I thought it was going to be a relief. I had gotten to such a point of being ready that when the event actually took place, somehow I wasn’t. It was turmoil. It was chaos. The night of the move, we didn’t get done until about 10p.m. Nothing had gone right. We didn’t get the moving truck until around 11 a.m., but I had been up since 7 packing and cleaning (The Husband did help)…to not much avail really. The cable guys spent 5 hours installing cable and somehow after they left, my internet worked, but my parents’ didn’t. The contractor we had doing lots of work in the space where the girls and I are was out to put in the heat. My bed got destroyed and we had to go buy a new one. It was ridiculous.
The moment I finally laid down on my new bed in my new space with the girls some 10 feet away finally snoozing after a long day, I felt the devastation, the heartbreak, the sadness, the loneliness. It wasn’t home. Even though I’d lived here for about 22 years of my life, it wasn’t home anymore. And there was no one beside me in that big bed. The sheets were new. The pillows were new. They didn’t have the same smell as my old ones. It was so dark in that room and so very quiet. I remember the feeling. It was the same feeling I had after we made the decision to let our baby boy go to heaven. It was an inescapable pain…grief, crushing. Something did die. Maybe that is why I had those feelings. After a while I did finally drift in and out of sleep.
I didn’t go back to the house until Sunday evening, just to pick up a few things. There was so much we left behind and had yet to go clean up/pick up. It was dark when I went. When I walked through the door, I was taken aback. As I walked through the house, cutting on all the lights, my breath got quicker and shorter. My eyes watered until I couldn’t hold back the flood. Our house that, what seemed like seconds ago, was a home was not a home anymore. It was chaos. It was empty. My moaning cries echoed on empty walls and floors. There was no laughter, no pitter patter of footsteps, no family. Just trash piles, things left behind, and memories. In my head, I could see the goings on from before, the girls running back and forth or dancing to music in the living room, The Husband planted in front of the tv. I left. I picked up what I needed and left. I decided that I couldn’t go back there alone anymore. After sitting on the steps to the patio for a few minutes, trying my best to pull myself together before I went to see the girls, I finally got in the car to go home…my new home, our new home, or what I had to accept as my new home.
Almost a week later, and the girls and I are adjusting. It’s still chaotic, but we are all making it pretty well. It will take time to settle in, find places for everything, and for the aftermath to pass. And it is starting already to feel a bit like home. I know it will still be hard when we go to finish cleaning out the house, but I will have someone with me to help keep me focused on the tasks at hand. And when we close the door to that house for the last time, I will have to accept that I closed the door on that chapter of my life and that I made the decision to do so out of love, love of all of us. And no matter what consequences come from that decision, I am prepared to face them, and I have wonderful friends and family to help me face them, to help us face them. Most importantly, it doesn’t matter what we endure. I know that God is with us wherever we go, whatever we do. And I know that healing will happen…even though it may not seem like it right now. And with that, I have peace.