When My House Is Not My Home

It was an agonizing decision, but in October, just before Sophie was born, I decided to put my house on the market.  There were a lot of reasons.  The house is a bit far from where my parents and Ryan's parents live, and they were planning to help me watch the baby.  In the months following Ryan's death, I tried many times to get back to living there, but couldn't bring myself to sleep in the bed where I watched him die.  The two times I actually stayed the night, I was filled with anxiety.  The bottom line is that under the distress of a drastically changed life and a baby who needed a home, I had to make a choice, and I couldn't make the choice to stay.

I was fortunate enough to get an offer right away, but the sale fell through because of the buyer's difficulty selling his own home.  Then came the dry real estate spell over the holidays.  I was hopeful that in January, the market would pick up again and the house would sell quickly.  As emotionally attached as I was to the place, I looked forward to having a huge item checked off of my "difficult things to do" list.  And then one day, while I wasn't there, the flex tube on my kitchen sink burst.  The kitchen flooded.  The water soaked the linoleum, and much of the dining room carpet.  Then it flowed  down into the finished basement, where it soaked through the ceiling tiles, caused the ceiling to cave in, then flooded the basement itself.  While it hasn't really been my home for a long time, seeing my house in ruins was devastating, and depressingly symbolic.  My house, in ruins, looked an awful lot like my life- a shell of its former self.  Dealing with the insurance, the contractors,  putting all of the pieces back together, is exhausting.  It's also crushingly sad.  Ryan and I lived the happiest years of our lives together, in that house.  Now, it's a place that, for all intents and purposes, no longer exists.  When I'm done putting it back together, it won't look like it did before.  When I look back on my life with Ryan, our house was the centerpiece of that life.  I want to remember it like it was then; a place where our life together was just beginning.

Ryan and I bought the house in 2007.  He had just been appointed to his full-time position at Montgomery County Community College's Pottstown campus, and wanted a place nearer to work.  I had been trying to scrape together enough money to move out of my parents' house for years.  As big of a decision as it was, I remember making it almost casually. We were vacationing in South Carolina, and we had a sort of hypothetical conversation about living together.  At the end of the conversation, Ryan asked, "So, you think you would want to do that?"  I said I would, and it was decided.  Next thing I knew, we were looking for homes, shopping for furniture, making a list of who owned what and what we would have to buy at IKEA.  It seemed quick, but I don't remember doubting the decision for a second.

Ryan and I on our deck, shortly after we were engaged.
  This was our Save the Date picture.

In not too long, we found a place in Collegeville.  It was a townhouse with a deck, three bedrooms, and a finished basement with a bar.  Ryan turned one bedroom into a library, and we had our first fight when he told me that I couldn't keep my books in there with his.  There wouldn't be enough room, he'd said.  Turns out he was right - the man had more books than I've ever seen.  The basement became our main living area, and we planned on having people over all of the time.  In reality, we did so rarely.  I remember lying on the floor down there before we had a couch, watching a movie together before all of the boxes were unpacked.  It was, strangely, Short Circuit (let's all remember that this was 2007, not 1988 like you might think).

Guest bartender at the bar.

Ryan relaxes in his spot on the basement couch.

The last Christmas in our living room.

When I think of it now, I'm transported to a life that's gone but that I desperately wish I could recapture.  On a night like tonight, Ryan would play video games in the basement on an XBox 360 that I bought for his birthday one year.  I'd sit at my computer in the living room, watching old episodes of The Office, and having a glass of wine, rolling my eyes whenever I heard Ryan get mad at the game.  He'd come upstairs to get his crumpled bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos from the kitchen (he refused to use a chip clip to seal the bag), and I'd make him stop in the dining room and dance with me to no music.  He thought that was ridiculous but rolled his eyes and did it anyway, whenever I asked.  Later at night, we'd go to sleep in our bed with the nice soft sheets, cuddled up against one another, and wake up that way the next day.  What wouldn't I give to have more nights like that?  More mornings having coffee together in our kitchen?  More summer evenings on our deck?  More Friday nights playing Trivial Pursuit?  I loved that house, and our life in it.  

To me, the house isn't about one story, or even the multitude of them.  It's about a feeling I get when I think of the place.  Until it flooded, when I walked in there, I felt home.  Even without Ryan being there, even after days or weeks away, I'd come in and sit down at my computer desk, or lie down on my bed, and I'd feel like that's where I was supposed to be.  It makes me think of something Ryan once said when he was away.  In 2009, right after we'd gotten engaged, Ryan spent the summer in Europe doing archival research for his dissertation.  We wrote many emails back and forth during that time, and talked often.  It was obvious to me how much he missed me, and our home.  I remember very specifically a conversation we had close to the end of the summer, when he told me how anxious he was to get home.  "I'm done with this" he told me "I miss you.  I miss our house.  I want to get back to our life, you know?"  I do know, Ryan.  I feel the same way.