Nest.

Nesting.
(The tendency to arrange ones surroundings, such as a work station, to create a place where one feels secure, comfortable or in control.) 

If you've been pregnant, or married to a pregnant woman, or have known one, then nesting might be familiar to you.  If you know me at all, you know that is not who I am.

Except lately that's exactly what I have been doing.  Almost in overdrive - to the point where I exhaust myself mentally and physically.  I write lists of things to do.  Of things to buy.  Ideas and plans.  I am constantly looking online for things I "need" to get organized.  Thinking of how to rearrange furniture (which I have done twice).  Reorganizing kitchen cabinets (three times).  

So, I looked it up (because, of course, I did.)

There's a lot of blog articles about women (or men, too, I suppose) who take on this behavior when their children leave for college.

Not the case for me.

There are articles about women who start doing this when a child of theirs dies.

Also, not my case - but closer than the first one.

So, I dub thee "widow grief nesting".

At the beginning of April, I spoke with my landlords.  Now, before I say any more, you have to know that I truly got lucky in this department.  My landlords live next door and are, quite honestly, just all around  incredible people.  They aren't much older than me (probably Sean's age), and are kind, thoughtful and truly, good people.  After Sean died, she would check in almost every day - asking if I needed food or groceries; they came to the wake, and offered to help in any way.  

A few months ago, on a snowy day, she and I were outside with the dogs.  She told me that she didn't feel right letting me move because "here - people watch out for you - if you move - what if, god forbid, there are weirdos living next door or above you?" And she wasn't wrong - I live in a neighborhood where people look out for each other and keep and eye on things.  

So, we revisited the conversation in April and they lowered my rent a bit so that I could afford to stay.

I love my house.  I did from the moment I saw the pictures.  Sean liked it well enough, but knew how strong I felt so he agreed it was the house for us.  But after he died I gave a lot of thought as to whether or not I could stay there - finances aside, could I stay in the home where he died?  And it's not like he was sick and spent a few days in the hospital before he died.  He literally died on our bedroom floor.

That's a hard thing to see each and every day.  

But I also wasn't ready to leave the last home we shared - the last place we laughed, danced and loved.  

So, I'm staying put for a while.

But I also knew I needed to change some things.  Marriage is about compromise and we both did a lot of it in our few years together.  We both had strong opinions and both always felt the other wasn't always correct (even though I was).  But we compromised because that's what you do when you love each other.

Our furniture - well - that wasn't so much a compromise - more of a "look what I bought in the middle of the night" kind of thing (bedroom furniture) and "but black leather is awesome!" (living room).  The other living room set is in the basement, where we planned to set up a den - mainly for Sundays during football season.  

Now all I can thing about is getting rid of black leather couches and the bedroom set.  I've planned and replanned what I want and how I want to look over and over again.

And then one day, as I was mentally moving the television to the other wall, I started to cry.  Because moving the tv meant taking down our collection of wedding pictures.  The wall that holds the framed black and white photos of our grandparents, parents and us on our wedding days.

I started crying because I don't want to erase my life with him.

This, obviously, was a subject of great discussion in therapy.

"Why do you feel you are erasing your life with him?"
"Well, by removing certain things, isn't that what I am doing?" (see, I can play the question game, too.)

After much more conversation, she finally made me realize that memories are forever and things are things.

By ridding the living room of a couch I've always disliked, or removing some photos from the wall, that doesn't delete the memories of a beautiful life.  And it doesn't have to be all or nothing, either.

So, three weeks ago, my cousin came over, took apart my bed (we left the base and the mattress) took some pictures and listed the set on FB marketplace.  My sister did the same thing on her FB page.  I ordered new bedding and sheets.  I took down the vertical blinds and hung sheers and valances in all the windows.  

The living room set is next on the list to go and the blue couch and comfy oversized chair in my basement will take their place.  Some pictures will come down, some will stay, and Rupert the Key West ostrich paintings will be moved into the bedroom to watch over the closet.  I've been scouring Craigslist and Marketplace for bedroom furniture I can buy and paint to go with my chosen color scheme (pale blues, greys and sage), and planning how to set up my desk/ library (with the Key West chair, of course) in Sean's office, which is currently holding his shoe collection that I will sell as soon as I am ready to.

In 8 days it will be 8 months since it happened.  And in those 8 months I'm learning that it's ok to make our home more of my home.  Will I have more crying episodes as I continue to make changes?  Of course. 

But change doesn't mean erasing.
And moving forward doesn't mean good bye.

It means living.