Moving Forward. Not On.

 

Months before my husband died, I watched a TEDx talk about moving forward from a loss, because there is no moving on. It made sense at the time, but now I understand it more deeply than ever.

 Every day I get moments, reminders, that there is no moving on, but I do my best to move forward, one foot in front of the other, one moment at a time, one day at a time.

 I hit a big milestone this week when John’s life insurance was finally paid. It took more phone calls than I can count, pissy emails to the agent who sold us the policy, threats of legal action, before they finally fulfilled their obligation to me and his kids, three months after his death. Having that behind me is the first step in allowing me to move forward. It was incredibly important to John that I was taken care of after he was gone. Maybe we can both rest easier now.

 Today I got an email from an organization that was huge in John’s cancer journey, acknowledging a large donation from his daughter, Liz. My tears appear at the most unexpected times. After I read the email, I had to go outside and sob. (I had to go outside because I’m living with my dad, and he doesn’t do emotions) My tears came not only because of her generosity (she made the donation on his birthday and from her life insurance benefits), but because of my gratitude for the organization and how they supported us at the end of John’s life. His death would have looked a lot different, a lot worse, without them. That opened the floodgates of gratitude, for them, for John’s forward thinking 17 years ago when he bought the life insurance policy to make sure I was provided for, for a place to live with my dad until the insurance money came in and I can make housing decisions, even though living with him is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

 I realized when I was outside sobbing that John didn’t get to know about the house I will likely buy. I think the man told Dad after John died that he would be selling. It is literally 100 yards from my dad’s house. I’ve yet to determine if that will be a blessing or a curse! HA! I thought today maybe John had a hand in it. It’s not a perfect house, but it’s perfect for me. It’s small, around 1000 square feet. But how much room does a widowed woman with a dumb dog and a lazy cat need? It’s on a half-acre. Plenty of room for the dumb dog to run, for a garden, chickens if I choose, and a little room to breathe. Not enough room for a goat, and I always told John I’d get a goat after he died just because he wouldn’t let me have one!  But that can wait. The man who had it is a house flipper. Everything, and I do mean everything, in it is new. Heat/AC, water heater, roof, floors, windows, bathroom and kitchen. The only thing I need to do is put up a fence to corral my dumb dog. I already know all the neighbors…some are great, one is a felon, one is becoming a very good friend, and then there’s the 83-year-old man who is going blind, but I’m stuck with him no matter what. As his eyesight gets worse, it’s better I’m a minute away instead of a drive from town. Only glitch is when the seller will be willing to close. He’s currently out of state until late summer. If he isn’t willing to close until then, I might throw myself into the Umpqua River. It’s a short walk from here.

 Buying a house is a huge step in moving forward, not on. There’s no moving on from losing a spouse, losing the person who always had your back, the one who bought you See’s Candies for Valentine’s Day, listened to you complain about a difficult crochet pattern and then was happy for you when you finally figured it out, who laughed at your dumb answers when you watched Jeopardy every night during dinner. You don’t move on from the only person who was worth committing your life to, who you watched endure treatments he never said he’d take for a miserable disease only because he wanted more time with you. There’s no moving on from the person who said he’d never get married again…until he met you and he wanted to give you the world.

 So I’m not moving on. I’m moving forward. I’m buying a little house I know he’d like. He’d know I’m in a safe neighborhood, close to Dad, close to a woman who gets my need to be alone because she does, too, but who appreciates a good conversation, a walk with the dogs and an occasional road trip to Eugene for shopping and lunch. I’ll carve out a new life. Maybe teach a writing class or two. Take some time to visit my sister and my bestie. Find out, or remember, what moves me, what inspires me. Maybe I’ll volunteer with the organization that meant so much to us in his death journey. Whatever I do, I’ll do with him in mind. Because I can’t move forward without him.