Another Anniversary

Last year on February 4, on a cool gray morning, I was moving from my big, beloved house in the country into a small apartment in the middle of Portland. I had left my house and almost all it contained, packed up my cats, clothes and a few belongings and let go.

I let go of a life I thought I wouldn't survive without.
 
When I think of those days just before leaving, I remember things in flashes. Everything felt raw and harsh, yet hazy with shock and grief. That strange detached sense of being submerged in the depths. I can see these flashes of memory, but they seem like they happened to someone else.

The last few heart breaking minutes I spent in my old house. My sweet friend tearfully and gently  telling me that it was time to leave as I sobbed and fought with reality. Closing the door behind me and feeling completely numb and empty. The cats yowling for the entire 90 minute drive as I shifted between crying and feeling numb again, wondering if yowling like them would release a little of the pain that was choking me.

But I wasn't alone and that saved me.

There were many people who loved me so much that they managed to make these days less terrible and lonely. They helped me take care of details I simply couldn't bring myself to. They unpacked for me, stayed with me that first night in the new apartment, they brought me food and took good care of me. They even went through some of Dave's things for me because I had reached a point where the pain was overwhelming and all I could manage were the basics. Eat, try to sleep, and cry.

I took notes about the entire process, I tried to stay present. I made the requisite phone calls, but I was barely hanging on. Since then, though, I have felt stronger and stronger even though it didn't seem like it most days. I've made a life for myself here and found ways to settle in. I've fallen in love with this city and gradually grown to love myself and even appreciate the potential of my new path too.

But on this anniversary, I can't stop thinking about the love of those friends. They each took away some of the darkness and fear and pain in their own wonderful way. Next to the days right after Dave died, it was the hardest days of my life. The most draining and scary. But there they were, offering their love and kindness. I grabbed onto their support like a drowning person and felt the gratitude flood through me.

I sit here in the living room of my cozy new home in the new city I already miss the second I leave it and I realize how far I've come. I had to let go to know what I was capable of. I had to loosen my grip on what I thought was my life's plan and find out what the actual plan was. I had to participate in that plan by being open and following the paths that presented themselves to me. I had to go out and FIND some of those paths. I had to enlist the help of so many. I had to learn to lean on others and accept help. I had to trust myself. None of it was easy, but that's what makes it so precious to me now. It was hard-won.

All that hard work came from the fuel of those first few days I thought I wouldn't survive. Once I saw that I did survive, I could move forward. Before I was able to see the possibility of a better time ahead of me, I had those incredible people who cared about me, holding me up when I could barely stand on my own.

Dave's parents have told me a few times that some of his last words to them were "Make sure Cassie's OK". I don't think he had to worry. I made it on my own but I made it surrounded the entire time by the energy of those who love me, including him.

I am so grateful to have found this feeling of peace and joy again. There was a long period of time when I thought I'd never feel it again. I'm able to see now, how strong I really was, even when I felt completely broken. I was so low and scared in those days that I couldn't rely on my own hope. I had to borrow it from those who had faith in me.

I know that the universe doesn't deal me a better hand now just because I've been through hell, but there's just as much chance that the future holds amazing things, too. I know sad times will come again and little things will set me back. I know big bad things can and will happen. I know I have an incredibly long way to go, but now that I've crested the hill of the one year mark since that pivotal move,  I can look behind me, at the distance I've come and marvel. I guess I really am strong. There is no denying that now. And so is the love that helped me get here.

Black Hole

from here

I didn't see this one coming at all, so I couldn't prepare myself (which is a sensation I'm getting familiar with now).

I was nothing but excited to look at potential houses to buy. I didn't think of the trigger it would be to go house shopping without Dave for the first time. I'm glad I didn't know ahead of time what it would do to me, or I'd never have gone. Blind, naive enthusiasm - thanks for getting me out of the house in the first place!

While a dear friend, the realtor and I drove around, I began to feel a little unease. I couldn't put a finger on it. There was just something "off". My enthusiasm and optimism drained out of me a drop at a time. It wasn't a black hole, or a sob session (yet). It was just a little discomfort and the sensation of detaching from the moment and hovering above. Not quite present in my body.

Each house was nice, but not the "one". Each neighborhood was okay, but not the "one". I didn't feel true enthusiasm for much at all and just couldn't access a feeling of excitement.

I began to worry about being a homeowner again. Each house I looked at was a potential money pit and neon sign screaming "Lady - YOU NEED A JOB!". Each house was situated in neighborhoods full of families and couples and smugly whispered "You're alone again at 36! These are houses for couples and families!".

By the time I got home, I still hadn't realized what was headed my way, grief-wise. I was a little mopey when I set down my purse and keys. I picked up my gigantic cat, Rosco, to snuggle him for comfort and turned to my right. Staring back at me were two pictures of Dave and me on our travels. My tribute tiles from camp.

In a rush, an ocean wave of gigantic proportions, I fell down the black hole. I held Rosco and cried into his fur for a while. I could hear echoes of my old life all around me. Our sunny, beautiful home-of-our-dreams, now inhabited by strangers, materialized around me, my current life falling away. I was transported back to that life of married security, sharing our love for those silly cats of ours, making plans and splitting life up equally so that neither one of us had to take it all on alone. I felt the loss of it all wash over me, amplified by the stark contrast of the experience that day - searching for a house for a single woman. Attempting to take on my next big life event without my best friend and partner in everything.

I felt my insides shredding apart. I felt the black hole in my gut open up. I cried until my head pounded and I could no longer breath through my nose.

So I filled the bath with extra hot water and slipped into that comforting place where I somehow feel secure enough to do my most gut-wrenching crying. I begged for comfort. I asked Dave to help me. I talked to him for a long time and felt nothing but the black hole within. I curled my body up around the terrible emptiness that I feel there. I writhed in that bathtub with a pain too large to contain in one body.

I cried until the headache reached a new height, and got out of the bath like an elderly person, popped 3 Advil and curled up in bed to watch 30 Rock until I could numb myself enough to fall asleep.

No house I look at could ever measure up and it's not because of the physical house I had to give up (although my old house is so unique, that might just be the case!), it's because it was our house.

My bathtub conversation with Dave ended with me telling him that I now have him integrated into my being and that there's no way anyone could be any closer to me than that. I told him that whatever house I live in will be home because I will take him with me into that new dwelling. I told him that I'd continue to work hard to take good care of myself since he is no longer here to do so. I told him that I'd survive to make sure I honor his life. I told him that I'd do it all for him until I could do it for myself, too. I told him I loved him and always would.

Only part of me felt the courage to say those hopeful things and the other part went along with it just in case the power of positive thinking would pull me along with it.

I have definitely lost some of my enthusiasm around house shopping. Some of my courage has evaporated when I think of taking it all on without him.  The whole process has forced me to think even more of how damn vulnerable I am. I am sole caretaker of me. If I don't find a way to support myself, no one will. There is no back-up like there was in my former life.

What that means though, is that I will emerge stronger because of it. I already have and I need to remember that.

I have to remember that losing him has given me a terrible but beautiful gift.

The chance to be truly self-sufficient for the first time in my life, the ability to help others who are walking this path, and the opportunity to choose life.

Just because you're breathing, it doesn't necessarily mean you're living. And I want to be living. Which means that I can't give up.

So, tomorrow I will be looking at houses again. I can do this.

Home

from here

I have suddenly gotten it in my head that I want to settle here in Portland and buy a house. It feels right in my body like no other decision has since Dave died.

The other decisions - sell the house, take a leave of absence, resign, rent an apartment in Portland - have felt right, but incredibly sad and wrenching.

They were moving forward, which was good, but they were letting go of aspects of my old life, which felt like, well, loss.

This decision isn't tinged with the sadness of loosening my grip on something. It feels like moving forward and gaining. Gaining a foothold in this new life. Gaining a safe harbor all my own. Gaining a new beginning to build on (literally and figuratively).

I have a picture in my mind of a bungalow in a beautiful, quiet neighborhood. I can see my small garden glowing in the sunlight, hummingbirds buzzing at the throats of the flowers. I can see people walking and biking past, waving hello. I can see my friends visiting, filling the house with joy and laughter. I can see pictures of new memories lining my walls next to pictures of "the life before". I can see a studio space filled with my art supplies and a place to write.  I can see myself walking and biking to the grocery, yoga, the library, the coffee shop.

There is something comforting about knowing that I can make this new, beautiful city my home if I choose to. I feel lucky to say that I can. I know I'm biased and that I haven't seen ALL the other cities in the world, but I really think Portland is prettiest and most wonderful of them all.

I meet with a realtor soon to go over my needs and desires for a new home and start the search.

 I can feel Dave smiling because I'm smiling.

Proud

After two weeks living in my new place, my new city, my new life, I am feeling at peace most of the time. The anguish of living in "our" house has lifted. My new life matches the new me a little better.
I'm meeting wonderful new people and finding new ways to heal. I've been sleeping through the night more often, a reflection of the peace I've been able to create for myself here.

Every time I think of the pain I felt while making the decision to sell the house and the actual moving process, I feel my mind shut down a little. I think that is its protective way of allowing me to forget just how bad that pain was. I remember it being painful but I don't remember exactly how that pain felt, viscerally. Thank god.

I am learning more than ever that we make of a situation what we want to. We manifest so much by the mindset we take on and that it is within our control to find the good in the bad.

But I can read about how I felt during this heart-wrenching time. I found a draft of a post I was going to work on and then publish but forgot about in the chaos of the move. I must have written it about four weeks ago. Reading it now is a good reminder of how sometimes my mind can be so convincing. It's in my power to make it convince me of good, instead of bad. Thankfully, during the pain, I held on to what, somewhere deep within me, I knew was right for me even though I was scared down to my bones.

Because now I'm where I need to be. As hard as it was. As much as it hurt and as much as I risked, I trusted in myself and I'm glad I did.


Here's the entry I wrote:

I've uncovered a new level of my feelings about selling the house. There was an offer. A good offer. And I accepted. Getting an offer I wanted on a house that's been on the market for one month is not something I think I can pass up. It's just that now I have a month to clear out. Eleven years' worth of a life, Dave's life and my life, to sift through and somehow put in two categories. Keep or let go of.
I've had to let go of so much already. I'm so tired of letting go.
But, I can't back out now. I have to confront this. I have to let go. Letting go is the lesson I have to learn. Over and over.
One of the things I've been feeling recently, that I was just able to identify, is how sorry I am that I'm letting go of our house. I feel like I'm letting Dave down. That house was our pride and joy. It was filled with love and light and comfort. And he helped to make it that way and now I'm giving it up to someone else. Am I giving up on it? I feel like apologizing to Dave.
I know that I'll carry his love, our love, in me no matter where I go. I know that the house is just stuff. Sticks, bricks, siding, furniture, not our actual beings or our actual love.
But when I let the feelings come, that's what surfaces. I feel sorry. I feel like I've let Dave down. I feel like I'm giving up something too wonderful to ever find again. I guess I'm worried I'll never have that peace again. And the house is just the physical representation of that.
Nothing changes the fact that a BIG house on 12 acres is not something I want to try to deal with on my own. That kind of isolation might be great for someone who is settled, but I'm just no longer settled. I'm finding my way in a whole new life. I have to let go. I am not married anymore. Accepting that is heart breaking.

There have been several moments since I've moved out that have made me imagine Dave rooting for me proudly. I can just see him pumping his fist in the air and yelling, "THAT'S what you're capable of! I KNEW it!"

I think he'd respond to those words I wrote in a dark time, "Don't be sorry. Don't you dare. You did what you needed to do and I'm so proud of you".

So I'm not sorry. I didn't let him down. I didn't let us down. I make him proud and, even more importantly, I make myself proud.

Storm's End

A view of the shop and garden in my back yard

My part of the Pacific Northwest just experienced an epic snow and ice storm the likes of which I never thought I'd see living here. There are LOADS of people still without power 6 days after the storm first rolled in. I wrote the following on Friday, January 20.

I think we may have come to the beginning of the end of this year's epic storm, but I'm still cautious. The power came on a little while ago and I rushed to take a shower and run the dishwasher while I had the chance. I'm not yet ready to get too excited about the power when the tree limbs are still coming down and it looks like some really windy weather is on its way. The kind of wind that snaps tree limbs and brings down power lines.
I haven't been out of the house since Sunday. The only humans I've seen since Monday were a couple who braved this crazy weather to look at my house. My house is officially on the market.

I have deliberated endlessly about selling this place. I've considered renting it out, keeping it but moving out, selling it, and even staying in it, but down deep I knew all along that I couldn't stay here REALLY. It was still so wrenching that I was hoping for something to happen that would FORCE the decision. As Dave's birthday rolled around, I wished for a clear message or sign that leaving this house was the right thing to do. And then, as if by some strange cosmic force, the storm arrived on his birthday and continued for the next 3 days. Being trapped here, wondering when the power would come on again, and how I'd get out of my snow-blocked driveway for more gas for the generator, and how I'd keep the fire going, and how I'd get through another day completely alone in this big house made it clearer than ever.
It was as though I got my message. Loud and clear.

It's not even that I couldn't handle it. I handled it. I made the fires, I hauled the firewood, I dragged the generator out of the garage, I started the generator, I dug the car out of the snow. I did everything myself and I didn't need help. I know I can handle all of it. But I don't want to. I want to focus on moving forward and staying here is staying stuck. Stuck in the memories of a life I no longer get to live. Stuck keeping a house and too much land up and running. And the workload will only get worse in the spring and summer.

Even if I didn't live here alone, I'm still so far from opportunities I don't even know exist. I'm still isolated.

So that storm gave me what I was desperately looking for. It gave me a huge con to add to my pros and cons list in my head.
Staying in this house: CON - If there is a storm, you will have to live like a pioneer ALL ALONE for days on end.

Unfortunately, I still get clammy-handed and heart-skippy when I think of living in a new place. That anxiety wasn't relieved by this added resolve to move.

It's the first thing I think about when I wake up (often in the middle of the night) and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. It's never far from my mind throughout the activities of the day, either.

But just because I fear it doesn't mean I shouldn't do it.

The storm said "This is no longer the right place for you, honey."

Saying goodbye to this place will break my heart. As it mends, though, it will be stronger. Yet another hurdle to say I conquered.

As of today (Monday, January 22), It looks as though I will be temporarily moving to the big city on  February 4. Wish this country mouse luck moving to her new urban digs!

My House

My House

The moment I stepped foot in this place, I knew it was my house and would be my home.

Now that my circumstances have changed so dramatically, I'm beginning to understand that for my own good, I will need to let go of this beautiful place.

It's isolated and it's full of memories that sometimes make it hard to move forward.

I look at the downstairs closet door and remember how Dave had to kick that door open from the inside to save us.

All the doors in this place have a very old-fashioned latch instead of knobs. The closet door has a latch on the outside only. If you go into the closet and somehow the door closes and latches on the outside, you're locked in. Now, this would theoretically never happen, because

1. Most likely you'd never go into the closet and then want to close the door behind you.

2. Even if you wanted to try that move, it's difficult to close a door that has no knob or handle of any sort on that side.

Theory and reality. Two different things.

The trap door to the crawlspace is located in that closet. Dave had to go into the crawlspace to do something and enlisted my help. I was to keep the cat out of the closet while he worked. Rosco wanted nothing more than to explore that crawlspace and would try to push his way into the closet while I barred his entrance. I was facing the door, keeping the door open just enough to keep it from latching from the outside while not enough to admit the curious cat by putting my fingertips under the bottom of the door to control it.  Dave was standing with his torso sticking out of the trap door. Rosco stuck his  white paws under the door to play with my fingertips and I giggled and called out "Look at Rosco playing with my fingers!" Dave replied (Mr. Practical) "Don't let the door latch shut. We'll be locked in here," to which I replied "I won't do that, SHEESH, whattya think I am, stupid?". And that was when I accidentally shut and latched the door. There was a flurry of "I TOLD YOU!" and "I KNOW BUT I DIDN'T THINK IT'D ACTUALLY LATCH THAT EASILY!" and "OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO DIE IN HERE! WHAT DO WE DO NOW? NO ONE KNOWS WE'RE IN HERE!"

After resolutely declaring that we'd just die in that closet and someone would find our corpses and those of the cat when no one came looking for us soon enough, Dave calmly hoisted himself out of the crawlspace, moved me out of the way, and karate-kicked the door right where the latch would be on the other side, cracking the frame a little, but unlatching the latch and saving us before I could finish my sentence on how embarrassing it would be to die because I trapped us in our closet.

I can still see the tiny crack in the door frame.

I look at the staircase and remember the time I picked up a mouse on the landing.

A terrible high pitched squeaking almost too high pitched to hear woke us up one night. We found Rosco playing with a mouse in the stairwell. There is something about hearing a mouse squeak for its life while watching a cat play with it that makes me lose my mind, because after watching for a few seconds, I made up (lost) my mind. I ran past the cat and mouse on the landing to the first floor, grabbed some gardening gloves lying near the door and ran back to the landing. When the cat had that mouse cornered, I grabbed the terrified rodent by the tail, ran back down the stairs and tossed it outside, all before I realized what I'd just managed to do. I think Dave's jaw made a small thump when it hit the ground. I don't think he'd moved the entire time. I calmly removed the gloves and climbed back in bed while Dave still remained frozen and silent. I'm not sure he was even able to remark on that moment that night. I think he was literally speechless. I, on the other hand, managed to say something like "Did you SEE that?" while he just stared at me like he'd never seen me before and had no idea who I was.

I look at the dining area by the wood stove and think of the time Rosco projectile vomited the liquid from cooking corn onto the dining room table, chairs and floor.

He'd gotten onto the counter when we weren't looking and lapped up ALL the liquid the corn had been cooking in, jumped off the counter and jumped onto the dining room table. From the living room, we heard the sound all cat owners dread. It's the sound that alerts us to move the cat to a surface that is not carpeted or upholstered. We both couldn't get to the kitchen in time to make sure Rosco was barfing over a paper towel or something but instead got to witness him vomit all that liquid out like a firehouse. It forcefully sprayed out of his mouth, across the table, into the chair nearby, down the chair and onto the floor. It must have a been a full 20 seconds we stood there, mouths open in surprise, listening to the musical sound of the puke dripping from the table and chair. "I have no words," I finally whispered. "You don't see that everyday" he finally deadpanned. And I went to get the paper towels.

This house is so full of memories like that. Memories that feel just as close and as current as the moment I'm living in now even though some of them are up to 11 years old.

There is some sort of disconcerting mismatch between the reality of my situation and the memories this house traps inside it. The mismatch makes me feel stuck in the past.

I can also picture a family filling this house with love and noise and life. It's a house for a family, not a single 35 year old woman. At least not THIS 35 year old single woman.

I wish I were in a position to better pick the family that moves in when this place eventually sells. I definitely feel like they're adoptive parents more than potential home buyers. I want to make them go through an application process to prove they're worthy.

They'd have to be willing to feed my hummingbirds who come back every March. There would be a stipulation that they'd HAVE to have the feeders out no later than the first week of March or the hummies might come back early and search for their feeder. This would NOT be acceptable.

They'd have to promise to never harass or hurt the deer, even when they eat the shrubs. And they will.

They'd need to promise to grow veggies in the massive veggie garden Dave and I labored over for years and to use the greenhouse we built ourselves. 

They'd have to promise to look at the sky on a clear night and note that the milky way is visible out here in the middle of nowhere.

They'd need to promise to never fill this house with ugliness or violence. It's a house of peace and quiet and love and always should be.

They'd need to promise to love this house as much as I've loved it for the past 11 years.

I can't imagine that's possible, but it would be nice.