Checking In

I have a few other posts in the draft folder, but I wanted to hop on to quickly say we are totally out of the old place and fully into the new place. We’re not even close to everything being unpacked because there simply isn’t space for everything.

The spot our unassembled dining room table will eventually occupy is stuffed with boxes I don’t know what to do with. My tiny bedroom fits my new smaller bed, but it sits amongst the contents of my old bedroom plus everything which used to fill the hallway office in our old home. The only leftover spot for the dog is in the window. She clearly doesn’t mind at all.

I’ve cooked a few meals in our fairly organized kitchen which we eat while sitting around the coffee table (a novelty for us!), done a lot of laundry (we have a brand new washer AND dryer), and have carved out a small space where I can sit in my big green chair early each morning drinking my coffee with a view of Hong Kong Disneyland (never previously a morning person, I now find myself wide awake each morning by 6:00 am and think it pointless to lay in bed alone any longer than I have to). The boys’ rooms are completely unpacked and organized, with only a wardrobe for Ben to figure out (the contents of his previous closet are currently hanging in my closet, which is where a lot of the things in my room will end up if we can make room for Ben’s stuff in Ben’s room).

The moving process was two busy months of looking for a new place, packing, purging, planning, and then passing out exhausted at the end of the day, my emotional pain briefly overshadowed by the physical pain of lifting and carrying and standing. On the day we went to turn in the keys, the real estate agent from our old place asked me if everything was settled now, if I was doing better and moving on. I thought she meant with the new house, but she meant with having lost my husband. I didn’t know how to answer that.

No, everything is not settled, not in any sense of the word. And no, I am not doing better because that implies I’ve hit the worst part of this and each new day without my Beloved shows me I have not. And moving on? From what exactly? From the other half of my intricately woven partnership carefully and thoughtfully built over three decades? From the love of my life, knowing my life may continue on for another three or more decades without him? From myself? I don’t think so.

Now that there is no major deadline forcing me into completing tasks, no vital distraction to keep my focus elsewhere, I am paralyzed with sorrow. Productivity is reduced to making sure we are fed and have clean clothes, that our stressed dog is walked and cared for. It’s not unpacking a certain amount of boxes or catching up on the piles of correspondence I need to take care of. I sit and try to write but feel completely overwhelmed and end up crying until I can’t see the screen.

A wise friend at the church in Virginia where my parents were members when my Mama died told me something this week I’m really clinging to: Grief comes in waves as strong as a tsunami. It takes years for them to calm down. You are still in the storm. Indeed I am. And there is no meteorologist skilled enough to meaningfully forecast how bad it might get or what else is in store for me and my little family which has been through — is still going through — so much difficulty and hardship.

In Hong Kong during extreme storms like typhoons we don’t do much because everything in the city shuts down. We spend the time gathered in our homes, resting. Something I’ve done precious little of since December 24, 2024 when Michael was diagnosed and we were caught up in this never-ending extreme endurance challenge.

Rest sounds amazing in theory, but in practice it is filled with unexpected landmines of pain. In the quiet is where I’m most heavily confronted with the overwhelming grief and heartbreak of my present situation. Looking back, I can almost (but not quite) say the move was a relief because I was so busy, busy, busy. I’ve never been one to keep my calendar full, I cherish and protect blank spaces for introspection and to recharge my introverted self. But I can see the allure of a packed schedule. It’s easier to keep sorrow out of reach when your arms are full of other things. Despite my post-move empty hands, I’m not consciously holding onto sadness. It feels more accurate to say sadness is holding onto me, gripping me tightly and pressing into all the tender spots of this horrifically altered life.

Here is what I have learned recently, according to notes in my journal:

Grief is not linear, predictable, or controllable. It is not a sign of strength to ignore it. It takes courage to actually sit in it, especially when well meaning (or not well meaning) people are telling you it’s time to move on because they are uncomfortable with it. It is not a measurement of emotional health if I am able to force a smile. Tears will still pour out at other, potentially less opportune times if I try to suppress them. It is okay to take all the time I need to mourn my Beloved without shame, embarrassment, or haste. My experience is my own. I am still in the storm. I will love Michael Chase for always. I am not alone.

More soon.