The Clouds that Blind

Photo by Rachel Kramer

Over three weeks.

Sometimes I sit and stare at the back of my hands and wonder. How did we get here?

I know the reasons, in my mind. My emotions? An entirely different story.

Men aren't supposed to cry. Right? That's a rule my father taught me, with both harsh words and harder looks. And I don't want to cry.

I can blame it on my current cancer treatment, an ongoing chemical castration that strips me of testosterone. Apparently my cancer feeds on testosterone. So the current method is to starve the cancer.

The medical community developed this treatment in the 1940s. I'm praying that MD Anderson has something more...up to date.

In the meantime the dark clouds that surround my mind plague me.

Part of me broke when I left Michigan, a place I so blithely thought would be my final home, and returned to Texas, a place I so desperately fought to escape for forty years. The pain sears my heart and sneaks up on me when I'm not looking. I don't see it coming.

Enough. This is depression, I think.

So, the move? Packing. Packing. The movers showed up and loaded the truck, but we couldn't fit all we wanted into it, so more items went to people in Michigan that we appreciated. So much of what we owned given away...

On my younger brother's 59th birthday the movers loaded the truck. BA was there, as was Lisa. And others, helping, watching, waiting. At three in the afternoon, the loaders still had not finished and BA said that if we wanted to put some miles in, we'd best hit the road, so we did.

As we pull away I look at Barry and Lisa and try to memorize them standing in front of our beautiful home. Is that the last time I will see them? I can't allow myself to think that way, but the thought sinks into my heart anyway.

At about five pm the movers called us. The truck weighed 1400 pounds too much. They needed to go back to the house and unload some things. "No one is there," we said. They unloaded items into their warehouse. Is this a form of piracy? We don't know, but there is nothing we can do about it.

We drove about five hours, long enough to get to the other side of Chicago, a necessary goal. The traffic around Chicago frightens me, but that is probably because I have some measure of sanity left.

We're exhausted, so we stop for the night. I fall asleep immediately. Our poor cat, Furby, sits in the back of the car in his carrier trembling and afraid. This is a nightmare for him. Don't panic. It's a cool night and he's fine physically. Mentally, he's a wreck. I empathize.

The next morning we're on the road at five, and that's after eating breakfast. We don't know how far we can make it, but we're doing our best to put miles under our tires. When I drive, Darling cannot sleep. When she drives I just close my eyes and drift off. This way I am mostly alert when I am at the wheel.

The miles disappear behind us and I have my emotions locked away. I will not think of Michigan, the lovely lake, the weather, the trees, my brother and his family or our new friends. I concentrate on the road, only the road. How far can we go? We cannot stop while the sun is up. We cannot allow the car to heat while Furby cowers in his little cat hut in the back. We must drive until after sunset.

Focus helps. Illinois. Missouri. Mississippi. The car is routing us through Louisiana, since that is almost two hours shorter than through Arkansas and Texas.

Louisiana. I'm sorry, but I really hate driving in that state. The restrooms are usually filthy. The drive-through eateries seem grungy and I think the food is barely edible.

Finally we hit Interstate 10. We're only about five hours from my friend's house in Texas, but now we've been on the road for twelve hours. Yet I feel okay. Not great, but I can keep going. Maybe this can be a two day trip. I don't want Furby to stress another night in the car. I'd rather he stress at Rex's house.

We push through. Somewhere close to ten at night we pull into the driveway at Rex's. As always, he is warm and welcoming.

It's Tuesday night and we're back in Pearland.

My emotions mostly stay bottled up since I don't want to face them.

Did I mention that the overnight mail we sent last Saturday did not arrive at the Title company? Our cashier's check for our new house is lost in the mail. I track it and it still sits in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

That takes a trip to the bank to fix. I think the check gets to Portland, Oregon on Thursday. What?

Darling manages to get another check and drops it off at the Title Company in person on the 19th, her closing date. The movers are already in the area and once we have a clear title they come and unload the items they have into the new house.

On Friday we close on our Michigan home and it is no longer ours.

Now we're really back.

I struggle.

It is what it is.

Thanks for reading.