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This house has been more than house, or even home.  It has been sanctuary and womb.  It has been protection.  It has been cage. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the COVID days and trying to remember them.  But I’m numb to them.  They blur together.  They don’t feel real.  And then, I remember who we lost, and they feel more real than I have words for.

I’m leaving the house that was my COVID home.  Moving away tomorrow.  I’ve packed it all up and I’ve been living out of a suitcase and with a little help from Uber (no car) and Door Dash (no cookware).  Seems I may have packed a bit early.  Or, maybe, right on time.

I wasn’t quite sure where all the emotion was coming from.  I asked to leave. I wanted this change.  I have friends and family waiting for me.  A home.  A place where I belong more than I ever belonged here.

I loved it here.  But I never belonged.  And that’s ok. 

I realized today that what I’m teary about is leaving this space that took care of me during COVID.  This house became my closest friend.  Well, this house and Mr. Squirrel.  But she had babies and went to other yards to play.

So, in the end, it was just me and this house.

The dining room is where I set up my computer that saw more Zoom church, more Zoom conversations, and more Zoom laughter than I’ll ever remember.  At one point I had large pieces of white paper stuck all over the walls with mind-maps and brightly colored lists and dreams.  It was a creativity incubator.

At the end of the dining table is where I painted for hours, months.  So many paint by number kits that I became quite artsy about them all.  They will hang in the dining room of my new home with honor.  I did that work.  Every night.  For hours.  And months. I painted those.  They are the narrators of those years.

My bedroom was both a place of pain and a place that held me.  My Dercum’s disease started progressing there. I sat in bed, night after night, confused and broken while I wondered what was wrong and thought I might die.

Those dark navy walls comforted me as I searched my symptoms on Dr. Google, and they surrounded me as I finally found what I was searching for.  Something that explained what was possibly happening that took me to the specialist that diagnosed me that has helped me navigate this disease every day.

My bed has this ledge on the side where the mattress fits into the bed.  When I sit on the bed, I can put my feet comfortably on the side there and sit, for a moment.  I did that for years.  I sat up, feet on the ledge, checked to see how I was feeling (I didn’t leave the house so I don’t know how I thought I would get COVID), rested for a moment in existential dread, breathed a sigh of despair, and then pushed off into the day.

I reorganized both the clothing in my closet and the books in my study – created a rainbow in each that brought me some joy.  I wept when those projects were over.  I didn’t have any others to start.

My kitchen was where I roasted, every night, brussels sprouts that, at first, I had delivered to my door.  Eventually I would settle my mask on my face and go to the grocery store.  I would fill my produce bag with so many brussels sprouts that I would have people waiting behind me in line.

My laptop became TV, evening Zoom friend, work partner, all of it.  It became how I talked with my parents.  It was where I finally looked at them one day and said, in a flat and broken voice, “That’s all I have to say.  Love you.  Bye.”  Not wanting an ending.  Just not sure what there was anymore.  Just tired.

It was where they FaceTimed me immediately after I hung up to tell me to get on any plane I could to go to Colorado.  I did.  That week was my rescue.  That, plus a small bump in my anti-depressant.

Every Saturday night I would climb into my pajamas (out of my comfy clothes which were really just my fancy pajamas) and into bed where I would log onto Zoom with my five besties and we would play Jackbox games and talk.  We talked like our lives depended on it, sometimes.  And I think they did.  Those Saturday nights saved me.

My shutters in the family room were where I began and ended the day.  They closed each evening with a loud “clack” which became the signal in my brain to block out the fear that this would be it forever.  That nothing would change or get better.  That noise still sends a shudder down my spine.  I love it.  And I hate it.  And I’ll miss it even though I stopped shutting the shutters when the world opened back up. 

I’ll miss how I could slide barefoot across the wood floor, it was so worn.  How I could close the silverware drawer with a bump of my hip.  I’ll miss seeing the fireworks out the back when the high school let out for the summer.  And how walking to the mailbox became the only time I felt like I could really breathe.

This house contained me and that, in some ways, kept me very safe.  I didn’t get COVID in California – and not until 2023.  I credit this house in a lot of ways.  It held me close.  I could have left.  I just didn’t want to. 

It is hard to know how to say goodbye to a house that doesn’t have good memories as much as it has just memories that were important.  I launched into my new way of being here.  I learned that I’m creative. I learned how much I love to laugh.   I learned how to monitor liver blood tests.  I learned how to be a grandma to someone I love who needed one “in their bubble”.  I learned how to do puzzles and take care of plants and keep them alive.  I learned how to keep myself alive.

When I walk out the door tomorrow, I won’t be back.  I’ll return to California, of course – some of my favorite people and places are here.  But I won’t go back to the Cameron Dr. house.  I’ve shed enough tears today for it to be a proper goodbye.  Mr. Squirrel has moved on to live her life and I will too.

But I’m deeply grateful that this place was home for my broken body, heart and spirit when I needed it.

 I’m grateful that it was mine.

 You know what, I’m going to go close those shutters one more time.  Just for good measure.