Everywhere you look are ghosts. They are memories best not remembered, at least now, while they are still raw. They hit you when you are least expecting them, taking your breath away. It is time to reclaim your home.
After any emotional trauma you need to make peace with yourself, to try to get on with your life. For me, this begins with reclaiming my space. After the worst of my recoveries, after the death of each of my parents, the first thing I had to do was find a way to be happy, at least sometimes, and that meant eliminating ghost.
What is a ghost?
A ghost is a reminder that brings you pain; blind-siding you; making you fall apart when you are not ready.
When I could finally walk, and wasn’t in pain all the time, I had to reclaim my bedroom, bathroom and living room. After my mother died, the room that we had renovated for her, overlooking the living and dining rooms was full of ghosts. When my dad went, it was three rooms.
I would walk into a room full of medical and disability equipment and want to scream. Walking past something from our past would suddenly send me to tears. I would be looking for a pen, find one with memories attached and fall apart.
It is almost impossible to live like this. Grief, regret and anger are all natural and will fade with time. But I need to face my feelings a bit at a time, on my terms, as I am ready for them. Reliving certain memories of my Mom still makes me cry, so I prefer to do so on my own, not in the middle of making Christmas dinner.
I have a vivid memory of my mother, eight months after my grandfather’s death, I was 5-years-old. We were cleaning up the yard for summer and she was wearing one of his old shirts and laughing with my dad. She reached into a pocket and pulled out an old candy; she ran into the house and didn’t come back for what felt like hours. It scared me. She got blindsided.
So what is the answer?
A fresh start
When I am recuperating, my house reflects it. Safety trumps beauty and comfort rules.
My last set of surgeries were shortly after my Mom had a serious fall and dad had two surgeries of his own; our home was in recuperation mode for 3 1/2 years. After I started walking well enough again that the wheelchair could be relegated to the car for outings only, it was time to start reclaiming my home. Suddenly I didn’t need everything out where I could reach it. I could cross a room to get a pen, go to the kitchen to eat and do my washing in the bathroom.
With the help of my housekeeper/nanny and my husband, everything was put away and tidied up so that we didn’t get constant reminders of how helpless and scared I had been.
The pillows I used to get comfortable were still available for a bad day, but in a basket under the coffee table rather than all over the couch.
All medical supplies and disability aids were tucked into drawers and closets so that I could reach them, but people didn’t see them everywhere they went.
Our house looked like a home again, not a rehab hospital. At the same time we cleaned (we a lot of professional help). So that everything was fresh again. Worn out linens were replaced, curtains put back, rugs and knickknacks returned. It felt like us.
And all of a sudden I felt whole again. Normal again. Just with a change of environment. It was as though the sun had come out again just to acknowledge the change in my mood.
After loss
Reclaiming our home after the loss of my parents was harder.
I knew this house was the one when my mother refused to enter through our front door. “I want to see it through MY front door first”. It was love at first sight and she held her breath when she asked if John and I liked it. I never thought I could live in it without them. I am still not sure.
When my mother went to the hospital, we closed the french doors, ignoring the spilled jewelry where the paramedics had knocked over her jewelry box, and shut out the fact that she wasn’t there. But once she was gone, we couldn’t pretend she was coming back, it was time to take that space back.
As soon as I had taken care of all the critical business, I emptied everything in the room that reminded us of her and put it in storage. Out of respect for my dad, I made sure that anything he wanted in his spaces went there, but other than the pictures, he didn’t want to face any of it so soon either.
An empty space
The biggest challenge was her new chair, the one that she always sat in, facing the dining room. Without her in it, it was the biggest ghost in the house and went to our spare bedroom behind a closed-door until we could find a proper home for it.
My moms room after we converted it to a playroom.
Within a week, we had her room converted into a children’s playroom for my daughter. My mother would have loved it. Whenever you looked through the doorway, you saw bright, happy pictures and heard laughing and giggling. The ghosts were quickly chased away and what was left was joy.
I won’t pretend that made it all okay. I setup a cabinet in my living room full of my mothers favorite knickknacks and then couldn’t dust it for two years. And I still haven’t tackled the banker’s box in the bottom of my closet that holds all of her favorite costume jewelry. But I will.
I wear her purses and scarves now, so the jewelry will come in time. I take my grief in measured doses.
And again
Dads den after conversion to my office.
When my dad passed away we had to reclaim three main rooms. Having that many unused rooms would have left the house feeling empty. John and I both work from home at least half of the time, so we can’t escape the feeling that something’s missing.
Within three weeks, we had rearranged all three rooms, John and I each got a dedicated office and we created what my daughter likes to call “the sun lounge”. His chair and wall unit had to go; I couldn’t bear to look at them, and we found a home for my mom’s chair finally as well.
So now the house gets used, every single inch of it. And some of their things are scattered throughout our home. To remind us of them now and then.
All the stuff
The sun room, packed with memorabilia from Mom and Dad.
But the painful things are packed in boxes and well labeled so that when I feel my strongest, I can open up a box and assimilate a little more of my history into my home.
The best part of this approach so far is that the boxes of my mom’s, I have tackled have actually brought some joy along with the sadness. As time passed, I was able to go through them slowly, remember the good stuff and carefully choose what to use, what to save for my daughter and what to give away.
I have packed a box of memories for my daughter. Things I know I will never use, but that she may think too precious to give away. I have packed each one with a note outlining its history and significance to her, wrapped up carefully and labeled, so that someday she can go through it and pick and choose which of the most special things from her family will become hers.
Bring joy back
Our dining room after rearranging it.
The hardest space to reclaim in both cases, was the dining room. We have always eaten breakfast and dinner together at our dining table. Filling the void they left at the table was the hardest part of all. I even considered moving meal-time to another room, but we don’t have an eat in kitchen, so there wasn’t a good option. On both occasions, I completely rearranged the dining room. The table probably isn’t centered anymore, and I know I am not making the best use of the space, but at least I can sit down to eat without facing an empty space.
The last step in reclaiming our home has been to have people over. We have had play dates, dinner dates and other gatherings. We have found ways to bring laughter and happiness into our home again. To make it feel like a home again.
