And Now She is Gone

I’ve been struggling lately, especially with letting go. For three months, four boxes of chinaware for Goodwill and one box of Katy’s things for a friend have sat untouched—I keep making excuses instead of dealing with them. Usually, I’m good at procrastinating, but this feels different.

How might you ask? I was scared; these boxes held items important to my wife. The chinaware was among our first purchases after moving in together. Katy loved hosting and always had creative party ideas. One Halloween at work, she made “Texas-Chainsaw mac and cheese” for the potluck. COME ON!!!

Unfortunately, she never got to use her chinaware, and I am NOT the hosting type, so I took it to Goodwill. The box going to a friend contains the dessert cups Katy used when she made the Guinness Pub Pudding for one of our gatherings along with some shirts I didn’t want to share with just anyone and some Tomte related items, Katy and I both had a love of Scandinavian lore and history. 

I dropped off the items at Goodwill and mailed off the package this morning. 

Whew.

And now I’m sitting here feeling good. The empty spaces the boxes once occupied make the room seem larger, not empty. It’s a satisfying sense of accomplishment.

With the support of my therapist, I recognized that it is a normal response to feel apprehensive about this process. Each item had significance from my time with Katy, and parting with them at Goodwill raised concerns about relinquishing connections to those memories. There were a couple of ways in which I approached the process. 

First: What am I afraid of? If others can enjoy owning a nice set of china even a little as much as Katy did, that’s positive. I imagine a young couple finding it at Goodwill, feeling proud to afford a nice set. She would appreciate that.

Second: The material is not the memory. Yes, a material item can trigger the memory; but the memory, the images, smells, and sounds of the moment tied to the item will always be within you. She is not IN them. If I am honest with myself, she is in the urn on the bookshelf, surrounded by her Stephen King Books. Just the way she wanted it. All the memories I have of her are tucked safely away in my mind. 

Have I lost a part of me? Yes, but what I am missing now is not in any of Katy’s former belongings. I’ve lost a part of me. I recall something my mother frequently said when Dad was deployed while we were children. “It is not easy being a mom without your father here with me, try playing baseball with only one arm.” I did not get it then, now I do. When Katy Died, a part of me died as well. It’s that simple. I feel like I’ve lost one leg and I am learning to walk again. 

This morning was a step in the right direction. A small step, but an important one. Next up…her books.