In the early days and weeks after losing Mike, I didn't want to be anywhere near our house. I stayed with my in-laws, and for a couple nights even stayed in a hotel. If I had to go to the house, someone had to be with me, and I didn't linger. After a few weeks, I felt I was able to be in and sleep in the house again, but I couldn't be alone. After several months, I only seemed to want to be in the house, and being alone was just fine with me. It became the place in which I could hide, cry and generally be left alone when I didn't want to face a soul.
Months and months passed, and I was content to stay where I was. I knew I wouldn't and couldn't stay there forever (it was only a rental house), but I didn't feel any urgent need to leave. I also couldn't even fathom clearing out the place Mike and I shared for over five years. I couldn't face changing anything or packing it away. Not a thing had been touched since he left, and that's how I wanted it. I wasn't intentionally doing the whole "don't make any major changes in the first year" thing. I don't necessarily buy into that -- you do what's right for you. As it turned out, as the year mark approached, I starting to wonder more and more why I was staying. Part of the answer was easy -- my in-laws were all there, and I needed them as much as they needed me. But otherwise I was going nowhere fast, and I knew that sooner or later the move would have to be made. By the end of November, it was time -- ready or not.
I procrastinated packing more than enough, but thankfully I had many willing hands at my disposal. In the week leading up to my departure date of Saturday, December 1, I did what I could to pack the least heart-wrenching items first. But before I moved a single thing, I went around the entire house -- from the entryway to the back porch -- photographing every inch of the house as we'd left it. I wanted photographic proof that Mike and I lived there and made this place our happy home. I needed to have this evidence. I shot everything, even down to the top of Mike's bureau, just as he'd left it.
On Friday the 30th, I invited the Coyne girls (and nieces and nephews) to come over for a little moving party and sleepover. We ordered food, went through different things, laughed, cried and shared. I even parted with a few things I knew each of them might like to have. As it turned out, we didn't get as much packing done as we needed to, but it didn't matter. We needed that time together and had to let it flow naturally.
We got up early the next day and began working again. John and Denise came down, and the real work started. We began getting what we could into the 16-foot Budget truck I rented. Meanwhile, it started snowing outside, which made things a little more challenging. I wanted to be out by around 1:00, but as noon approached I knew that wasn't going to happen. Rather than cause more stress for myself, I told everyone to pack what we could and I would drive the truck to New York and return in the morning for the rest. It wasn't the ideal solution, but at least it gave me another day both to pack and to put off the inevitable.
The next day I left New York bright and early, with Mom S. accompanying me, and began the process all over again. By dinner time, it was all done. There it was -- two full truckloads and what would turn out to be nearly 900 miles of driving in 36 hours. As the process was wrapping up, I think we all sensed it was coming to an end and nobody wanted to fully acknowledge it. Finally, Mike's sisters and I gathered in the kitchen area and shared a group hug. The tears were plentiful, and we didn't want to let go. Not only were we saying goodbye to the house, and to my living nearby, but it felt like we were losing Mike, yet again. As painful a moment as it was, it was also one of the most real experiences we shared as a family. Thank God none of us had to go through this alone.
As I got into the truck and got ready to drive away, I don't think I fully let myself believe I wasn't coming back there. I'm not sure I could have composed myself enough for a five-hour drive if I truly let it all sink in.
Before the last light was turned out and the door was locked, I left a little reminder of our life and love in that place. In our bedroom, up in the closet -- right next to where Mike kept his t-shirts -- I wrote my signature tribute to Mike: LPC < 3 MPC
Leaving our mark
John filling the truck
Inside the storage unit in New York
Leaving our mark
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