Disassembly Required

I have a Realtor now. Jan Thornton, who has been sending promotional notepads several times a year (how we got on her list, I have no idea). I have been using them for my web design, as they are just the right size upon which to put lists of code snippets, image lists, hexidecimal color values, etc.

She's a seasoned professional, and I felt immediately at home with her. She had done all her homework (even pulling the court filing for the probate petition) and brought an excellently presented packet with all the realty information I could want about my place, comps in the area, sales trends, etc. We spent about an hour and a half touring the house, her sharp eye pointing out positives and negatives about the place and suggesting things to improve the value of the property.

One of the things that impressed me most about her was she asked about Steve, how he died, and even asked if I thought that a prolonged death was better than an unexpected one (a friend of hers lost her husband when he was hit by a car just walking down the street one morning). People are so hesitant to speak about death, but she knew this was the reason I was selling. She left me with the info packet and several numbers of painters and contractors she uses regularly.

One of the things she was stressing was remove just about everything from the house. I had planned on taking out extraneous pieces of furniture, but she was saying take down everything on the walls except a very few generic pieces. She explained that house hunters have a habit of looking at the things in a home, and this distracts them from looking at the space itself. She really made a lot of sense.

When we arranged the appointment, I told her that the place was messy because I was decluttering, and to expect nothing immaculate (I'm in the final stages of getting Steve's things donated or trashed). But after hearing her talk, I realize that I have to go through the whole process again, clearing out things I want to keep (my precious stuff!) in order to prep the place for open houses, etc.

Actually, it does make sense to move all the stuff out before the painters and contractors descend to do their work. But after all the emotional turmoil of culling through Steve's stuff, now I have to box up what little is left of him that I decided to keep. With a sinking feeling, I realized I was stripping down our only home, painting it up like a whore and putting it on the auction block. I sense another emotional wall approaching: the sale and release of this special place may be more difficult than I thought.

So next week the contractors will start coming by, checking work to be done and providing quotes. One of the first things she said was, "You need to get rid of the popcorn ceilings, some people don't mind them, but lots of people hate them and will write off your place, no matter how great it looks." I said I thought that was a lot of work and would be expensive. "Oh, no," she said, brushing my concern away with her hand. "They just put everything in the middle of the room and clean them off before they start painting; no problem."

I was most pleased to find that the comps for similar properties were at or above what I was expecting to list this place for. Also, she said there are only about half the normal number of condos on the market in Pasadena right now, which makes it a strong seller's market, and prices are supposed to rise by 7.5% this year, so we may list the place well above what I thought my asking price was.

So I'm taking a few days off to visit the Central Coast, but I'll be back in time to collect the information Jan's compiling for the improvements. June, we hope, will see the beginning of this process. Once I have an idea of the cost of improvements, I'll stop by the bank and pull the needed cash from my personal line of credit, which will then become an part of escrow when the place sells.

My goodness gracious; it's just one adventure after another these days.

How to Start Beginning

Many years ago, right after high school, in fact, I worked as a paraprofessional at the local mental health clinic in San Luis Obispo. My dad had worked there, but the family moved when he took a job in Alaska, so stayed behind, being gainfully employed.

One of my duties was to sit in on group therapy with members of the Day Treatment program (people with chronic mental illness who are able to function outside an institutional setting). Having to sit in therapy with seriously ill people not only brings elucidation of one's own sanity (and insanity), but also provides genuine human insights.

One day the group therapist was dealing with emotional outbursts about depression and suicidal thoughts. A verbal conflict had broken out between several of the group members, and the therapist shouted, "SHUT UP!" Everyone stopped. He cocked his ear. "What do you hear?" Everyone strained against the quiet. "Nothing," was the general reply. "There's a bird outside the window, singing." Everyone smiled as they acknowledged the masterful mocking bird in the bush as beautiful, nodded, "Oh, yeah." There was a sudden serenity in the room at the connection. "That bird's been singing since we walked into this room; never stopped." People are so ready to grapple with the horrors of life that they often screen out the beauty sitting right in front of them.

That was a good lesson in making choices for me.

Another session, not nearly so dramatic, dealt with something vital: beginning. A group member was talking about how she tried to do things (it was a eclectic list of fairly simple life tasks). "I try and try and try, but I keep failing," she sobbed. "It's such a vicious circle." The therapist replied, "Don't try. When you try, you set up a situation where you win or lose. Simply begin. Without trying, just begin. And if you only do what you want for two minutes, you haven't tried and failed, you have begun. The next time you begin, you can focus on the doing, and not the winning or losing." That one rang a bell for me, even back then. "We are beginning things every day. And as we begin, we become."

Self-actualization was big back in the '70s.

I'm having a problem with beginning these days. In the past months I've gotten really good at being overwhelmed, depressed mourning Steve's death and dealing with the paperwork that ensued. We're reaching the end of that now, and although I'm still grieving, I've got to put some time, energy and thought into beginning. I've created a detailed four-page to-do list (plus a PERT flowchart) of what needs to happen to get the house on the market; that was a genuine begin. I could have done it two weeks ago, rather than putting obstacles in my own way and halfheartedly failing to surmount them. But rather than beat myself over this wheel-spinning, I take this Memorial Day weekend to begin, over and over and over again. Trying feels nothing like beginning.

NEWS FLASH! Just now, for the first time, I realize the real fear here: if I sell the house we lived in together, if I move from the city we called home, if I start anew in a new town, I'll somehow dishonor and forget about Steve; he'll end up like the memory of an old college roommate. So I sit in the house and declutter and clean rather abstractly and avoid driving or going outside. The house is a widower's Womb/Tomb/Cocoon for me. This is all I have left of our life, our marriage, our joy, our love, and I know in my heart I've got to leave it all if I'm to survive.

I now see why widow(er)s keep the cremains and a nice picture of the Loved One: it's a compact and portable way to make sure you remember them without letting the fact of them overshadow your remaining years.

Steve had a great sense of humor. We laughed, even to the end, over the things he'd say. We had mostly good times and many priceless moments. All that drained from my life when he died. I know, deep down in my soul, that I can't have that kind of joy and enjoyment in my life without bidding goodbye to this house, this place where it all ended last year.

Tired of Looking Back

A year ago Steve was beginning his first round of chemotherapy treatments. He said there were no side effects, but I think he was hiding them from me. Even while he was declining and dying, he didn't want to burden me with his illness. His birthday is coming up (June 9), and I'm not sure how I'm going to handle that, emotionally. The real kicker will be when our wedding anniversary rolls around in August.

You know, I'm really sick of thinking about what happened a year ago or six months ago. I'm sick of being depressed and then realizing the day marks come morbid milestone in Steve's demise. It's very difficult, to say nothing of confusing, to be mourning Steve and our life together while I'm also trying to build something significant for myself on the other end of this process.

Everything I do with the house seems to be temporary. I know there's a long list of stuff that has to get done before I can get a good price for the place: spruce up the kitchen, update the baths, paint, new lighting fixtures, new carpet upstairs. I will know more when a Realtor comes through and talks about it to me.

Kittie and Dave came down last weekend and helped finish up the office reorganization. While Kittie and I were busy with that, Dave absconded with the upstairs (good) vacuum and gave the downstairs floors a thorough going over. The upshot: I now have my work station set up at the large desk now, and I think the extra elbow room, cubby holes and storage space will help keep me more organized than I have been. And that weekend was the first time the house has been clean from top to bottom.

Some really good news: Social Security finally came through with the spouse's survivor benefits, and I got a big fat deposit of payments going back to the month Steve died. On top of that, there was a sizable refund check from one of the medical providers. Feeling flush for the first time in months, I of course began writing checks for medical bills, HOA fees, and personal loans, leaving enough for the next couple months until income streams flow a little more predictably.

Also, the deed transfer came through in the probate courts, so the house is now legally mine to sell. I haven't gotten the final paperwork in the mail, but my lawyer e-mailed a copy to me just so I'd know that closure is imminent.

I'm still in my diurnal variations, staying awake until 4 or 5 o'clock in the morning and sleeping until noon. I was feeling very bummed out about this, but then realized that it has minimal impact on my life. I simply schedule my appointments in the afternoons. Also, with the heat wave we've been experiencing, it's not really comfortable outside until 9 or 10 at night. By sleeping during the day, I cut down the time I have to run the air conditioning to only three hours a day.

Today is not so bad: the last three days have been 102 in the shade with no breezes as all. The humidity is 5% to 7%, which is why we're having all these wildfires. And in the areas where they're burning, they do have high winds, and the flames can pour down (and up) a hillside with the speed of flowing water.

Along with massive wildfires comes the unhealthful air quality. Even this far away from San Diego, the smoke gets caught by the upper-level winds and carried over the entire southern section of the state: You can smell it in the air, feel it crusting over sinus membranes, parching your airways with the mere task of breathing.

There is a moderate cool-down coming at the beginning of next week, so hopefully that will be some relief, but that will only be followed by another hot spell. This kind of weather usually waits until late June or early July to really hit. Then the heat stays around until November. That works out to seven months of summer, seven months of living in air-conditioned boxes, cars and cubicles.

Also, last week I got a call from a company that wants to hire a graphic designer to develop a monthly newsletter (and a possible brand identity redesign). The interview went really well, and I think there's a possibility that this will be a lucrative and consistent income source.

That's about it. I'm hoping this is the first weekend I can actually clean the whole house in one day and without stumbling over Steve remnants about which I then have to make decisions. There is still a good half dozen boxes that need to be wrapped up for donation. I have to make a list of the stuff, since I'll be taking it off my taxes for this year. Last year, donations were over $1700.

I realize that I am now using this blog entry as an excuse not to go downstairs and dust. I groan at the chores aspect of the activity, but look forward to the piquant smell of the wood furniture polish.

Mmmmmmm. Lemony.

The Pasty Heart

This first part was written on Saturday, April 26

The last week or so has been down and dismal for me. My borderline agoraphobia is trying everything it can to assert itself, showing up with its psychic disruptor buddy, insomnia.

Now, I haven't had severe insomnia since back in my twenties. My dad used to refer to it as my "diurnal variation." Basically, I'm getting to bed between 4 and 7 a.m. in the morning, sleeping until noon or 1 p.m., then getting up and feeling shitty about being incapable of getting back into a routine that matches that of the outside world. If I had things that I had to get done, I might be bouncing back faster, but the only thing of note for this month seems to be six months since Steve died.

Fancy highball glasses do dye double duty.

Kittie and David came down for the Easter weekend, which was a nice surprise (like they haven't been coming down every other weekend for months). Kittie had made it through tax season and put together a holiday care package, including our Easter dinner, which we had on Saturday, since they had to leave in the mid-afternoon on Sunday.

On Saturday we got a start on cleaning up the office, which has become a tangle of piles of paper and corners festooned with cat hair clumps the vacuum did not retrieve on its last pass in the room. We got it to the point where the cupboard was nearly cleaned out. But like so many times before, clearing out stuff from anywhere ends up with me feeling exhausted from the emotional portion of the experience, and with stuff getting moved from one room to another, still without a real new home.

Overview of the festive fabrications.

After an hour or so working in the office, Kittie and I went downstairs and set up the Easter egg dyes. Once we were finished with our ova fabulosi, Kittie turned to putting dinner together. She had brought a spiral-sliced had and a box of au gratin potatoes. I provided the frozen peas.

We had a lovely meal. Afterwards I brought my desiccated Peeps down from on top of the refrigerator, we hauled out the candy and baskets, and Kittie put two Easter baskets together: one for them and one for me. Needless to say, there was a lot of sugar consumed in the week following (which exacerbated the the insomnia and agoraphobia, no doubt).

Pretty nifty for Satan's testicles

So this weekend, I continue on the office, sorting, tossing, cleaning, organizing. Slowly, the things in the piles are finding homes and the trash bags and donation boxes are filling up. There is a kind of catharsis in seeing a new organization appear in the office. I'm really looking forward to being able to invite clients over without making apologies for the mess and the cat hair.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

This part is being written on the date indicated above

Clearing out stuff is a lot more complicated than I'd thought, especially with the surprise piles of papers that Steve left. Every time I clear out a cupboard or organize a pile, I come across more papers from early in the century or late last century that need to be shredded, an activity which can take several hours, depending on the number of staples to be removed.

And here it is, early May, and it's in the upper 90s and lower 100s here in Pasadena. I always get depressed when it's hot outside, so that hasn't helped my demeanor or insomnia.

I've decided that the mountain of paperwork that has been generated by Steve's death is going to get its own box; it's the only way I'll be able to clean the office up and get back my surfaces. What with the VA, sundry medical bills, IRA conversions, taxes, mortgage, line of credit, property deed, bills and half a dozen other things I'm not remembering at this point, every surface on both desks is stacked with piles of records.

Once the desks are fairly clean, the office will have progressed to the point where I am ready to pull all the wires and plugs from underneath the desks, remove Steve's computer and move mine to the larger desk (which is the one Steve had when I moved in). This is going to be a more daunting task than it sounds. 

As each layer of technology has been added, so has a tangle of wires, which tangles with the tangle of wires from the previous upgrade, which tangles with the tangle of wires that was here originally. So I move in with an extra computer (another layer) and we add a wireless router to the modem (another layer). We convert to cable Internet service (another layer); add peripherals (printer/scanner, phone/answering machine, cable TV split, fax phone lines, back-up drives): it's my own little techno-Gordian knot.

You may wonder why I'm so fixated on getting the office in order, but it has to do with my theory of hairball flow. I've been so frustrated being unable to keep the downstairs clean for more than a day or so, and realized the cat hair was floating down from the source (Marcel), and until I got his chair and the office in general clean, organized and under control, I wouldn't be rid of the hairballs.

So once the upstairs is organized and clean, the dilemma of hairballs on the bamboo floors downstairs should be mitigated. I worry about this from an aesthetic point, since I'm going to have to keep the place looking presentable once it's listed.

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm halfway across this sea of shit that is the first year after a spouse's death. At times, I sense glimmers of normalcy and happiness through this mourning process, so I'm hoping things become downhill-easy from here on out. But I'm not counting on it.