Phone. Home.
My lease isn’t up till February so that’s not it. Maybe its the approach of winter. Last winter I nearly froze to death, while spending more on heating bills than I had in years. Then there’s the concern that the furnace may kill me in my sleep, and since I don’t own it I’m at the mercy of certain factors beyond my control.
Looking back, I’ve been a homeowner for more than 30 years. I was limited in terms of resources, but in general I’d repair things to the highest quality I could manage. I learned the hard way not to cheap out, while not being frivolous. There is a sweet spot in quality. Sometimes, I’d just have to bite the bullet and do what needed done. Bob often would say to me, when I’d tell him something needed done, “well, better do it.” Of course I’d provide the knowledge and he’d provide the means.
When I worked in appraisal, we’d talk about “deferred maintenance.” Things that needed to be done as a natural part of ownership, but had perhaps been put off for some reason. It is unwise to tell a bank lending money against the value of a property that it “needs repair.” Surely they’ve just deferred the maintenance. There’s some deferred maintenance where I currently live. I’m powerless except to complain. Complaining may not result in improvement while negatively impacting the tenant/landlord relationship. So what to do?
For the last 5 months of his life, Bob’s home was the nursing home. Nothing like his previous home, heaped and steeped with his memories, accomplishments and belongings, and yet about 5 times as expensive. I was recalling today a period of time when Bob wanted to return home. At that point he could not and ultimately he never did.
I visited Bob every day, tried to help him regain awareness while sparing him certain harsh realities. I missed him and that I shared. But I knew he wasn’t coming home and if he did leave full-time care, it wouldn’t be back to the home he left. Can’t go home again, as the saying goes.
But there was a period in his recovery, I don’t recall precisely when, that Bob decided it was time to go home. Day after day when I’d say I was going home, he’d try his best to follow along. As difficult and dire as things could be, just about the most difficult thing I had to do was telling him that he had to stay.
What I didn’t tell him is that I hated going home during that time. Back to the giant, creaky, empty, echoey warehouse of our lost lives. It just wasn’t home to me anymore. Not without Bob. All I did during his absence was worry and throw things away. I sold what I could, which wasn’t much. Pitched as many bags as I could every week, but spared Bob these harsh realities.
I knew I wasn’t staying, and wasn’t going to struggle to maintain our former home. Somebody else could have it now. Make it their home. And just by chance I found a nice little place nearby, which is where I now live. Part of its appeal was it was nearby, and on ground level if turned out Bob did come home. It wasn’t home, but it could be. I could remake it to fit my new life. All in all, I’m sure Bob would like it. He was always a fan of my work.
I didn’t tell Bob when I sold the house. I imagined he would be sad. I don’t really know if the Bob I knew and loved for so long even remembered who I was, what we were, or just how much he had lost. Shortly afterward, he lost his life. But I haven’t forgotten who he was, what we were, and how precious home was to us.
Not just the place. The idea. The feeling. Rather than search for home, I often have to build it myself. It may be building time again, soon. I haven’t decided yet.
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