Moving In, Out, On
"Everything is in flux and nothing is normal, and I remind myself that this is the condition of life."
My husband is moving in with me this weekend, and my longtime roommate is moving out. So much to unpack there in a plain declarative sentence!
For one, I’m still getting used to saying “husband” with a straight face, without putting scare quotes around it or stretching out the vowels – “hooos-bahnd” – into some glamorous yet untraceable Mitteleuropean accent. It reflects my awkwardness with this whole marriage program. I have entered willingly, enthusiastically, into this partnered arrangement, but clearly still have some confusion still about its form and texture. I don’t remember ever really thinking too much about marriage, having it as a clear goal or even a fantasy, and – ugly confession – when I hear accounts of women in midlife finding themselves uncoupled and adrift for the first time in their long adulthood I fight the urge to judge them much in the way I imagine they may have judged me. I’ve navigated this far on my own just fine, mostly – what on earth have they been doing?
But I digress. Husband! It’s both a noun and a verb! While “wife” (which, to be fair, Paul often pronounces as “mah waaaafe,” the count to my countess in exile) is a lonely old noun, a linguistic inequity that only shores up my discomfort with the enterprise. And yet, I wanted to be married. I wanted to formalize our relationship in the eyes of the state and for our own clarity of language, and I wanted the moment of standing up in a lace dress in front of friends and family to do it. It was a moment in which we seized the available social template and found that it held surprising meaning.
Beyond that, though, as we remind ourselves constantly, we get to do what we want, and make of marriage what we will. Which includes not moving in together until two months after the wedding. Because, weddings are stressful enough – even outdoor potlucks in the park – without adding moving into the mix. It’s definitely raised a few eyebrows, and more than a few pointed inquiries from friends curious about just what, exactly, the timetable was here but <shrug>. The only response I really appreciated was Rosamund’s on Twitter.
And, as noted up top, my friend and longtime roommate is moving out. We have been a household for twelve years – longer than I’ve ever lived with anyone else – and it’s going to be a big adjustment for all of us. I will miss him. Luckily he’s not going far; I told him he can come over whenever he wants to snuggle the cats, who are as bonded to him as they are to me.
Having a roommate in my 40s and 50s is another lifestyle decision for which I have often felt judged, and I’ve felt those eyebrows raised behind my back, yet another example of my failure to launch. A good friend of mine once said, to my face, “I don’t think people should have roommates as adults.” That stung, and I’m not sure she knew just how much. But when he moved in, in 2010, we were both broke, flailing in the wake of the financial crisis and the collapse of journalism. I needed help and so did he, and it worked. No cohabitative situation is ever perfect, but I’ve been surprised, over the years, how much sustenance I took from our odd bond. During the early days of the pandemic, with his service industry job on ice, we were surprised by how well we adapted, staying home and binging foreign-language TV, and cooking elaborate meals. Outside was terrifying chaos, but our apartment was a sanctuary, a cozy refuge for two humans and two cats. The memory of those months is something I will always cherish.
Today, of course, the chaos is inside. Outgoing boxes are being packed and ferried to the new place as incoming boxes pile up in the garage and the landing. Meanwhile, lest we forget, I have cancer.
The second round of chemo was easier than the first, sans the covid frosting, but it has not been the easiest. The fatigue, in particular, is intense. The first week after treatment I would lie down in the afternoon and fall into a sudden sleep so deep I would awake an hour later disoriented, feeling drugged. Now, the power naps have faded but the exhaustion lingers. Going up and down the stairs (did I mention we’re on the second floor?) leaves me winded. Carrying boxes is out of the question.
How much of this is lingering covid and how much is chemo I’ll probably never know. I did check my lab results from the second round of treatment, before that set of cell-killing infusions had started, and my red blood cell count was already in the anemic range. I can’t imagine what it is now.
Everything is in flux and nothing is normal, and I remind myself that this is the condition of life.
Culling books in an attempt to make more space for Paul’s, I found myself marveling at the person I was in the past – one who had acquired a shelf full of books on advertising and critical theory, and another full of fancy culinary doorstops. Who was I, who thought she needed copies of both The French Laundry Cookbook and Alinea? I’ve never even been to the French Laundry, and I have no desire to now. What place does Adbusters have in today’s influencer economy, and do I even care anymore?*
There have been moments the past few weeks when something will take me out of my head, and I’ll look at myself in similar confusion. Who is this bald, exhausted person with a plastic knob sticking out of her chest? Who is this married person? This “wife”? Can they all successfully cohabitate over time?
One of the cardinal rules of essay writing is not to end with a hokey “time will tell,” but this is my Substack and I’m tired, so I think I will leave it there for now. Rules, I like to break them.
I will say though, that the thing that is really keeping me going right now are the kindnesses of my friends. So many people have shown up in ways large and small and utterly unexpected recently, and I am bowled over by their generosity of spirit. Kristi, Alisa, Jen, Zoe, Eiren, Susie, Anne, Suzy, the whole #lyraarmy: thank you.
Some of these friends have organized a small GoFundMe to pay for housecleaning for the duration of my treatment. I am sharing it here with no expectations, but because so many folks have asked how to help. Here is one small way.
More soon!
*I kept Culture Jam and the signed copy of Jacques Pepin’s La Technique, and ditched the rest.
Moving In, Out, On
I like saying “mah huzband” much better than I expected. Also had a roommate through my mid forties and felt some shame from that. The culling of books—I thought I did that when the now Huz moved in, but just the other day I noticed I have likely—again— outgrown the need for many that I have. There was a time when I couldn’t collect enough books; there must be a tipping point somewhere. Now I seem to be aging away from their relevance at a faster rate.
I have used the term “spouse” for thirty+ years. It was inspired, I guess, by first being a seminary spouse and, then, a clergy spouse. Now, he’s my spouse and I am his spouse (though he does not, necessarily, use that term for me). It’s my choice and comfort zone. In any case, as you well know, life is a series of adjustments and adaptation.
When Dick’s brother, Brock, was diagnosed with lung cancer in his mid-50’s, he went through chemo/surgery/chemo. He found chemo treatments late in the week and recovery over the weekend allowed him a few “normal” days before starting all over again. That worked well for him and, he experienced 25 years of recovered health…but he could never give up the chewing gum that kept him from smoking again (a promise he made to his doctor, who said he would not treat him if he planned to continue smoking!).
You’ve got wonderful spunk, Martha. Keep it up and all will be well (as Julian of Norwich would say). Maggie😊💕🌈