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 . . .
