All Aboard the Crazy Train!

I was walking the dogs in my still-new-to-me 'hood last night, talking to my mom on the phone—that is my morning and evening ritual: walk the dogs, call mom . . . we were marveling at the amazing weather of this winter, yet another unseasonably warm, snow-less day, comparing it to last year, and the year before. . . I changed the subject, started telling her about the latest blog entry I've been writing, about a magazine article I'd found online that, to my surprise, included an interview with Bob! I was sharing the gist of the entry, when she interrupted. "I don't mean at all to sound disinterested in Bob, but when are you going to start writing about you, Jen? Isn't this new blog about you and your experiences in this new journey?" Her comments jarred me into silence (my mom rarely has the ability to do this to me—shut me up, that is), as she continued, "Bob definitely has a place in your writing—I mean, his death is why you're writing your blog in the first place—but in the heart of your grieving and the journey you are traveling, you already have some wonderful stories to share—funny ones, even—how you're surviving, the astounding things you're experiencing, that you are living, even deeply steeped in mourning . . ." Busted . . .

But, but—I have so many stories to share about Bob, I weakly protested, too many stories that have been buried and nearly forgotten, in the looming shadow of the hell that was his last months on earth . . . who wants to hear the pathetic little stories of a widow ridin' the rails of the Crazy Train? yuck, awkward, uncomfortable . . . truth is, I'm afraid if I start, I might not stop . . . but she's right. This is a new blog, with a new purpose, I said so, myself, at the end of the Sofa King, at the beginning of this one. . . and, you know I will continue to write about Bob, always weave stories of him within my story, till I run out of stories, which will be never . . .

I'm slowly learning—too slowly, in my opinion—that there are no rules for widowhood, for grieving and mourning . . . pretty much anything goes, no boundaries, no timeline, no patterns, no predictability, endless instances of ever-so-cautiously thinking, "Hey, today was a pretty good day—maybe I am getting a little bit better," only to be sucker-punched, knocked down, yet again, as though someone is trying to tell me, Give it up! You will never get better . . . followed again by one really good day—a day that blesses me with a very real, beautiful sign that Bob is well again and always with me, or a wonderful, soul-sharing lunch with a friend, or receive the nicest phone call or letter in the mail from another dear friend, or it might be a day, a moment in a day, that I truly feel the impact of Bob's presence in my life and feel so mercifully light and blessed to have had our time together . . . all of which makes this damn journey at once, oddly freeing and a holy frightful terror, if you can wrap your mind around that concept . . .

If this isn't insanity, it's as close as I'll ever come to it . . . ridin' the waves of grief, trying—or not trying, really—to allow them to wash over me instead of crashing into them, my feeble attempt to reduce the battering and bruises . . . many days I still tense up, instinctively, every muscle fiber taught, every neuron firing, bracing, steeling against the waves that crash into me, but end up being recklessly battered, in spite of the fighting . . . the hardest thing on this journey is learning to let go . . . and, learning that I get as many redos as I want, need, have to have, try things out, discard, try again, as many times as I need, before life starts feeling "right" again, if it will, ever . . . redos are okay, necessary, on this foreign path, to figure out what's truly right for me . . .

So, for my first major redo (or would this be considered the second?): four and a half months into my self-imposed exile in St. Paul, I've decided to move back to our house, the "Country Estate," as I've started calling it. Gave it the ol' college try in "The City." Or not. Who cares? No rules, right? Redo! Actually, I love St. Paul and would love to stay, but the big reason pushing me is practical. A little of the fog clearing . . . Yea! This week, I'm thinking in practical concepts! Progress! Quick—act on it!—before I'm yanked back into the abyss again . . .

Let's be real. I'm paying for two houses and I can't keep going about like this forever, as much as I'd like to. Would sooo love to keep up this little City Girl fantasy, pretending I am a completely different person, with a whole new life, while keeping Wrenwood on the back burner as Plan B, my connection to a past life . . . but the fun is wearing off, I really need to cut the sabbatical short and start dealing with things . . . in this time in the city, I've explored several options regarding our house and each has proven to be fraught with issues, and when I say, "fraught with issues," I mean, "seriously fucked up." Follow me, if you will, on just one leg of this "little" grief journey . . .

I moved from Wrenwood to St. Paul in August, after what I believe had to be as close to a nervous breakdown as I have ever been. It might very well have been a breakdown, there was no one else around to witness this terrifying event that I will never, fully be able to put into words. . . our house became a dark vessel, filled with nothing but horrific images of Bob suffering, endlessly; after he died, I was drowning in a deluge of sadness. . .it was all I could see, all I could think of, all I breathed, soaking, choking me to my core. . . drowning under the weight of the immense heaviness, I did the only thing I felt I could do to survive: got the hell out of Dodge. But at least one thread of sense remained, one that told me I needed to do something with our house, I couldn't let it just sit. I'd drive out several times a week, crying all the way out there, crying as I walked through the house, checking on things, crying all the way back to St. Paul, trying to decide what to do. . .

After agonizing for several weeks, in September, I finally implemented Option A: I hired a property management company to try and rent our house (I think it was September, might have been October; my memory is ridiculously unreliable lately, might be forever . . . my dear friend, Lisa, who lost her beloved Sam just six weeks before Bob died, told me just last night, that she read that memory issues are a very real and necessary physical response to grief. The brain shuts down some functions, in order for other functions to take over and operate on over-drive in an attempt to process/handle/get through the huge loss . . .)

The thought behind renting our house was to buy myself some time, a year or so, till I'm in a better frame of mind to handle the serious decision of selling. I quickly learned, however, that our neighborhood is not a highly-sought-after rental area. The few who did contact the management company tried to dicker the rental rate even lower that its already below-my-mortgage payment rate, among other (in my not so humble opinion) unreasonable demands; one potential renter had a misdemeanor domestic assault charge that was "in the process of being cleared" from his record (triggering visions of a Fatal Attraction ex showing up and torching our house) . . . suddenly, the idea of being a landlord became even less appealing than being a widow with an empty house . . . which lead to . . .

Option B: I then listed our property myself, with a For Sale By Owner company. By selling it myself, I could offer an attractive price, and still give myself flexibility in negotiations, and very optimistically break even. I owned my own business for eight years—I can do this! Do a few showings, hire a real estate attorney or title company to handle the paperwork, easy-peasy! (Blatantly discounting the fact that I did not run my business in the wake of my husband's death . . .) In trying to be creative and flexible in this shitty market, I also made the (in hind-sight) huge error in adding a "lease to own/contract for deed" option on my listing. I get it that it's a crappy market. I get it, that many very good people have fallen on difficult times, due to circumstances beyond their control, many of whom are working hard at getting their "stuff" back on track. Hell, this could have been Bob and me, had he lived . . . with this in mind, I was hoping/dreaming for that perfect person who couldn't secure a conventional loan for whatever reason, to magically appear with a nice chunk of change and a serious intent on buying my house . . . instead, every person in the tri-county area who should never consider purchasing a house contacted me. . .

The first couple I dealt with tugged at my heartstrings—he was a cancer survivor/heart patient on long term disability, she owned her own dog grooming business. We talked at length the first time they called me (huge down-side to FSBO—dealing face-to-face with potential buyers and being subjected to every last detail of their personal lives), and was told they had to foreclose on their house and declare bankruptcy due to his lengthy illness, and they were trying to piece their lives back together, rebuild their financial history . . . I so get that song and dance, on endless levels . . . as they poured their hearts out to me, I kept thinking, "Had Bob survived, this could easily have been us—we very likely would have lost our house, lost everything . . ."

But, the more I talked with this couple, the shit just got deeper and the red flags more plentiful, things they were telling me just weren't adding up, even with my creative math skills . . . there was no money to put down on my house—they wanted to rent for an indefinite amount of time, till some magical, mysterious pensions came due "sometime" next year when he retired (couldn't tell me when, couldn't give me any current statements showing how much . . .)—at that time, they could put a down payment on the house, and enter into a contract for deed for five years at 4% interest—in other words, they, with the worst credit history in the history of credit histories, wanted me to be their bank for 5 years, and give them a better interest rate than what real banks are giving real people with real, stellar credit history; they gave me a proposal, I showed my attorney, we countered with a more realistic offer; they declined and offered another option, still much to their benefit, so not to mine; it was Thanksgiving weekend, my attorney was gone for the holiday and told my new friends that I'd have to wait till Monday to give them an answer about their counter offer. . .

Then came the barrage of phone calls and e-mails from them over Thanksgiving weekend: "We just bought Christmas decorations for the house!" and "We were just at your property, walking around, trying to figure out where to put the kids' trampoline!" and "We met some of the neighbors! They're all so nice! We're going to get along great with everyone up here! We really hope you accept our offer!" Suddenly, I felt like I was starring in a twistedpsycho-sexual suspense thriller (tossin' in a Bob-ism, there) . . . the topper was, "It's a win-win situation for you, Jennifer—if we default, you get your house back!" In the near blinding fog of grief, I still had the tiniest bit of rational brain left, which tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "Whuuh?!? I don't want my house back! Who plans their own bailout, if they're truly serious about buying a house? A delusional someone who can't afford to buy a house, ever, that's who . . ."

Then, the true epiphany: No. This would not have been Bob and me! We never would have tried to buy a house if we didn't have any money. We would be renting, until we got our shit together, not trying to sweet-talk a vulnerable widow into being our personal bank for five years. Period. Thank god for real estate attorneys whose job is to charge lots of money up front to confirm these suspicions and save me from losing far more than just money down the road . . .they were so disappointed when I called them on Monday to relay my decision: no deal. "But we love your house! We really, really wanted to be moved in before Christmas! We're so disappointed!" they lamented, they pressed, they actually whined, over the phone. "We really meant to accept your first offer! Won't you reconsider?!" Yeah, well guess what? Sometimes life doesn't work out the way you want it to. I really, really want my husband back and that ain't ever gonna happen, no matter how disappointed I am , not matter how much I whine, cry, plead, beg or barter. . . get over it. It's just a house, was my final answer . . .

And don't even get me started about the yahoos who moved to Woodbury, from Iowa a year and a half ago—ooops, too late—they were "very serious" about buying a home, they told me, had been researching the local market and really liked the looks of our house, 'cuz they both grew up in the country and are sick of renting a townhouse in Woodbury and would really, really, really want to find a nice country home close to work, at 3M! And yes, they were pre-approved for a home loan! A match made in heaven! After showing our beautiful little house to them, and several phone calls/e-mails later, I learn that yes, they were pre-approved for a loan—eighteen fucking months ago, in rural Iowa, for $150,000.

And (there's always an "and," isn't there?) after divulging this, hubby still has the cajones to e-mail me: Now, your price seems fair for the area, buuuuut, we could get a bigger home—newer, even—for a fraction of the price, back in Iowa. . .

"You ain't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy," was the gist of my answer. "First of all, as if I should have to tell you this, but evidently I do—the market is very different now than it was 18 months ago—even in Iowa. Second, you're not in Iowa. Third, if you are truly serious about buying a house, go to a local Twin Cities bank and get pre approved, in this lifetime, for a loan. And last, but not least, good luck finding your beautiful country-dream home, in move-in condition, for $150,000 anywhere in the metro area, country or inner-city. You'll be commuting from International Falls . . ." and finally, on to . . .

Option C: I finally admitted that I'm in no condition to play realtor—my tolerance for idiots is wearing dangerously thin, likely exacerbated by other, underlying issues. I decided to hand it over to a real professional, once and for all. . . so, I sat down with a realtor, who drew up three different sale price scenarios and outlined all the fees, what she would make, what I would "make" with the sale of the house. Now, if the For Sale By Owner experience taught me anything, it's that real estate is an ass-backward racket. With FSBO, I did all the hard work—took tons of pictures of our house, created Pulitzer-prize worthy descriptions of each room and the property, set up my listing online, filled out my disclosure reports, researched well and septic information, paid for a full inspection, paid for numerous little repairs, and dug up all the information pertaining to our house/property, printed flyers, put out signs, advertised on the MLS, Craigslist . . . then, I did all the showings, met with realtors as well as solo buyers . . . had I been given an offer, I'd have paid my real estate attorney a small sum to look things over, we'd find a title company and wrap things up, neat and tidy.

When a realtor "represents" me, he or she, who really knows or truly cares very little about my house or all the assets or the insider scoop about the area, does nothing to promote my property personally, other than throwing my listing up on the MLS (I know it's a little more to it than that, but I learned that it's very formulaic and little more). Then, she sits back and waits for other realtors, who know and care even less about my house, or what we've done to the place, or what the neighbors are like, or that owls live in our backyard, to bring in a mystery buyer and, with this nonexistent information, and like magic, they fall in love with my house based on a 10 minute walk-through and some MLS stats! It's a freakin' miracle houses are even sold at all, based on this jacked set-up. Anyone else see the bizarre, ass-backward structure of real estate transactions, or is it just me . . . I know I'll probably hear it from realtors for this rant, but I stand firm in my assessment. Even the realtor I was working with sheepishly admitted that yes, it is a little backward . . .

So, I looked at all the numbers my realtor has presented to me, and it dawned on me that 1.) the market might be even worse than I so optimistically believed, and 2.) no matter what I sell my house for, she will walk away with anywhere from 12 to 16 thousand dollars while I, very likely, will end up paying thousands of dollars (not a couple—we're talking possibly 30 grand or more) to sell our adorable house. Suddenly, I get the proverbial slap upside the head. I don't have to sell. I wanted to sell. . .

At the same time as all of this house stuff has been going on, I've also been seeing a grief counselor through Fairview's hospice program, I've been meeting up with other widows, am a part of a grief group, am hanging out and talking with an awful lot of others who are also dealing with (such an understatement) the awful, great loss of a beloved. And I am learning so much from these scarred, beautiful, shell-shocked survivors . . .that in the face of utter tragedy, humans are astoundingly resilient . . . What I'm also coming to terms with is that for the first several months following Bob's death, I was in shock and needed to do something for self-preservation; I don't remember much of that time, and in many ways, feel as though still am in "that" phase, but in the tiniest of increments, there is evidence that I am moving forward, not in a discernible, predictable manner, to the naked eye, but there is forward movement . . .

Our house, Wrenwood, to me, was 19 months of a living hell. . . as much as I graphically wrote about Bob's ordeal, I left out so very much of his endless suffering, as there was no way to fully make anyone, even those by his side for the whole ordeal, even me, truly grasp what was happening to him . . . but I am also learning from others who are also on this grief journey, is that somehow, someway, we all are having to rebuild from ashes. Even if we chose to do nothing, we will still be dragged forward, like a stone under a glacier. . .

But even if we chose to "work through" the grief, it's a helluva process, such hard work, takes every fiber of my being to do things differently, but with no guidebook, no rules, no blueprint, no fast-track, no Cliff notes. . . I know other widowed friends who are carving new lives in houses where their husbands died, some quickly, some after long, difficult illnesses. My friend, Lisa and her husband are living in the house that she and her husband specially outfitted for their beloved son, Sam, who lived his life in a wheelchair and had so many physical difficulties in his earthly body, the same house where Sam loved and was loved so deeply and purely, died so unexpectedly, so traumatically; they have no intention of moving any time soon . . . people are picking up their shredded lives, and piecing them back together, in the homes in which they shared with their loved one . . . I also know that some people have to move, for endless reasons, even if it's temporary, even if they have to continue moving, again and again. . .no rules . . .

Now that I have a little bit of distance—both physically and chronologically—between our house and Bob's death, I am slowly coming to see it as our home again. Maybe not my home forever, but at least for now. For the present time. Practical, logical reasons are turning me back in that direction, immeasurable love is solidifying the decision. I am still wrestling with the whole concept, am scared, I know it won't be easy, the memories will still be there, but I feel at least a little better equipped now, to ride the waves. . . that with every crashing wave, there is a reprieve, a time to catch my breath, feel a sliver of peace, before the next one hits. . . slowly getting my sea legs . . . seven months ago, I didn't know this, the dam had broken, choking and drowning under the crushing weight of the deluge. . .

Over Christmas weekend, I told my mom of my decision to move back to our house. She didn't seem too surprised. I explained that now, not only do I see that house as a place filled with endless months of endless physical suffering, I am slowing, once again, starting to see, to know, that in the midst of suffering, it was, even more, a home so richly, deeply steeped in, entwined in, enveloped in, immense, endless love. . . huge, authentic, genuine, soul-filling love, so evident in all his parents did for Bob and for us, so evident in the immense support and love from all our family members, so evident in the love, kindness and generosity of our neighbors, our friends, strangers, so evident in our love for each other . . . my hope is that as time goes on, the love will continue to move in and take up more and more space as the horrors slowly recede, dissipate . . .

So, tune in tomorrow, when our weeping widow suddenly decides to move to New Mexico . . .