When my husband, the love of my life, died a year and a half ago, I did all the right things. I grieved, I cried, I made the best decisions I could make knowing that important ones should wait at least a year. But we lived in a huge house on a 4-acre piece of land. It was too much for me. Friends helped as much as they could, but I knew that if I could not handle my own stuff, I should not stay there. I decided to sell the house and move closer to my children.

I moved to a sweet house in Vermont. A little expensive, but I have 2 big dogs, there are limitations to where you can go.

My daughter was with me this weekend. We talked about how I was rushed to leave the house in Tennessee and how I think I need to be moving from this house because of the lack of good internet options and signal. I stopped unpacking soon after I moved in, there did not seem to be a point and lived with essentials until I was ready to move again in a year. Nothing was hung on walls, no colors were painted, but I had my kitchen really well stocked, always important. My daughter had a good point when I sold my house in Tennessee, I had to leave. The new owners needed to take possession as soon as possible. So the cleanup I wanted to do did not happen. I brought things I did not want to keep and left things I should have brought with me. Her logic is; trying to move in another 2 or 3 months will have the same result, rushing. Apparently, there is an internet service that may be able to provide me with the coverage I need now. I did not want to spend the money on a modem that I would be stuck with if it turned out to be worthless.

She left 2 hours ago. I went in the basement and started working on my boxes again, I felt motivated. Some things had been moved from box to box, some things were in giveaway boxes, and some things were just sitting there, and that is when I realized that my drive to unpack did not stem from my conviction that I would have to move in a year or less. It had to do with the fact that I was not ready to let go. I live on the first and second floors. My bedroom has a brand new bed and a night stand, pretty much nothing else. The grand-kids’ bedroom has a new set of bunk beds that I put together. Sure, my clothes are the same, our towels are in the bathrooms, and our dishes are in the kitchen. But I made my living area mine. The basement has all of “our” stuff. His clothes that I never got around to donating. His mother’s dishes, our Christmas decorations, our life.

I listened when Daren, our grief therapist back in Tennessee, talked about taking one bite of the elephant at a time. When my fellow grievers talked about what they were going through and doing. I didn’t think I was better, or that I had it handled, but I guess I did, to some degree. I welcomed the pain, it meant I loved and I lived this great adventure with my Texan. But I had to make a decision and I still think it was the best decision I could make at the time. I could not stay in a huge house so far from my family. For financial and emotional reasons, I moved to Vermont. I see my children more often, which is nice. And I talk about my husband every chance I get. I know I’m handling it as best I can and in a healthy way. There is no right or wrong way to handle grief. It can be years later, but all of a sudden, a song on the radio, eyes the color of the Texas sky, a picture of old cowboy boots, and you’re back to feeling the pain and heartache of what is lost.

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