Rearranged

I am successful selling furniture-- Larry’s power lift recliner, his desk chair, his dresser.  Repurposing spaces to remove triggers of emotion beats moving, I think. One small discovery was a carved stone turtle, a recent gift from a neighbor, which had gone missing during a visit by grandchildren. Inquiries of whether they had played with it, added it to the toy basket of my wind-up toys, or might have dropped it between the cushions in the couch all were met with innocence and denial. I discovered it, head broken off, as I moved the love seat.  It seems repairable, as soon as I find that super glue. Hiding it must have been prompted by fear that I would be angry and the perpetrator would get in trouble. Not so. There are many more important, more valuable things in this life than things.

I seem to be nesting. Rearranging my life. Reclaiming spaces. Discarding artifacts. Gifting stamp and coin collections, sorting and boxing books, donating shoes and clothing. I bump into bits and pieces from life with an invalid. Finding the digital thermometers for daily temperature charts, the ever present cough drops, boxes of kleenex, the scale set to weigh in kilograms, low sodium foods, protein powder, protein bars, bottles of vitamins and supplements. I cancel the newspapers, the cable TV service, close credit card accounts, sell a car, fill garbage bags. I have second thoughts and sign up for Hulu and Netflix.

Letting go of possessions has been easy. Letting go of patterns of behavior, expectations, feelings of grief and loneliness has been harder. I travel alone. Driving to the cabin with an audio book to keep me company, embarking on a cross country flight without needing wheelchair assistance, nor medical equipment, nor a suitcase full of supplies, no priority for early boarding, no one to hold my hand when taking off and landing.

The day I unplugged the telephone I was surprised by grief. The last point of connection to hope for a someday miracle, the last symbol of the constant anxiety of being available at all times for the possibility that a kidney donation had come our way, that an offer of life would be made. The end of the frustration, the anger, the disappointment, the impossible dream. It provided relief.

Larry’s former office is now a guest bedroom. I gained skills with roller and paint brush, conquered some power tools, and wrestled a queen size mattress from one room to another. The walls are now somewhere between the color of marmalade and nasturtiums. His favorite print of Don Quixote is all that remains.  As I walk past the open door, I am comforted by the change, the sign of hospitality, the possibility of unscheduled visitors, late night conversations, the freedom from routine, the banishment of shadows.