Moving on, moving in

I've been cleaning my bedroom today, more like excavating actually. The history of this archaeological dig begins five years ago. My husband was in the ICU with a life-threatening clotting disorder, we had just sold our house and were preparing to move into this one, and I had four kids, nine and under. Luckily I also had, and have, wonderful friends and family who took over the move and the children so that I could concentrate on being at the hospital with my husband to advocate and care for him. I've written about the long-term effects of this on me, and us, before (PTSD or just plain old life?), so I won't go into that here.

On the day were to move, an amazing crowd of friends, neighbors, and complete strangers showed up. I felt like Dorothy as an Oz-like tornado of human kindness lifted us and our things out of one house and plopped us down into another. Of course, everything was higgledy piggledy and I cared not at all. Over the years I've slowly organized the post-move mess, almost everywhere. The living spaces were wrestled into shape first, then the kids rooms. But never our bedroom, because there were always other more important things to do. As a result, there are boxes in our room that are in exactly the same spot they were dumped in five years ago. God knows what's in them. And on top of those boxes, I've put other boxes, from the other rooms I was organizing, till the pile has become a fixed 'Monument to The Move' that we just walk around with seeing anymore.

So now, five years later, my husband still has a life-threatening clotting disorder, but surgery and daily medication keep it stable. The four little kids are not so little anymore and are gone seven predictable hours a day. As for me, I'm finally moving into my own bedroom. Better late than never.