A New Chapter
Starting a new chapter in any aspect of life after the death of a loved one can be a daunting task. Over the years since Haley died, the mere thought of moving from the home she had lived in was impossible for me.
I never anticipated we would move, not only because I loved our house, but because our kids grew up there, and Haley lived there. When we happened upon a beautiful infill lot in our neighbourhood a few years ago, I let my brain entertain the possibility. Could I leave our home? For many years after Haley died, I thought it would never happen. But something in me shifted - I realized that the new house could be designed to give us spaces that work well for this stage in our family life, along with the serenity of a back yard that gives us a view of towering trees and the occasional visiting coyote (and I love to hear them yip-yip-yipping in the middle of the night!). And we could stay in our beloved neighbourhood. I started to get a bit excited, but also felt a gnawing guilt - was leaving the house somehow like leaving Haley behind? I understand that children leave home eventually. But Haley never had that opportunity - it felt really odd to me, like we would be leaving her in the house as her leaving was entirely different than “moving out.”
These past many months have been consumed with transition and a roller coaster of emotions. The building of our new house, although rewarding and satisfying, was overwhelming and exhausting. The process of selling our home of 24 years was stressful - staging the house, leaving it looking like no one really lived there each time there was a showing, waiting for offers, wondering why it had seemed like a good idea to move. It was important to me that the new owners would love our house as much as we had. I knew all was well when we met the buyers - a firefighter, a medical professional from the Stollery Children’s Hospital, and their kids. This family felt like they had been hand-picked by Haley! The old house now belongs to a new family who will make their own memories there. And the new house feels like home to me already, with the continuous thread of our familiar neighbourhood.
I am a rooted person with respect to where I live. I grew up in Edmonton, living in only two homes before getting married. Other than a short time on the south side, I’ve always lived within a relatively small section of our city’s west end. Our new house is two blocks from the old house. Moving is outside my comfort zone, and I’m grateful that for me, moving has always been a choice.
Well, it was almost always a choice. Upon reflection, I feel like I did move one other time. When Haley was hospitalized for a total of 186 days in 2008 before she died, I felt like she and I had moved. Our abruptly-aquired hospital home was the Stollery Children’s Hospital. We had been there for briefer periods before, but this was really moving in, with occasional “visits” home. We occupied a number of different rooms, and each one became our temporary home. The staff became our family. Not only our medical staff, but those who brought meals, cleaned the rooms, helped Haley (and the rest of us) cope with hospitalization, and brought Haley down for scans and to a nearby hospital for radiation. The other families became our neighbours, our friends. It was a weird world to live in, to feel at home in, but we did. So maybe my roots aren’t as firm as I think they are. I was able to adapt - I know I had no choice, but still, the hospital became our temporary home. Haley made the transition easier for me as she loved her hospital home, her hospital community. She felt comfortable and cared for there; she felt like she belonged.
On the day Haley died, I felt like I was leaving so much behind. I no longer had Haley with me, and I also lost the community that had supported our entire family through this profoundly intense period. I went from living in my temporary hospital home with Haley to my actual home where the rest of my family was, grateful to be with them but having to navigate a new life that had changed in the most painful way. I had to adust to home without Haley. So life in that home was forever divided into two chapters - before Haley died and after Haley died. One chapter was filled with life and joy, the next was darker and sadder and filled with navigating the unknown for all of us. Eventually, and in little bits at a time, the joy returned, but it was joy with a catch, as my friend once described it to me. Like almost pure joy, but with someone missing. Living in that home was often bittersweet, and leaving it was that way too.
I know people who have to or choose to move shortly after a loved one dies, often because the memories there are just too painful. I know others who will never leave their home because of the memories that are there. I was surprised to find myself finally able to move, and to look forward to opening a new chapter in a new physical space, one that still contains memories of the past but in a different way. What I discovered in moving is something I should have figured out long ago - Haley will always be with me wherever I live. She’s just in a different room.