's smelly, it's too small, what the hell was I thinking—I wasn't, that's the problem!" Julie lead me out to the little patio behind the house ("Jen, it's adorable out here! A mini "W.A. Frost" patio!" she gushed. . .) and went back into the house where she took over directing the movers for the rest of the items. . .

We didn't stay at the "new" place the first night and didn't stay Tuesday night, either. Penny, Jim and I went back to Wrenwood, ordered a pizza and shared a bottle of wine as I continued my crying jag. Again, Penny and Jim reminded me that nothing is permanent, I can change my mind about all of this at any time. I imagine how that could play out, endlessly, moving to and from each place, indefinitely. . .

Sometimes in life, our spirits are nearly gone . . .
sometimes we feel so crushed and broken and
overwhelmed . . .
that we do not even see where we are going.
We are just out there walking to keep the
heart beating . . .
and the circulation moving.
but . . . if that is all we can do . . .
and we are doing it . . .
that is still being faithful . . . not quitting . . .
giving it our best.

— ann kiemel

I am still trying to "get used" to my new digs. Dogs are adjusting better than I am, but at least I still have my "back up" plan, the house I have yet to sell . . .