One step at a time

Here's a thing about me.

I. Never. Read. Work. Email. From. Home.

Ever.

It's not that I don't care, mind you, although my care quotient is on the low (to put it mildly) side when I'm not at work.  Rather, at work I am, shall we say, a peon.  And I don't say that to denigrate myself, only that the vast majority of things that happen at work when I'm not there have no real effect on me.  I have little to no impact on their outcome for good or bad and in fact most are fait accompli by the time an email comes out.  Any union business comes to my personal email too, so...

Additionally, a lot of the email at work, since it's Village-wide and not FD specific, deals with things like ohhh if the color copier at Village Hall is functioning properly.

And I'm not even joking.  Granted that might be of value to those in VH, but to me, it ranks right around how many flies are circling a patty produced by a specific heifer on a particular farm on any given day in the life of a random farmer (rancher?) in Wyoming.

We good here?

Now, having said that, One of the first things I do after I've been off for a while is to check my work email.  Partly because I run a pool in my head of how many emails are waiting for me (I've never won btw) and partly because I want to see what, if anything happened while I was off.

Which brings me to yesterday.  As I was reading through the list (only 43 from July 9-21) I saw a notice about the passing of the Mother of a woman I know at VH.  I would say that even though we've known each other for 20+ years there has been very little interaction between us.  Acquaintance moreso than friend.  However, given my experience in such matters, I thought I would share something with her that was sent to me after Diane died.  I don't remember who I got it from, but I'm pretty sure it was from an online grief group I used to be a part of.  It's kind of a secular piece in that it doesn't mention a particular diety, yet refers to those waiting on the other side.  I like it a lot, I was able to relate to it and the image it conjured up was comforting to me.  So, when I get the chance to share it with someone I think may benefit from it, I do.  And, a couple hours later I got a very gracious reply from her, so I felt like I was somewhat helpful.  I remember from the group, Paul, from Georgia, told me "when I help you heal, I heal" and I believe that to be true.

Which brings me back to where I intended this thing to go right from the start.

Our home is for sale.

Had I been smart, I would've put it on the market in 2006, right after Diane died.  But at the time there was no way I was emotionally equipped to do that.  The wounds were so fresh, so raw, that I would've been a wreck leaving the house behind.  And not just mine, I think the kids would've felt a lot of angst over "losing" the house too.   And by the time I was emotionally equipped to try and sell it, the market had tanked and I was underwater on the house.  So I ended up with renters for the last (almost) 5 years.  

And that's a story for another day.

Now, a couple things...

A.) I don't want to turn this into a sales pitch for my house (see link to listing here) and...

B.) Now that I'm prepared to sell the house without inflicting serious harm to my psyche, I've spent considerable time reflecting on the events that were important to my life that took place there.  Or, at least, while I (we) lived there.

In no particular order-

Caitlin was killed six weeks after we moved in.

Diane died three years after we moved in.  

The Quiet Child was married there.

The Boy Child came home safely from Iraq there.

This happened there

The balloon story took place there. 

I've never told you the balloon story?

Ok, then...

The Heir to the Throne turned three years old about three months after Caitlin was killed.  Diane didn't want to not celebrate, even though none of us really felt like partying at the time.  But he wouldn't have understood so we forged on with his third birthday party.  Diane bought a dozen or so helium balloons and decorated the house.  I don't remember who all was there but we had a decent amount of family there.  And as I recall we all had a nice time marking his special day.  

At the end of the day, when the Oldest One told him it was time to go, she also told him they couldn't take all of the balloons with, there wasn't enough room in the car.  She said he should pick out two or three balloons and they would leave the rest at Nana and Papa's house.  

He looked at her, and with all the wisdom of a three year old, told her -

"Mommy, I want to send my balloons to Aunt Caitlin."

As you might imagine, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.  And it lasted throughout the whole procedure as we let them go, one at a time, up to Aunt Caitlin.  And it kept going for at least a little while after the balloons had all started on their way to her.  

I had a really hard time telling that story for a long time after without losing my shit and becoming a blubbering mass.  And, it was a long time after that my voice would still break as I told it.  But here, today, sitting in my local coffeehouse writing this, I'm good.

I've said it many times, here and IRL, grief takes it's own time.  

Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.

Peace