February 15, 2020. Bob was out of the hospital and we were living in a hotel room. Even though we knew things weren't right, we were still pretending that things were going according to plan, and part of that plan was that Kim was going to come spell me off for a couple of days, taking care of him while I went home. We both wanted me to go - to be able to see the house, check on the cats, pretend that everything was all right.
My friends Gill, Rob, and Jeff even came up with a plan. Rather than me driving (they knew that at that point I had been over a month on extremely limited sleep), they said I should ride the Red Coach to Tallahassee (a bus service more upscale than Greyhound) and they would all take me back to Gainesville so that they could see Bob. So I came home on a Wednesday and they took me back on Saturday.
I loved being home. I loved being with the cats. I loved being able to sleep without buzzers or alarms going off and nurses in and out. And it was the longest two days of my life. It was all I could do to keep myself from getting in a car the next day and coming back.
But Saturday finally came, and they took me back to Gainesville. We walked into the hotel room, and I yelled out "Honey!! I'm home" and I expected him to say "Annie!" and be happy to see me and give me a big hug.
I was not expecting to see his face break, the tears, the reaching for me. I ran over to him, sat beside him on the bed, rocked him. He was able to pull himself together enough for a short visit with our friends. Then they left, as did Kim, and once again I was the one to care for him.
I miss being loved that much. I miss loving someone that much.
Hence, the barn. I've gotten a bit obsessive about it. For the past four years I've gone in from time to time, picked up stuff that had to go, and hauled it off. But it's always been Too Much. I sigh, walk out, and it's hanging over my head that I have to do something. So, about a month ago, I just started. Pick one spot, maybe one foot of a counter, and deal with what's on there. Don't overthink. There are four possibilities: Keep. Trash. Donate. Metal (subsection of trash). That's it. If I don't know what it is, or what it was used for - it goes.
It's all starting to open up. I've emptied cabinets and drawers and cupboards and pulled out literal piles of rat's nests (one reason for doing this in the winter - the rat nests aren't occupied, although I did scare the heck out of a little mouse today). It's been quite the workout - what's leaving (which is most of it) get hauled to the front of the barn. Then, on weekends it goes into the car, then I had to pull it out of the car and toss it at the dump. Repeat for many hundreds of pounds of stuff.
I stopped taking before-and-after pictures. Although I liked seeing the progress and it gave me a sense of accomplishment, it was also seeming somehow disrespectful of Bob ("see how I'm cleaning up his mess?" while patting myself on the back). He never meant for it to get in this condition. I'm not erasing him, but perhaps refining a little. He enjoyed making nichos, strange little art assemblages; I arranged some works in progress on a counter.
He also showed his sense of whimsy by doing things like putting an alien figurine on a bird swing and hanging it from a light.
Today I didn't go through stuff. I brought the car around and loaded it up for the first run tomorrow (I'll do 3-5 runs to the dump this weekend). But mostly, I burned. He saved every scrap of wood, every bit of cut-off from a project, random stuff like broken wooden toilet seats and the blades of ceiling fans. 30 year's worth - it was a lot of scrap wood. So I got the fire going, and eventually got it all dragged over and burned, along with pickup up some yard trash.
I don't know how long I can keep this obsession going, but it's good. I'm getting a feeling of accomplishment, and I'm getting really really physically tired, also a good thing. Get wiped out enough, and there's no tossing and turning at night.
Speaking of which - time to crash.
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