It’s done.
We did it. She moved. She is officially living in the townhome once again. She hates the floor color. She hates the kitchen countertop. She hates the kitchen backsplash. She signed off on all these things. She does not seem involved in any of these decisions. They all feel like accusations.
“If I had known it would turn out like this I would have decided to stay in the apartment.” To which her amazing son replied “The movers are still here. Should I tell them to pack it back up?”
We never wanted her to move back. So seeing everything come out of the pods and discovering items inside the boxes was just a horrible trip down memory lane to those days when we had to sift through the smoke damaged crap and make a decision with every item what gets packed, what gets thrown, what goes to the apartment and what goes to ServPro for cleanup/restoration. There were boxes I opened and unpacked yesterday like a robot. I was screaming to myself as I was doing it “why didn’t you throw this away??” I was paralyzed so many times.
All in all, we spent 11 hours on the move. When we arrived at the apartment nothing was packed and when we left the townhome, everything she needs was unpacked. ( No.. not the stash of cleaning supplies and toilet cleaner backstock… I said everything she needs). I know it isn’t organized the way she wants probably and I know no art is hung and I absolutely did not unpack any boxes full of tiny tiny knick nacks to be stored on dusty shelves. (I actually refuse to do that). I know she has work to do to make it feel like home; but it is her home and she can do what she wants. She can make coffee and find food. She can shower and get dressed. Cable is hooked up. She can do laundry. All of that combined is such an accomplishment. Yet, she has this uncanny ability to go out of her way to be so ungrateful about every little thing – even as she smiles the fake smile and gives the sugary sweet thank you so much words we know they are lies. We know what those lies feel like and what they sound like.
In the middle of the day her neighbor came over to gush over the “remodel”. My amazing friend came over for a few hours to help unpack and place stuff, and we managed to get T dropped off for a 3:30 hockey practice. These things all felt like wins.. but even with those boosts of positivity every thing inside of me wanted to be DONE when we picked T up from practice at 4:30.
But guess what? We forgot that I had a car full of stuff at the apartment (because when I tried to leave earlier I discovered T had my key and she was at lunch with our former roommate). We also needed to pack and move the fridge and freezer. And S, never one to do half a load if he can do a full load, started to pack the art. And then at the very end of a hard day we had to carry the boxes down the hall to the elevator and then out to the car, and then back in with a key to go back to the next load. It was too much. When I walked into the back bedroom to discover a bunch of misc shit and a closet full of clothes I broke down. I couldn’t do one more thing. Would it have been worth sending the movers back for another load and 2 more hours? Yes. At that point I would have paid anything. We’ve all been there. But when it is your house you are excited. And if you are helping a friend they are excited. But when you feel used and abused and the person you are moving only complains no one is excited.
I drove back to the townhome pouring nerd clusters out of the bag directly into my mouth because I was starving and my hands were filthy and I knew if I tasted the smoke I would vomit. When I got there I quickly unloaded all the precious things, and the baskets full of throw pillows, and her blanket and her pillow from my car and then moved it into the street so Steve could pull in to unload. I maybe sat in the car a bit longer than needed. When I opened the door Steve told me I should go home and shower, he’d get that last load done quickly. Did I hesitate? Did I do the MN nice fake argue thing? Nope. I saluted him, got in the car and drove off quickly, envisioning cartoon dust swirling in the rear view mirror. Once home I stripped down in the garage, walked directly to the shower and stood under the hot water waiting for the stench of smoke coming off of me to dissipate. Do you have any idea how gross that is? I started a late dinner and while it was cooking I was in child’s pose on the kitchen floor with The Joshua Tree playing at a level that felt more like me crawling into it and less like background music.
Today I cannot move. Everything inside me hurts. I can barely walk. I have been on the couch the majority of the time since I woke up. (You may or not be surprised at how many things you can get done while sitting on the couch.) I have no plans to move until bedtime. While I was sitting here S moved the final load from the apartment, gathered crap from her parking space, and re-installed the shelf we removed from her storage locker. He drove back to the townhome to deliver and to make space for her to park in the garage and I know he got pulled into the unavoidable black hole of negativity.
I know there will be more of that in the weeks to come as she reaches out to complain about whatever she decides to be mad at in the moment. I know that somehow we still need to schedule the move of the third and final POD back from ServPro… but all of that was restoration stuff from what was in the basement that is not now nor will it ever be finished. I’m a little bit not even sure if she knows what is there. And if she thinks it was all lost in the fire shouldn’t we just sell it? Well, that’s for another day I suppose. For now we’ll just be glad that she is back living in the townhome. Finally.
It’s done.