I don’t write here so much. It’s not because I have nothing to say, but rather because I’ve just been overwhelmed by responsibility.

This week I’ve been on vacation. That term means lot of different things to people. To me it used to mean parking by overactive derriere in a beach chair in the sand for a solid week. Now that my derriere is mostly inactive, I find that vacation means pursuing various interests I have in the place that I call a home-away-from-home.

The main thing I like about being here is not having to answer to anyone. It’s been a trying six months, as I have bought a new house, am trying to move out of the old one, and am trying to sell the old one. I used to quip that I didn’t have time to have a job, and now that I do, that truth is playing out in spades. As I try to be everything to everyone and try to downsize by a good 1000 square feet, I find that daily existence is just too hard. Were it not for my tireless mother, who has packed up most of everything I own, I’d be in the looney bin.

We all realize, however, that stressors are both large and small. Hence the phrase, the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’ve an ovewhelming desire to find myself in an ancient cave where there is no Spectrum cable or Verizon cell phone reception. I’d love for those dependent on me to find their own way. Just for a minute (I am *not* referring to my children who are exceptionally independent). Honestly, I’d like some people to think for themselves instead of waiting for me to think for them. I’d like to sleep for nine hours. I’d like not to have pets.

I need a rest. A long rest. Not a week.

Thanks for listening.


Moving: On, Up, Backward? I don’t know.

Today I moved my wedding china to my new house. My downsized house. The not-family home.
Twenty-three years ago we bought our family home. It is/was/has been my dream home. It is a living work of art. A mid-century modern house built in 1962, the year of my birth. It is me.
Do you have a favorite something? A dress, a tool, a cooking utensil, a pair of shoes, a painting. Can you imagine living inside of that thing for 23 years? Do that. And then, imagine moving out of that beautiful shell. The new shell is beautiful, but it is not unique, it is not an extension of your soul.
I don’t even love my love anymore. Its upkeep is beyond me. It is too big. It is a too-demanding lover. The affair is over.
But I’ll never get over the echoes. This house was built for someone else, but it has been MY house. My children have never lived anywhere else. Who can say that in this day and age? I committed. I put my soul into this place. I found its architect. I followed him. It is my piece of art. And it is going away, going to someone else.
And I am going to generic architecture. It fits me better. It will be fine. But it is not art. It is, well, housing.
Had I made this move with Adam it would be fine. We’d talked about doing this very thing when the kids left: getting a smaller place in Durham and a better place at the beach. Of course the better beach place won’t happen but the Taj is awesome, if small, so, that’s how it is.
Despite my sad nostalgia I am incredibly grateful that I am financially able to make this move, to be secure, to have a life beyond paying for my house. For all of this I am indebted not only to my fabulous late spouse, but to my at-least-as-fabulous finanical advisor. Get one if you don’t have one.

Moving On, Literally

Hello? Remember me?

If not, it’s my own fault. I’m sorry for abandoning you. It was holiday time, I was swamped at work.

Then, on December 19, I closed on my new townhouse.

Now, I’m excited about this townhouse thing. I won’t have to do *any* maintenance on the outside of my new home. I have always loved outdoor work but our family home has half an acre and lots of upgrades, such as a hot tub and generator, miles of gutters, a stone walkway, extensive gardens, and a back yard in need of sprucing up. I’m exhausted. In fact, I’ve started to feel resentment toward this house I swore I’d never leave.

We bought this house in 1994. Think back. In 1994, the hottest thing in real estate was a transitional 2-story in a brand-new planned neighborhood with a pool and lots of cul-de-sacs where kids could play basketball and street hockey without fear of being mowed down by motorists.

Our house was not that.

We got a great price on a house that wasn’t the bomb at the time. People looked sideways at us, except for those prescient enough to give us a wink and a nod.

Today, my house is the hottest thing going. A true-blue mid-century mod by a locally noted architect. I am sick to leave it. I might have to stalk whomever buys it to make sure they appreciate it and don’t do any rude renos. Confession: I did a couple of rude renos before I understood. Is it possible for me to write into the contract that all modifications must be run by me first? Definitely want to say that I have first dibs on the FireHood engine-red fireplace, should they want to remove it. But why would they?

Anyway, the new place was built in 1980. Nothing much was remarkable about 1980 except that I graduated from high school that year. Architecture wasn’t really a thing then, unless you were Jon Condoret. But I digress.

I have had to strip 1980 wallpaper and 2010 wallpaper. I need to replace sliding glass doors. The bathrooms are tiny. On the good side, the kitchen needs a total reno, and, amazingly, I work at a kitchen place! I sit at work with the most amazing woman who has helped me with so many decisions and is designing my new kitchen.

Maybe I shouldn’t put this much money into this home. But I need to not move into a hovel. I need it to be a little jewel box because I have lost so much, and now I am losing my treasured home, a home that is a little museum piece, a little piece of architectural art. It is exactly all I ever wanted and I am losing it, just another thing in a long line of loss.

So let me have my moment. Let me overdo. I’ll keep you posted.

Another Kind of Birthday

When I opened Facebook tonight, I saw that it’s the birthday of a man I went to high school with, one of the first of my peers, in adulthood, to die from cancer–way, way, way too young. So I’m thinking about his wife tonight. I never met her, but if you’re from my hometown you probably know who I’m talking about. Thinking of her prompted me to share this post from one of my favorite writers about grief, Megan Devine.



You were here. I loved you. I love you still.


My birthday was earlier this week and I am here to say there is hope. For the first time since Adam’s death I felt lighthearted and happy on my birthday. I wore a favorite dress to work. Had two nights out to dinner, one with familiy and one with friends.

This year has brought so much transition, so much change. I got my first real job in 20-some years. I am selling our family home and moving to a townhouse that I really like in a beautiful community. The most important thing about that, to me, is that the community maintains the outside of everything! I’m so sick of fighting with my yard. Sadly we lost our oldest cat, Zoe, last week, but she had lived a long and good life, and at 17 was ready to go.

While Adam was sick I learned to live day by day, and sometimes, moment by moment. We never knew what might happen so we just quit expecting particular outcomes and didn’t make any but the most necessary plans. Pop culture is calling this lifestyle “mindfulness,” or “living in the moment.” It has brought a mental freedom that I never expected.

Because I’m living in the moment these days, I get less stressed about the enormity of moving, or the fact that I have so much to learn to do my job well. Figuritively, I just put my head down and bulldoze my way forward, one task at a time.

I recommend this.

Thoughts and blessings to all of you who are still struggling through early grief. It is paralyzing at worst and exhausting at best. Love yourself and be mindful, and put your head down when you have to move forward.


Hubris and recreation will get you every time.
Over the weekend I decided to try to enjoy myself rather than doing chores.
On Sunday I blew off my friend Kirsten’s widow group to go to a local arts festival. I’d been doing pretty well and was thinking I didn’t really have anything to give to the group and I’d already planned to go to the festival so the decision seemed reasonable. It’s been four years, after all. “Shouldn’t you be moving on?,” they say (they wish).
As you may know, I’m about four months into the first regular job I’ve had since 1989. I love it. However, the part I never liked about working has reared its head, and I am unsettled regarding my closest colleague at work. Not my doing or hers, but she’s hurt and I’m implicated though innocent. I don’t navigate office politics well which is one reason I refused to work until I had to. I’m quite upset about this.
Was hoping to have a little beach escape this weekend, and know that the only way this will happen is if I do a little prep every day. Today’s job was to replace the seats that had been removed from my hauling vehicle when the kids moved back to school. Two of my three kids (one kid is borrowed) had used that car regularly over the summer and it was a sty. Since the seats had remained on the garage floor for so long, my old cat peed on them like she pees on everything. I found a couple of thongs on one of the seats, a beer-bottle cap and a contaminated blue-ice thing under my seat. I’m just trying not to be mad but wondering why I’ve let people borrow my stuff without respecting it. I didn’t insist. Because I was exhausted. Too exhausted to examine, too exhausted to argue.
Finally, after exuding two liters of sweat and suffering enough mosquito bites to ensure a raging case of Zika, I got the seats installed, vacuumed, and treated with urine cleaner, the car vacuumed though not cleaned of soda drips, blew 6 months’ worth of debris out of the garage, and got the car back in the garage with the windows down so hopefully the urine cleaner will do its job. Honestly that is just the tip of the iceberg. I’m too tired to go on.
The point of all this complaining is that I don’t think there will ever be a time when I am not overwhelmed because I have to do this job all alone. I do realize I am not the lone ranger here. I just write this to you because you might be wondering what others are going through.
And finally, I have to say, if I have habits you don’t like, just remember that this is why. I am just trying to cope.


Medusa-Headed Harpy

Grief is multi-faceted, a snarled snake-headed harpy. Just when you think you’re doing ok and the waters are steady, she snarls at you from behind her doom-twisted rock with its deep, watery caves and lashing waves. I’d like to call her a nasty name.

You may have noticed that I avoided Facebook last week. I was practicing avoidance and it was very effective. The theory was that if I didn’t think about the anniversary of Adam’s death then all the feelings that came with it were less likely to take over and smash me under the harpy waves.

But she’ll find a way. You may think I’m being melodramatic when discovering that what brought me down today was a simple email from my financial advisor. I’d sent her spending reports. “When can we talk about this?,” she replied.

In the midst of the heartache and shock of the last four years, at least I have been stable financially. Our advisor and Adam planned well for an event that was never supposed to happen. I was relieved beyond measure not have to make any changes on that front when so much else was shifting.

Much as society likes to pretend death doesn’t happen, leaving us unprepared when it inevitably does, we don’t talk about our financial lives; doing so is coarse and embarrassing.

Since I’ve spoken unabashedly about death on this page, I might as well dive in to the financial realities of a loved one’s death.

No, I don’t want to and that’s probably a big part of the problem. My advisor has been asking me for spending reports for a good four years, but it’s finally come down to brass tacks. I produced it. I sent it. And she wants to talk. Well of course she does.

I’ve continued to live as I always did. In fact, I’ve had to take on lots of expenses to cover the contributions Adam made to our household. I’ve had to spend a lot on the deferred home maintenance that was a surprise to me and continues to cause issues. And I’ve continued to pay for life’s small luxuries that make things bearable and make me feel like a human being. And (and this is a big one), keep me in touch with my friends.

“What?,” you say. Well think about it. Our lifestyles are largely based on our incomes, our friends group, our interests. At my stage of life, for most of my married friends, and most of them are married, incomes are at their height and children are graduating from school and going out on their own, freeing up even more income. Social lives consist of expensive experiences, requiring lovely wardrobes, maybe travel, restaurants and bars, all sorts of stuff.

I know I sound like a big whiner. It’s not like I’m going to be out on my tush, in the swirling ugly waters of the snaky-headed harpy.

But I have difficult decisions ahead. I don’t want to lose my home. I don’t want to give up certain of my regular experiences that make me feel like a human being.

It’s time for deep soul-searching about what is important to me in this physical life–which is house and home and that includes the Taj. I can’t leave my house, but neither can I watch it fall to ruin. I just don’t know how to prioritize.

Please bear with me, especially if you are early in your grief. This is but a stage, much like teething, and I’ll get through it. But right now I could use an ice pack.