We’re Making an Escape and the Time Has Almost Arrived…
When I arrived at my parents’ house for a mid-July visit, there was a stamped envelope waiting for me. It wasn’t a statement from my very first retirement account, the one piece of mail I don’t know how to stop from getting delivered to their Dupont home, but fun mail. A save-the-date for a dear friend’s wedding in Sicily next summer.
Liz had inquired weeks earlier on where to send it. Mesh and I were in the midst of preparing to move out of 555 and into a myriad of temporary housing. It made no sense to send the invite there. Going forward, we couldn’t receive anything at the home that soon wouldn’t be ours. With two months to go until my late summer move to Abu Dhabi, a new worry was added to the ever expanding list. How would I get my prescriptions? My Phish Dry Goods order that still hadn’t shipped? A belated birthday present a loved one wanted to ship me?
Luckily, this had an easy fix. I could use my parents’ domicile.
I address (pun intended) almost this exact situation in reverse on page 73 of Second Set Chances. “No matter where I’ve dwelled, Sunrise Road has always been my permanent address. This changes next month.” It was an intensely profound and exhilarating realization then. At 32, I’d lived out of NEPA a couple of times, but when one of those places is college and the other is abroad, you keep your parents’ address as your permanent one. Wow, was I stoked to finally change that, and on the other side of the country too.
Twelve years later me and my mail are circling back. While I never expected it, Sunrise Road is, in an abstract sense, my address again. And Liz’s save-the-date served as proof of that.
At the beginning of my visit, Mom asked how I felt about being out of my house.
“Numb,” I told her. My brain hadn’t been registering much on the emotional spectrum. Given its history to trigger my hypochondria during times of great stress, I didn’t mind my lack of feelings. A survival response, I surmised, to keep another semi-nervous breakdown at bay, one I didn’t mind.
Two weeks later, Huey and I are approaching the end of a week stay at our second Airbnb. There will be five total in the US, and at least one in Abu Dhabi. Our situation fluid, there’s been lots of shuffling in our schedules and locations, hence the transient housing. I’m living out of suitcases and boxes, most of which are stashed on the tool table in the scary part of 555’s basement. I pop over at still-my-house to change out clothes and books and to grab cooking ingredients once or twice a week. Without any semblance of a routine, I’ve been struggling to write, save for some journaling
Our longest stay extends a month long. Once there, I’ll be able to establish a better schedule, perhaps finish the first draft of the new manuscript I started writing in December. I can lug over the entirety of my life essentials to unpack and hang things. Find them temporary homes. Center myself. But that’s not until August 1st.
Mesh was supposed to be back in the States by then for his final three week rotation in the US. His free time was to be spent soaking up our Denver phamily and seeing lots of music—including three Red Rocks shows— but that got shortened to a single week and pushed back to mid month. Most recently, we learned he can’t come until the tail end to help me and Huey prepare for the permanent move to the UAE. He won’t be bidding Colorado farewell in any grand fashion and by the time he’s back in town, six weeks will have passed since we last saw one another.
I’m all out of sorts, anything but grounded, and have had one minor hypochondriac episode where an eye exploding headache convinced me I was having a stroke for over an hour. It’s obvious; my limbic system has unthawed. I’m stressed. I miss my husband. I’m grieving the life I’m about to give up while also wanting to just be in Abu Dhabi already, this hard transition over.
And while I thought I’d feel sad about selling our home of eight years, I’ve no heartbreak over it. I’d suffer more sorrow if my parents were to move from the longstanding Wesley homestead. What I’m craving is the stability of having a permanent residence. Of knowing Mesh and I won’t be separated by continents for weeks and weeks. That I can stash suitcases for the long term and toss boxes I don’t need for storage anymore. Mornings will find me back at my desk weaving stories. I’ll have an address for that next save-the-date. Unfortunately, I’ll still be waiting for several more months. In the meantime, I keep reminding myself about the growth that comes from discomfort (This is exactly what you wanted, Rachael), and the reassurance in knowing I can rely on Sunrise Road to always be my backup.
