Here’s the thing about change; it isn’t easy. Even if what’s on your horizon is necessary, exciting, refreshing, fulfilling, or healing, it doesn’t make getting there a breeze. Quite the contrary.

We’re currently going through the process of selling my childhood home. There are so many emotions tied up in this process that I’m surprised I’m still standing. Nostalgia has a way of grabbing you by the throat, hard, and threatening to never let go. I have (actually) had a hard time breathing for the past three weeks or so. It’s like something heavy is sitting on my chest and threatens to never get off.

And yet it will. It always does. I’m no stranger to this feeling; it’s the reason I’m feeling it that’s foreign to me.

I’ve been in this home since I was two and a half years old. My Gramma loves re-telling the story of the time she was bringing me up to the house for the very first time. She said, “It’s time to go and join your Mom in Udora now, Caitlin”

My response?

“Mydora?”

Although not always a ‘white picket fence’ happy home, it’s been home, nonetheless. My Mom worked tirelessly to care for and pay for this home as a single woman. And as her only child, it became mine after she passed.

You’d be surprised at how many times people have said to me, “You’re so lucky to have inherited your house”. One went so far as to say I’d won the lottery!

Ya, that’s always nice to hear. As if I wouldn’t give it all back to have even one more day with my Mom. Ultimately I know people just don’t understand.

I have to remind myself that my life here wasn’t always easy. That caring for my sick mom wasn’t, either. And, (for the most part) when parents pass away their children inherit their possessions and investments. That’s what happens. That’s just how it goes.

And yet I’ve lived for six years with guilt hanging over my head. Why should I get to enjoy it and not her? We’ve attempted to redeem ourselves constantly by fixing it up and ‘making it our own’. My husband is very handy, patient, and hard-working. The house needed a lot of (expensive) work; new windows, new doors, new roof, new eaves troughs, new insulation in the attack, new fireplace, new floors, new kitchen, new bathroom, new water treatment system, new trim, new light fixtures, new paint, new appliances, new furniture, plus extensive yard work and landscaping.

Remind me again why I’m so lucky?

And then there’s the stuff. Oh Lordy there has been stuff! Her stuff, my stuff, teaching stuff, Aidan’s stuff, baby stuff. Nothing but stuff! Aidan has said on multiple occasions, “We’ve taken so many loads to the dump and Good Will! How is there anything left?!”

Because this house is like the Barney Bag, Mary Poppins’ Carpet Bag and Mr. Dressup’s Tickle Trunk rolled into one, that’s why. Because it’s a bottomless pit of memories, that’s how. Because it has a hollow leg that haunts me, ok?

But moving is helping a lot.

Aidan has been doing the physical labour of making it look great again. Updating it. Refreshing it.  ‘Bringing it up to speed’, so to speak.

I, on the other hand, have hunkered down and I’ve been doing the nitty gritty emotional parts. I’ve made a habit of picking out my Mom’s favourite CDs to put in my five disk changer while I work. Music holds me up. Music drives me ever forward. I dance, I cry. and I get ‘er done. And as much as it sucks and it’s hard; it feels incredible.

Four boxes of hometown paraphernalia? I took photos of every item and wrote a description for each for the Whitchurch-Stouffville Museum. A friend recommended I do it and that was the perfect solution. I had to adopt the mantra “not my memories” and repeat it over and over (and over) again.

My Mom’s newborn gown, which she wore in a hospital that no longer exists? Yes it went. Along with the newspaper article and silver engraved cup she and her mother received (because she was the first Whitchurch-Stouffville baby born at Brierbush Hospital in 1951). Or how about the professional photos her Dad took when she was prom queen? And the fake flower corsages she wore, still in their original box (which has a stamp for a flower shop that no longer exists on the top)? They went, too. Her 1960s gym uniform (a one piece romper, to boot) was part of the lot, as were countless other hard-earned, happy memory items.

“Not my memories. Not my memories. Not my memories…”

Now the community as a whole can enjoy them and those four boxes aren’t collecting dust in our basement any longer. When we left the museum on drop-off day I felt I could breathe a little easier, which thankfully inspired me to keep going.

A large black sticker adorned antique shipping trunk (which my Mom had since university and was our rec room coffee table for ages) became the “Trudy Trunk” after she passed away. Over the last six years I’ve put things in there that I didn’t feel ready to part with… just yet. When it was too full I started a bin. It filled up, too. Then another. Then another. I made myself a promise that I could consolidate all of them into the one trunk. It was time.

So one day I sat cross legged for who knows how long. I was ruthless. A paper bag full of postcards she had received from friends and family over the years? Gone. Her address book she’d kept since the 70s? No thanks. The shoebox filled with every card I had every given her? See ya. The two hats she wore after chemotherapy (that still had stray hairs caught inside of them)? Goodbye.

Clinging to stray hairs inside hats she hated wearing wasn’t bringing her back.

I had to break it to myself (repeatedly).

I was successful, for the most part. Some things I still couldn’t part with. Her small box of most prized Beatles paraphernalia? Still there. Her sketch books and scrapbooks? Keeping them. Her childhood wallet, filled with photos of family members and friends? Mine. The purse she was using at the time of her passing? Intact. Right down to the last lipstick she wore (faithfully) in the perfect curved shape for her lips, and a Kleenex she had used to blot those perfect red lips on, with a chewed piece of gum inside of it. Weird, I know. Some things we can’t explain, ok?

The trunk is still the “Trudy Trunk”, refined. It’s amazing what one, three, six years can do for a person who’s letting go. It gets easier. You become more selective. What really matters is much more apparent.

My mom may be taking up less space in our home, yes, but she’s never taken up so much space in my heart.

Last week I was brave and did a dump run, solo. I know many women do it – but as a shy and anxious person – it was outside of my comfort zone. I loaded up the back of our minivan and set off. When I got there I was surrounded by men with pick-up trucks and trailers. I backed into my spot in the que and heaved thirty-six year old carpet into the pile of rubbish. Big heavy bags were swung as far as I could make them go. I saved one bag and retrieved one of the hardest items I’ve discarded to date from the passenger seat; my Mom’s radiation mask.

My Mom ended up with brain cancer, and at the end of her life – even though they knew her days were limited – they attempted to shrink the multiple tumors that had metastasized on her brain. She was no longer able to feed herself or walk. She was violently ill, as the swelling was causing severe nausea. Ultimately, they wanted to make her last days as comfortable as they could.

And has much as the radiation process was very uncomfortable, it worked. In her final four weeks of life she was able to eat solid foods again and even feed herself. I didn’t have to run to empty her (much too small) kidney shaped vomit basin just in time for her to fill it again. She was able to sign the legal paperwork we’d put off for far too long. I gave her manicures. We watched movies on our laptop from the tray table. We laughed. We cried. All thanks to those five sessions of radiation.

The mask itself wasn’t comfortable. To have it fitted she had to lie still on her back for a very long time (not enjoyable or comfortable for someone as nauseous as she was). They had to heat the mesh material and then force it over her face. It was snapped to the table under her. It hardened there, fit so snug that she couldn’t move an iota. Then they had to use tape and a pen to mark where her mets were, so they knew where to aim the radiation each time. They were meticulous. They were precise. When she finally emerged, the mesh mask had left a criss-cross pattern across her entire face. I was so proud of her for being so brave that I wept for her.

She joined me.

Every day for five days we took the long trip across the hospital to the cancer centre for her radiation. Each day got a bit easier (for both of us).

The scant hair that had grown back following her chemo treatments promptly fell out.

One day when I arrived at the hospital I found her crying. She was looking down at herself and the bed surrounding her. She was covered in her hair and couldn’t do anything about it but lay trapped and stare at it. She knew she was dying, and her hair was the least of her troubles, but she had every right to be angry and sad. It wasn’t pleasant or fair.

The next day I came armed with more clean nightshirts and pillowcases, as well as a brand new lint roller. We fought each battle valiantly as it was presented to us, with all that we could.

After she passed I couldn’t bring myself to part with the mask. It was a perfect mold of her beautiful face; the profile of her nose; the outline of her lips, her Hollywood cheeks? I can’t tell you how many times I took it down from our closet (then the spare room closet, then the shelves in the basement) to trace my hand over a face I’ll never see again. It still had the tape pieces marked in pen to show where the cancer was that had killed her.

It wasn’t a happy mask.

Her face was one of the most beautiful faces I will ever have the pleasure of seeing, but the mask didn’t represent a time she enjoyed. It represented the end of her life. The closing of her battle. A time that was scary, sad, and frustrating.

So I pulled the mask off of the passenger seat. I opened the last bag that I had purposefully loosely tied. I felt guilty putting her face into a garbage bag but I felt worse about throwing it into the pile of trash exposed. She was a proud woman. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her that way; not even a representation of her. Not even perfect strangers.

I ran my fingers over the outlines of her face one last time. Unlike the men surrounding me I shed a few quiet tears. Not so much for her, really, but for myself. I put the mask into the bag. I tied it up. I threw it as hard and as far as I could.

I kept my composure while I got back into the van. I even held it together while I paid the ten dollars it cost me to dispose of my memories. As I started to drive away, the nostalgia noose around my neck loosened enough for me to finally cry. The cramp in my throat released. I let myself sob until I was able to catch my breath, and then I realized something so important; the transition of letting go was the hardest part.

Driving away I felt lighter. More free. Liberated.

And that’s the thing about any change; whether you’re starting a new job, or at a new school. You may move to another town, province, or country. Maybe someone you love has left you; physically through death, or emotionally because they’ve fallen out of love. Sometimes you’re the one leaving. Becoming a spouse or parent can do it, too. All significant change – and letting go of one version of yourself in order to evolve into the next one – is going to knock the air out of you. Sometimes the process takes a while. It rarely happens overnight.

You’re not just going to struggle with catching your breath, you’re also going to suddenly remember all of the good things about your past situation. You’ll reel over the happy times you shared or experienced with that person, or in that place, or both. The struggles you endured and the reason you’re letting go and moving on fade into the distance enough that you start to back pedal. You’re in a hole surrounded by loose dirt. You’re clamoring to climb out but the earth is letting go around you. The struggle is only making it worse.

Once significant change has started, you really can’t stop it. The momentum is there. It’s not your job to control it or change its direction. Eventually it’s out of your hands. You’re entitled to be scared, sad, angry, and even full of regret, but halting the process isn’t an option. Even in the rare case that it is, moving backwards doesn’t serve anybody. It’s time.

Time to take a step into the unknown. Move forward into the new. Embrace the change. Accept the evolution. Trust the process.

I remember like it was yesterday parting with my Mom’s clothes. There was a keep bin, a give-away to loved ones bin, a donate bin, and a garbage bin. For the clothes going in the trash I felt so guilty that I cut a four inch square piece from each article of worn-out clothing before bagging it. I kept that stack of fabric squares for a long time. And then one day I felt ready to throw even that out.

Other things I’ve parted with I’ve taken pictures of. That way I feel I’m keeping the memory, via a snapshot of the item, before saying goodbye.

You’d be amazed at how many times I go back to that folder on my external hard-drive to re-look at those items.

I haven’t. Ever. Not once.

But the good thing is? I can. I haven’t, but I might. And I know they’re there. Not collecting dust and not taking up unnecessary space (physically or emotionally).

I’ve sold some of my mom’s collectible items, and that has also been a truly freeing process. The corner cabinet that my Great Grampa made went to a woman who was going through a divorce and was downsizing. It was exactly what she was looking for (and admittedly, I’d never really liked it). My collection of green Depression glass was too big for it, anyway, so I found a beautiful hutch and buffet online that a man even delivered. It had been his parents’ (which they had custom made) and it was equally as hard for him to let go. It’s the perfect fit for my collection, and I could tell he was relieved to see it find a happy home. He was moving in with his partner and she already had one. He was also going through a change. It was time.

The secretary desk/cabinet combo was a piece I never liked. My Mom got it later in her life and was obsessed with it. Moving it home in the back of my truck the glass broke. She was devastated. I replaced the glass in it for her for mother’s day that year. It may not have been original, but it would do. It ended up holding a set of dishes that had been handed down to me from my Gramma. It was a beautiful set, but it remained in the basement in the cabinet. We brought it out when we had company (namely, my Gramma), but it couldn’t even go in the dishwasher.

I posted the set of dishes on Kijiji and we went and got ourselves a large plain white set of dishes. They are used for every day, and there’s enough for entertaining. They’re dishwasher and oven safe. Plus they match everything and single pieces can be replaced, if needed. It just makes more sense.

The lady who came for the other set came all the way from Niagara on the Lake late one winter evening. She works for an artist named Trisha Romance. Trisha also has the full set of Fruit Sampler dishes, and the lady who bought them from me had asked  if she’d ever be willing to sell any of it (she loved it that much). Trisha wasn’t willing, as it is her favourite, too. The lady struck gold with my full collection. They’ve found their loving home. Everybody wins!

That cabinet they were in? I posted it on Kijiji, too. The lady who immediately expressed interest was persistent. She didn’t trust I wouldn’t sell it to someone else and wanted to email money to secure it. I assured her I would be true to my word and she could trust me.

Sadly I wasn’t home when she and her husband came to pick it up. Aidan tells me that when she saw it she started to cry. It was just what she had been looking for for years. Her family had the same one when she was little. Her mother used to let her use it to play house. One day she came home from school and the piece of furniture was gone. She was despondent. Inconsolable. They needed the money they’d made from it, but her father saw how heartbroken she was. He went out and tried to get the cabinet back. The new owners refused. He had felt guilty ever since.

Not only had she fulfilled their wishes to get that (exact) piece of furniture back, her father had just returned home from a long stint in the hospital. They had almost lost him to a brain aneurysm. There was still a long road to recovery, but he had survived, and she was going to be able to share that she had gotten an identical piece of furniture back. It found its loving home. Everybody wins…

Another set of dishes was a set my Mom always had on display in my Great Grampa’s corner cabinet. After she passed I packed it up and put out my green glass collection in its place. This past year I posted that collection of English Cottage Ware on a local Antiques page on Facebook. I found a buyer (who I assumed was a dealer who would re-sell them).

On the day I delivered the boxes I drove up the long driveway of a most beautiful home. Horses watched from either side. Upon meeting the matriarch of the home, Weston and I were welcomed in with open arms. She made tea and peeled an orange for Wes as he sat at their daughter’s craft table. She let him climb up and down her stairs with abandon (as we live in a bungalow and he doesn’t get much practice). She sent me with their daughter’s rocking horse as a sentimental gift for Weston (whose birthday party was around the corner, and was “Western” themed). She is English, and her whole home is decked out in antiques and décor from England. She wasn’t selling the set of dishes (that actually look like English cottages) at all. They found their loving home. Everybody wins…

We promised to keep in touch but hadn’t had a chance to get together again, until I posted my Mom’s collection of Royal Family items on that same Antiques page. I should have known my new friend would be interested! My Mom had connected us yet again.

While there the second time she tracked down a saddle in case Weston was interested in riding a pony (he wasn’t). Then she let him explore the box and front seat of their pickup truck. He was in his glory. After that she had me get in the trailer behind their lawn tractor. She held Weston on her lap as we drove down to the pond. He was in his glory again. When there she overturned their rowboat and took us for a spin around and around the big and beautiful pond. Their lovely daughter came along for the ride. I was blown away at their reminiscing about happy memories on their farm.

After, we hiked around the outer edge. She stripped off her shoes and socks (and Weston’s, too) and let him try out the water. She then taught him how to throw a rock into the water to make a splash. Near the end of our walk there was a bridge we crossed to get back to the driveway.

I couldn’t help but say, “I feel like I’m in Terabithia”.

She said, “Funny – we call it that – but I didn’t know if you’d know the reference, or if you’d think of it in a sad way”

Anyone who has read Bridge to Terabithia will understand.

Weston ‘helped’ drive the tractor back up the driveway and then our dear friend let him on their big trampoline. After, she pulled out a bubble wand and showed him how to make gigantic bubbles.

I swear his sweet little eyes grew five sizes that day out of sheer wonder and awe. Ever since our day on the farm, Weston loves being behind any steering wheel.

I can admit that she parented him better in the two hours we were there than I had up to that point. I learned so much in that visit with her; the importance of exploration, adventure, taking risks, not overthinking, and truly enjoying one’s company and surroundings.

What an exceptional friend. What an exemplary mother. I wouldn’t have met her if it wasn’t for my Mom’s things. They’ve found their loving home. Everybody, truly, wins.

The bin of clothes I kept have been turned into a quilt. I haven’t seen it yet, but a friend of mine has. She assures me it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Somewhere on it the woman who made it has embroidered, “Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its colour”, which is a favourite quote by Wiliam Stanley Merwin. Fitting, no?

My favourite part about that fateful day I went to the dump is that I went to get Weston from daycare immediately after. Picking him up gives me the same excited, dizzy feeling I get when I drive by what will be our new home. It’s a giddy feeling I can’t even describe.

When we got home that day, Weston ran around the van to my driver’s side door. He arched his back and stood on tiptoes, trying so hard to reach the handle. I don’t always let him (because of time constraints) but on this day I gave in. I opened the door and lifted him up to stand on my seat behind the steering wheel. The proud and excited look he gets on his face is contagious. After playing with the radio, wipers and lights for a while he reached down to the seat under his feet and picked something up to examine.

There, in his hand, was one of the white pegs that had been attached to the radiation mask. One of the pegs that held that mask, and my Mom’s beautiful face, against the radiation table.

He handed it to me, and for lack of pockets, I stuck it in my bra.

Someday I’ll be ready to throw that away, too.

Until then, it’s taking up much less space, and allows me to hold on just a bit longer.

Change is hard, yes, but it’s necessary.

– C. Mom