I never looked at any other house when buying this one. I knew it was where my family needed to be. And I knew Matt was alongside me and guiding me to this place. The weekend before Matt went to the hospital, we were looking at this neighborhood. He wanted to simplify life by shortening his commute, downsizing our yard and house, and lowering our bills. He liked the neighborhood and said to me, "I can see us here." Something that day told me it's where I'd be living. Little did I know what would unfold just days later.
I consider myself to be quite organized. I like all my things to have a place. Over the last 9 months, my stuff hasn't really belonged anywhere. Everything I own is in storage or piled up around my childhood home. I look forward to unpacking and putting everything in a place that makes sense.
But I also realize that unpacking means facing a lot of heartache. Everything I unpack will have Matt written all over it. I haven't had to use our coffee maker or our TV. I haven't had to look at Matt's clothes hanging in my closest. I haven't had to see his pictures around the house or have his lawn mower in the garage. I also haven't had to make a nursery for our son that he never had the chance to meet.
I'll never be able to repay my mom and dad for all they've done over these last 9 months. It was never an issue that I move in with them. And they've never once made me feel like I'm imposing on their space. In fact, quite often, they comment about how much they'll miss the kids, myself, and Maci once we move out even though we will only be 3 minutes away.
We have literally encroached on every square inch of their house. My dad, being a neat-freak, has given up control and learned to "let it be" when it comes to the toys strewn around the house and the handprints on the windows. He's given up his bed so I can sleep in a room with a TV and next to my mom so she's there to comfort me when my anxiety is high or when Rylan is restless. He's walked and thrown the ball for Maci nearly everyday, played with Olivia for endless hours, and told me everyday how proud he is of me for "making it through another day."
My mom has done our laundry, cooked meals for a family of 5, done our grocery shopping, taken over when Olivia has pushed my limits, and poured me wine before I even ask. She's stayed up late with me and listened to me cry, we've laughed our way out of stress, and she's helped me navigate the tricky road of bills, probate, and finances.
In the next couple weeks, I also face a hard day. Matt's 34th birthday. I haven't yet talked in depth with my therapist about what that looks like. But I do want to celebrate Matt. He lived a life that I am striving for. He soaked up the sun. He laughed with his whole heart. He loved fiercely. He let the laundry go so we could go play. And he showed me how to let go of the little things. I anticipate his birthday to be one of the harder occasions that our families face. We never planned on his life ending at only 33. I often find myself wondering what kind of grandpa he would've been. I imagine his face when seeing Olivia on her wedding day. Or watching Rylan's first sporting event. I think about all the moments we were supposed to share that we won't have. But I also think about all the moments he did have. He had 33 years. And while it's much too short, Matt handled those years with passion, grace, joy, and love. That's something we can celebrate.
