Making the Transition

Although most of my friends were supportive of my decision to move into a CCRC, I knew that, secretly, they thought I was making a big mistake; that I was too young to make such a drastic change in my life. But, I told myself, they all still had husbands, and didn't know what it was like to eat dinner alone every night, on a tray in front of the TV; to go to bed alone every night, and wake up alone every morning; and to wander through the dark house, on sleepless nights, remembering…

The hardest part of any move other than having to say "goodbye" to  wonderful neighbors, is going through all the accumulated "stuff" and deciding what to keep and what to sell, or give away, or donate. This time, fortunately, the people who bought my house also bought most of my furniture, and I was able to sell all my office furniture to friends, but there were still plenty of other decisions to make. I decided to start with the family pictures—boxes of them, drawers of them, envelopes of them—too many to begin to count. I had always had the good intention to make albums for each of my four children, but never quite got around to it, instead filling box after box with pictures and moving them from one new home to the next.

Now the time had come to pay the price for my procrastination. I got four large envelopes and after many hours, and more than a few tears, I had gone through them all, throwing away the ones that just had, seemingly random, scenery from long forgotten visits to parks, botanical gardens, and lesser known historical landmarks, and dividing the remaining pictures of family and close friends, sometimes arbitrarily, among the four envelopes. In the end, I needed a fifth envelope and a large box to hold some framed pictures and other mementoes that I couldn't quite decide about. Those went to my oldest daughter, giving her (probably unfairly) the responsibility of deciding what to do with them. I suppose that's the price one has to pay for being the first born. I was a middle child, with no discernible responsibility, except to learn from the mistakes my older sister made and try to avoid making those same mistakes. Of course, she thought I was being a "goody two shoes" in attempt to solidify a spot as the "favorite child," but it was really just about self-preservation.

There's no need to bore you with the rest of the sorting, packing, shopping for new furniture and seemingly endless trips to Goodwill. In the end, it all got done—with more than a little help from my daughters, and close friends—and I found myself in my new apartment, still alone, but, somehow, feeling less alone in this smaller, cozier space. Actually, adjusting to my new apartment was the easy part. It felt like "home" almost from the beginning. As for the rest of it, that took awhile. I'd be lying if I said there were no "what have I done" moments. Of course there were, but I'll save those for the next time.