Goodbye

n: a taking of leave

In January 2016, I left my childhood home for the last time. We packed up boxes and hauled the last few items out of the house where I had lived from the age of two in rural Upper Michigan.

This house hosted the best 4th of July parties and backyard baseball games. My mom often had the most beautiful flowers in the box and my dad kept an eye on things from his perch on the front porch. The picture window was perfect for the Christmas tree and the downstairs rec room allowed my dad to watch Red Wings hockey games without interruption. I took photos in the front yard on my first day of kindergarten and on the day I graduated from college.

But on this day, I was faced with 1,500 square feet of empty space and I was, understandably, emotional.

I knew this day was coming; it comes for everyone. But at the time I was only 35 years old, with a husband and a two-year-old son, and I didn’t think this was the way my life was supposed to go. I had often envisioned visiting this house with my own children, who would spend time reading books with my mom, going ice fishing with my dad, laughing at family photos, playing with my old toys and eating my favorite homecooked meals.

But that’s not how it was destined to go.

My mom passed away in November 2003, when I was 23, after struggling for many years with a variety of chronic illnesses. I’m sure she was in a great deal of pain for most of my life, but she never really admitted how bad it must have been.

My dad had some health problems, too, mainly as the result of smoking for more than 50 years. But just weeks after my mom’s death, my dad suffered a seizure, and it was the beginning of a slow decline for him.

In the winter of 2010, my sister and I no longer felt that our dad was safe at home and we made the difficult decision to transition him to long-term care.

By this time, I had made the move to Minnesota, gotten married and begun to cultivate an incredible life of my own. My dad adapted well to a new life at the local VA facility, where he received exceptional care and companionship from a caring staff who respected and adored him. But I was faced with an empty house—and the reality that I now lived 400 miles away.

The house remained empty for two years; our wonderful neighbors kept an eye on it, and my brother-in-law cut the grass and cleared the snow. It was a place for many of us to stay when we visited for the weekend. But the expenses were adding up and I was increasingly worried that something would happen.

In the spring of 2012, I was approached by someone who wanted to rent the house. While I was reluctant at first, I had to be realistic and accept that this was the best option. The house would be occupied and we would get some income to help offset the costs of keeping it.

Over a long weekend, we secured a big storage unit and moved the contents of the entire house. I tried very hard not to think about what was happening, but occasionally I would catch a glimpse of my mom’s cedar chest or my dad’s fishing gear being loaded into the back of a trailer—and it hurt. This was the only life I had known and it was all being carted away to a glorified garage I was renting for $70 a month.

Me and my parents on the front porch of our house, probably 1987 or 1988.

Those initial renters stayed for a year, and then a second family rented the house for two years. They were good tenants, but it was difficult to accept that others were making memories in my house.

On Dec. 1, 2014, our renters renewed their one-year lease. But just two weeks later, I got a call from my dad’s primary physician and we heard the dreaded news: cancer. He passed away just a few short weeks later, on New Year’s Day 2015.

About a year later, in December 2015, the renters’ lease came up for renewal and they notified me that they would be moving out. And I was now able to sell it. But it meant saying a final goodbye to this wonderful house.

On January 31, 2016, I did a final walk-through of my beloved home. And as I opened closets, I half expected to see my Barbies or the velvet-lined box that held my mom’s “special occasion” silverware.

But they weren’t there, nothing was there. Just a bunch of empty rooms. And as I stood in my childhood bedroom, which had once been painted Powder Puff Pink, I thought to myself: “This isn’t the way it was supposed to go.”

But as the tears came, I heard another, softer voice from deep inside. It said, “Yes, but look at how it did go.”

The evening of my high school graduation, 1998.

And that was the voice that I tried to hear, the voice that reminded me that I had done the best I could, and made the difficult decision to leave this place in search of something better for myself. The voice that reminded me that I had somehow managed to find an incredible man who loved me, even though I have a horrible temper and hate to get out of bed in the morning. And it was the voice that reminded me that we brought forth a loving and funny little boy who brings us joy each and every day—not to mention the beautiful little girl who arrived two years later.

Of course, it makes me sad to know that my children will never know their grandparents; I know how over the moon my parents would have been to watch them grow up. But that’s the reality I must face and I must find the positive in it somewhere.

While I no longer will be able to visit the house, I’ll revisit it in my heart—and tell my children about the wonderful people who once lived here, who loved me and cared for me and made me who I am. I’ll tell them about the holidays we celebrated, the parties we hosted and the meals we shared.

And I’ll tell them that it’s OK to be sad, it’s OK to miss the people who have passed away. But the best way to honor their memory is to live by the example they set, to be kind, to be a good friend and to love one another, always.