Читать книгу The Gift of Crisis - Bridgitte Jackon Buckley - Страница 11

It began in a way many great ideas come about, over a dinner conversation; or at least what are hoped to be great ideas. It is a tranquil, sunny California afternoon. Dennis and I drive out to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner and to pick up Greyson and Mckenna. From the start, my mother isn’t merely interested in being Granny. She is interested in co-parenting. She wants to be a part of every single aspect of her grandchildren’s lives, including supporting a single-family housing situation for them.

At the time, Dennis and I live in a two-bedroom apartment. We want to buy a house, but the housing prices in Los Angeles are out of control. A single-family home in LA would sell for close to $600,000, and would likely require major renovations!

Although Dennis is doing extremely well with work, and our income is close to $80,000, we know we won’t qualify for a home loan. His credit history is okay, and mine consists of fickle “relationships” with Nordstrom, Citibank, Discover, and MBNA. Having been laid off two months after Mckenna was born, my income is one-third of my teacher’s salary and has an end date. I am receiving unemployment, which is available for a specific amount of time. Although we are having a decent year with income, we need a stronger financial story to be approved for a home loan.

While at my parents’ for dinner that afternoon, the inevitable conversation about the housing market and when we would purchase our first home comes up. Normally, I give Matt an I’m-not-sure-so-don’t-ask-me-any-questions type of answer, but, for some reason, I speak candidly. He, along with my mother, raised me since I was in the second grade. He was my biggest intellectual advocate, always encouraging me. He knows what’s going on with the housing market because this is what he loves to talk about—mortgages, interest rates, refinance rates, and home ownership—and today, I want to talk housing. Somewhere in between his explanation of the financial benefits of homeownership, the kids playing in the den, and Anderson Cooper’s perpetual Breaking News report on the upcoming 2004 presidential election, my mother asks, “What about the house on Forty-first?”

The “house on Forty-first,” as everyone in my family calls it, has been in our family for over twenty-five years. It is the first house my mother bought on her own as a young woman in the ’70s. At the time, I was an only child, and lived in the house with my mother and grandmother for several years. On Forty-first, cousins my age would visit from Houston and Maryland to spend summers with us. I remember one summer night not being able to sleep because I was so excited to go to Disneyland with my cousins. I gave myself a stomachache from anticipation. And the milestone to surpass all childhood memories happened when my mother took me and my cousins, to the Cinerama Dome on Sunset Boulevard to see Star Wars for the first time. We were beside ourselves in our new movie clothes as we rode the escalator down to see Princess Leia, Luke, and Darth Vader!

My young-adult cousins in the LA area would stop by almost daily to see my mother and grandmother. We held family barbecues, Sunday dinners, welcomed neighbors as extended family members, witnessed family arguments and drunken rants between uncles and nephews, marriage break-ups, and births, and, from time to time, a visit from my grandmother’s sister from Texas, while we lived in the house on Forty-first.

In addition to summer visits with my cousins, my fondest memories on Forty-first are of times with my grandmother. Her presence held our extended family together. While my mother worked, and within the leisure of an elderly person’s routine, I spent ordinary days deepening the connection of love with my grandmother. Once a week, before 7:00 a.m., I peeked through the front bedroom window to watch her greet the neighborhood milkman, who delivered fresh milk in glass bottles to our doorstep in exchange for last week’s empty bottles. She and I would often walk to G&J Market around the corner to buy thick-cut bacon and eggs. When we returned home from the market, she would soak the bacon for what seemed like hours in the kitchen sink, in a little soap and water. Later, the smell of fried bacon and eggs and baked biscuits drifted throughout the house while we sat at the kitchen table and ate a late breakfast. Afterward, in her favorite worn smock and slippers, she would shuffle through the kitchen holding a cup of coffee, while beginning lunch preparation for the inevitable visits from her sons and grandchildren, my uncles and cousins. On Forty-first, it was just us women. My biological father never lived with us. I have vague memories of waiting for him to pick me up, and of him leaning against his car in front of our driveway. He was never invited inside like everyone else. It wasn’t until years later, on a morning walk with my mother, that she casually revealed a forgotten memory of how I used to wait for my father, who sometimes did not come when he said he would. Little did I know it would take years of crisis to spur the awakening necessary to work through the abandonment I came to associate with the simple act of waiting.

My mother and Matt still own the house after all these years, but rent it out to the daughter of a family friend we met when we moved in. The family friend, who rents the house, and I played together decades ago with the other kids on the street. One summer afternoon, several of us were outside playing and found an old pair of open handcuffs with no key. I can’t recall whose great idea it was for me to put the handcuffs on my wrists, but I did. I put them on without the slightest consideration of how they would come off. Three hours later, after extended elementary deliberation, there was nothing we could do on our own. I couldn’t tell my grandmother because she would have had a fit, and the streetlights were almost on! Most of the kids on the block had to be inside the house when the streetlights came on, so we had to get the cuffs off. At least ten of my friends walked me around the block to the neighborhood police station. I remember walking and crying on my way to the police station. Would they call my mother at work? Would my grandmother shuffle down to the station? She would have come down there alright, and none of us would have liked it. Fortunately, the police officer had a key to unlock the handcuffs, but he called my mother anyway.

When my mother suggests that Dennis and I buy the house on Forty-first from them, it is like a gift. They are willing to help us reach for something out of our reach. With the LA housing market pricing many inhabitants out of the market, this is our way in. And with Dennis’ home improvement skills, he can manage the renovation of the house. The house is more than eighty years old and has been renovated once under my parents’ ownership. That afternoon, my parents and I discuss the possibilities of the house at length: what it needs, what Dennis can do, how we will find a realtor, where we will live during the renovation, and how they can legally inform the tenant she will have to move.

A few weeks later, Dennis, my parents and I meet with a realtor, who confirms what we suspect. Dennis and I do not qualify for a home loan. However, we still want to go ahead with the plan to move into the house. The agreement we settle upon is as follows:

With ample equity in the house, my parents will refinance the house and take out a loan to renovate it. Dennis and I will move our family in, and rent the house from my parents by paying the monthly mortgage while we work on our credit to qualify for a home loan to purchase it.

Dennis agrees to completely modernize the house. To do this, it will be have to be completely gutted. Dennis, with occasional hired help, will have to tear out everything in the house, down to the studs, floors, interior walls, and windows, the plumbing and electrical wiring.

To use the space differently with an open floor plan, Dennis has to move the gas line and reroute the plumbing to accommodate the relocation of the stove, dryer, and water heater. He insulates the walls before installing new drywall throughout the entire 1,214-square-foot house, then new wiring and new copper plumbing, and rearranges the bathroom to install a built-in deck for a drop-in bathtub, stand-up shower, new cabinets, and crown moldings. Who has crown moldings in the bathroom? We do! There are new countertops and appliances in the kitchen and an island, built-in closets in both bedrooms, a newly constructed deck added onto the back of the house, new central heating, newly installed floating laminate flooring throughout the entire house, and recessed lighting in the living room and kitchen, along with a new gate to the back yard and newly planted flowers near the front porch. The demolition and reconstruction are extensive and take almost a year. For that year, we live with my parents and pay the mortgage on the house on Forty-first. Dennis completes a lot of the work on the house on weekends and sometimes after work. He saves us a fortune on labor, planning, and installation costs, and does absolutely beautiful work on the house.

In June 2005, we move out of my parents’ house into our beautiful new home with superb water pressure, no exposure to lead paint dust or chips, clear windows, a long driveway, and a spacious backyard for the kids to play freely. Three months later, in September 2005, after two children and seven years of being together, Dennis and I are married amongst sixty-five of our closest family and friends in my parents’ backyard. The details of my life with Dennis, Greyson, and Mckenna resemble perfection. Everywhere I look there is something beautiful to see.

In an unexpected turn of events, six months after moving into the house and three months after the wedding, the attempt to grasp our version of the American Dream slips away like the sun disappears below the horizon. In December 2005, Dennis is hospitalized due to the onset of symptoms for a stroke. He is thirty-three years old.

There is nothing unusual about that Tuesday afternoon, other than that, after picking Greyson up from school, I have a strong feeling I should go straight home. Usually, after school, I would stop at the park or library instead of going home. But, on this day, my intuition pulls at me to go home without delay. Instead of pulling into the backyard, closing the gate behind the car and entering the house through the back door as usual, I pull halfway up the driveway and enter through the front door. When I open the door, Dennis is sitting on the couch. He’s moaning and holding his head in severe pain. “What’s wrong?!” I ask and kneel down in front of him. “I have the worst headache I’ve ever had in my life.” I will never know why I don’t hesitate, but I tell Greyson and Mckenna to get back into the car. I help Dennis get up to walk outside and get into the car. I drive as fast as I can to Hubert Humphrey Comprehensive Health Center, where his sister, with whom I rarely speak, is the head nurse. As soon as we walk into the clinic, Dennis begins to vomit repeatedly. His sister is working there that day and sees us. She takes Dennis to the back immediately. The next thing I know, I hear the ambulance’s siren as it pulls up to the center. His sister comes out from behind the counter, over to me, and says, “His blood pressure is 220/180; he has to be admitted to the hospital right now! You can meet him there! I hope he doesn’t have retinal separation!” When I walk into the Emergency Department at LA County USC and say, “I’m here for Dennis Buckley,” three nursing students, who stand by the intake counter stare at me in wide-eyed silence. My chest wants to explode. What do their looks mean?! A nurse leads me to the room where Dennis lie writhing on the hospital bed, still moaning in pain. There are so many wires attached to him. I call out to him, but he keeps asking, “Who are you?!” He can’t see me. He has lost his vision. I stand motionless with Mckenna on my hip, Greyson crying at my side, and the nurse prodding me for information: “Are you his wife? How long has he been like this? Did he hit his head? Did he complain of numbness? How old is he?” The room is spinning for me and for Dennis. It takes all my bearings to remain standing upright. I nod yes to being the wife. There are two nurses and a doctor standing around the bed. One nurse is looking at the heart monitor while the doctor shines light onto Dennis’ pupils and loudly calls his name. Again, the nurse asks, “Mrs. Buckley? Did he hit his head?” My eyes blink slowly. Greyson holds onto my arm, and minutes of standing in the room feel like hours. I can barely think logically, let alone answer questions. What the hell is happening?

Five hours later, the doctor explains Dennis was on the verge of having a stroke due to untreated hypertension. The rapid rise in blood pressure to extremely high levels can cause immediate and potentially deadly damage to systems in the body; therefore, he will have to remain hospitalized to slowly bring down his blood pressure over a period of days. His vision will slowly return. The weight of Mckenna’s limp body on my hip feels like a hundred pounds. The doctor’s voice faintly drifts into the background. I stare past the doctor while he continues to explain what will happen next. I blankly look at Greyson’s awkward sleeping position on the hospital waiting-room chairs. Chow Mein. The doctor says something about more tests and monitoring damage to the organs, and I recall Dennis’ plate of Chow Mein noodles. While we were out to dinner this past Sunday evening, Dennis complained of numbness in his left arm. He kept moving it around to relieve the tingling feeling. I didn’t think anything of it because of his line of work. I thought maybe he’d strained a muscle using his nail gun. If only it were that simple. Two days later, he is hospitalized.

I finally call my mother the next morning around 6:00 a.m. She is beside herself that we went through such an ordeal without calling her to be with us. Within a few hours, my parents, two close family friends, and my best girlfriends are at our house, cooking food, bringing groceries, washing the dishes, minding Greyson and Mckenna, sitting for reassurance, and asking what more I need. Although there is love and support around me, I am numb with fear. I don’t know what I need or what to do, other than sit at his hospital bed and worry about him, about us.

Almost one week later, Dennis’ blood pressure is stable and his vision intact. The doctor says it will take four to six months for him to recuperate and regain strength. I relay the update to everyone. A few days after the hospitalization, when my friends have gone and the kids are asleep, Matt and I sit at the dining-room table while my mother cleans the kitchen. There is an unsettling quietude hovering around each of us. Matt looks at the empty coffee cup in his hands without interest in coffee. I have an idea of what is on his mind because it is also on my mind. Looking at the empty cup, he carefully asks, “What’s your financial situation?” He wants to know, but, then again, he doesn’t. He wants me to say that we were fine, that there is no need to worry about the mortgage, but something about the way he asks suggests that he already knows that is not what I am going to say. “What financial situation?” I thought. There isn’t much about our finances that can be considered a “situation.” Dennis is our primary source of income, period. He was in the middle of a painting job the workers can finish without him. When they finish, I will have to collect the final payment from the homeowner to pay the workers and us. Dennis was also at the beginning stage of a kitchen remodel and we already deposited the down payment check. We will have to return the deposit if we can’t work out an agreement with the homeowners. The unemployment extension I received from being laid off from teaching ended months ago, along with COBRA. The little money we have in the bank and the money from the painting job can cover the mortgage for maybe two months. We will need help, and by the look on my step-father’s face, I know my parents can only do so much. Every detail of our life is breaking. I get up from the table and walk into the kids’ bedroom. The peaceful rhythm of their inhales and exhales provide momentary relief. “‘With the loss of Dennis’ income and the lack of emergency funds to sustain us…’” I don’t want my thoughts to go any further. I quietly walk over to the nightstand and reach for the lamp. With one turn of the switch, the light on our way forward has gone out.

Five months have passed since Dennis was released from the hospital. Although his health is improving, he isn’t ready to take on strenuous work projects. Not only does he have to adjust to physical limitations, but also to the emotional toll of worrying about his health and work. We are both worried about work, money, and health. It doesn’t take long for the mental strain to take a toll on our relationship. There is an overwhelming sense of unease in not knowing what will come next, if Dennis really is okay, and who will watch Mckenna if I return to work. The rapid decline of any semblance of security over the past few months leaves both of us on edge, angry at the slightest verbal misstep, but, even more, afraid.

Before Dennis, the kids, and house, I was excited about the opportunities life presented: that I would be professionally accomplished, with choices and perpetual happiness. I entered the workforce as an independent woman, and barely existed in the present moment because I was so excited about my future. After Dennis, the kids and the house, I was still happy, until five months ago when things changed. Now, the future I was so excited about entails unanticipated maternal desires and being late on the mortgage for my childhood home, which Dennis worked so hard to renovate. Last week was horrible. Dennis and I had an explosive argument. We went too far with insults, blame, and accusations. It was terrible to see I could participate in such volatile anger. After the argument, I sat up for most of the night thinking about the anger we displayed and how much Greyson and Mckenna may have heard, even though they were in bed. Only deep rage will speak, cast blame, yell, and break things in the manner in which we did. The kids don’t have to hear us argue. They know something is going on, even though we try to hide it. They are extremely perceptive. They sense tension in our body language, facial expressions, and the tone in which we sometimes speak to each other. Dennis is angry that I’m still home with Mckenna and I’m angry he cannot support us. This situation has not only brought primal fears out into the open, but is also shedding light on the depths of our emotional wounds. I’m scared and I know he is too. I love him, and I know he loves me, but right now, neither of us feels loved by the other. We are now two months behind on the mortgage.

I will have to ask my parents for help to cover at least one month’s mortgage payment. I really do not want to ask for help because asking for help requires a conversation. The monthly mortgage statement is mailed to our house, so they are unaware we have fallen behind. In a desperate attempt to ask them for as little money as possible, Dennis and I pawn our wedding rings, a few pieces of jewelry and some of his tools. It is surreal to walk into a pawn shop with a Movado watch given to me by my mother. Of course, we don’t get much, but it is something to put towards the mortgage. Worrying about the mortgage falling further behind, calling the loan servicer, and sending in what we have for payments pushes me to the limit. I am now applying for work. In September of 2006, after less than two months of looking, I am hired and return to work.

Since I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for three years, my hourly pay is shockingly reduced. As a teacher, my final hourly rate was close to twenty-five dollars, and I supported myself with this income. The position I’ve accepted at USC, however, pays fourteen dollars per hour. With a monthly salary of $2,250 before taxes, yes, this will fully cover the mortgage, late fees, and penalties, if we don’t need to eat; if we don’t put gas in the cars, pay for childcare, pay the car note, car insurance, utilities and telephone bills, and the co-pay for medical prescriptions. We will still have to pick and choose what and when to pay. Nonetheless, I say okay to the hourly rate and don’t dare jeopardize anything by asking to negotiate for more. The bills are now so out of control that paying them seems like a fantasy from a previous life.

With me working, household chores are building up along with the pile of bills on the desk. I simply refuse to do everything I did as a stay-at-home mom and work. It is too much to go to work, take care of the kids, cook and clean because I am too exhausted. In fact, I am abnormally exhausted. My mind is overly occupied with thoughts, questions, worries, fears, and even hope; hope for anything better than this. I have passed many days feeling cheated, like a victim, like I’m drowning. Why are we experiencing this? What do we need to learn that warrants this? It seems like our life is at a standstill, like we’re waiting for a miracle. But the miracle isn’t showing up, or at least not the miracle I have I mind. Things are getting worse because we cannot get current on the bills. And, to make matters worse, every single day there is a voice, a feeling, an idea, something within me that says, “Write.” Every single day. And every single day, my mental response is, “But I’m not that good of a writer. I don’t know what to write about. I don’t have any money or resources to spend time on writing.” I’m not sure what this feeling is about, or where it stems from, but it is persistent. I have kept a journal since I was in fourth grade, and I still have every single one of them. I have always enjoyed writing and have long told myself I will one day write a book, but how can I write now? My mind is too distracted. I have too many things to worry about.

Since I started working, Dennis is more involved with the kids. He takes Greyson to Cub Scouts meetings, takes him to school, cooks breakfast, and helps with lunch preparation. He’s experiencing the effort required to take care of children, manage a household, and work, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Household cleaning chores are another matter. When I was home, the house was clean all the time. Now it’s a disaster. When I come home from work, I look the other way and ignore the dirty dishes, just like he does. Last month we set a record. I refused to clean the kitchen and so did he. He says he doesn’t like to wash dishes. Oh really? The dirty dishes sat in the kitchen sink for three weeks! I finally gave in when my friend said she was coming over.

Seeing that I’ve been so tired and lethargic, and now that we have medical coverage again, Dennis insists that I go to the doctor. We have our moments of dipping in and out of arguments, having off-and-on power struggles over who is doing the most, and sometimes finding solace in each other late at night when the kids are asleep. When I go to the doctor and tell her how tired I feel, she insists I take a pregnancy test. I assume she’s joking, until she rolls the ultrasound machine into the exam room. Why do I need a pregnancy test if I’m still having a period? She puts the gel onto my lower belly and slowly moves the wand around. “What the…?!!” I gasp. The black-and-white image on the monitor displays a leg, an arm, and something that resembles a head! I am almost four months pregnant and didn’t know it! Apparently, it wasn’t a period. It was spotting. And the miracle I didn’t have in mind is due in six months. Although this pregnancy is not miraculous by a standard definition, miracles come in many forms. Whether it is the baby, the internal prompt to write, or finding a new way of being, there is something undiscovered within me wanting to come into the world. Like the slow development of the baby, for me to move into new ways of thinking and perceiving life, the change I will have to undergo will also require gestation. I will have to undergo two birthing events—one for the baby and one for me—to understand that the origin of everything I need is within me. Our third child, Gavin, is born in April of 2007.

When my three-month maternity leave ends in July of 2007, it isn’t an option to enroll Gavin at the same facility as Mckenna. The monthly rate for infants is $1,200! Mckenna has one more year in preschool. She can feed herself, is potty-trained, and it still costs $700 a month. Greyson is now in second grade, and is supervised on the playground after school until Dennis picks him up. I return to work on a part-time basis, but we have to get creative on how we will manage a childcare situation that allows me to continue to breastfeed without going deeper into debt. I explain all of this to the Project Manager, my immediate supervisor, and request to bring the baby to work with me two days a week. My mother agrees to watch the baby on Mondays, which leaves Wednesdays and Fridays for me to navigate with him at work. The Project Manager discusses the situation with the two primary Project Investigators. Both women agree to my request.

During my work hours, I work diligently while Gavin sleeps, and do not waste any time socializing. I take him to meetings, carry him in Greyson’s Baby Bjorn when I deliver paperwork, and walk around outside with him in the stroller, so he will drift off to sleep after my lunch break. Having a baby at work is inconvenient, but I make it work for a little over a year with my annual performance review resulting in “Exceeds Expectations” across the majority of categories.

Things are moving along, although not necessarily in the best way. The kids, Dennis, and I trek through the daily routine of domestic and professional responsibilities while the country surreptitiously moves deeper into economic crisis. Then, during the worst of the economic downturn in 2009, funding for our research project is frozen and the grant not renewed. I am laid off from work.

With the layoff, I have the option to withdraw the full amount of funds from my retirement account, or leave it as is. With close to three years working on the project, I accrued roughly $6,000 in that account. With Dennis’ secondary signature of approval, I make the withdrawal. We put the money towards our living expenses and some towards the mortgage, but we are still behind on the mortgage. By now, my parents are receiving telephone calls from the loan servicer, and I am trying to avoid going over to their house. That is impossible because my mother wants to spend time with the kids. I resort to trying to drop the kids off when I hope Matt isn’t home. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. One Saturday night, he is home. When I walk into the house, I can feel the tension before I turn the corner to greet him in his dining room chair. A bill from the loan servicer lies on the table in front of him. “We’re going to lose that house,” he says. “And we might lose this house! This is going to ruin us. I cannot believe you let this happen! This is not how we raised you. We don’t have $16,000 to give these people!” At that moment, I should have said, “I’m sorry.” I should have told him how sorry I am that Dennis and I did not keep our end of the agreement, and that I am so sorry our choices affected them this way. But that’s not what I do. I stand in silence whirling in embarrassment, anger, fear, and disdain for everything, and instead of apologizing, I try to defend myself. Maybe I did wait too long to return to work. Maybe I should not have been home with Mckenna in the first place. Maybe I should have asked for more money when I was hired at USC. No matter how much we put towards the mortgage, we cannot catch up and stay up. My stepfather and I, the two most defensive individuals in the family, are primed for an argument over the house on Forty-first, and argue we do. I don’t have any reason or right to defend the fact that the house they refinanced for us is in pre-foreclosure, but I do. Despite my defensive position, I feel terrible. I feel so alone. I am sorry for everything, and I cry on the drive home.

Since we moved into the house, the mortgage has been sold to two different loan servicers. Each time the loan is bundled and sold, vital information regarding our payment history is “lost,” and always to the advantage of the lenders. We lived through a four-year cycle of sending in money orders for the mortgage, missing monthly payments, avoiding creditor phone calls, having the water and power shut off and restored, borrowing money from my closest friends, regretting borrowing money from my closest friends, hoping the neighbors won’t notice random strangers standing in the middle of the street photographing the house, and watching property investors in nice cars periodically stop in front of our house to get a good look. The prolonged loss of a home takes a staggering toll on physical and emotional health, because we create emotional meaning tied to where we live. A home is normally a place of refuge and sanctuary; it’s where you find safety and comfort, and create lasting memories with people you love. But when you’re dealing with foreclosure, the house no longer feels safe. It’s no longer comfortable. It becomes a living reminder of instability. You can no longer do simple acts with simplicity. Every act—washing the dishes, folding laundry, cooking dinner, walking outside (only to see someone photographing the house)—is contaminated with a perpetual fear of loss.

One afternoon, during another prolonged session of feeling sorry for myself, I lie on the sofa aimlessly flipping through the channels. I come across Elizabeth Gilbert, speaking about her book Eat, Pray, Love on Oprah. I’m not in the mood to hear yet another story of how wonderful life is coming from someone so far removed from my life. As I listen, I begin to feel simultaneously excited to read the book, yet sad. After a few minutes, I realize I am no longer listening to a word she’s saying, as if the television is on mute. I notice the radiance in this woman’s eyes; her spirit is beaming out from her eyes and piercing the television screen! How can it be that I am sitting thousands of miles away, yet I know this woman is completely filled with love and inner peace? This sends a disturbing wake-up call through my system. I try to recall a moment, any moment in recent times, when my eyes shone with joy of this magnitude. The truth is that there isn’t a recent memory when I display such happiness, because I am not happy. I am unrecognizable to myself; wandering aimlessly, feeling overwhelmed with work, the financial situation, the strain on my marriage, and the immense shock of it all. I feel lethargically uninspired, angry, and simply put-off with the entire deal. My mind is filled with noise, and I am changing as a result of the crisis. I let it become a part of me. It permeates every aspect of my day, interactions, and thoughts. Being faced with the issue of homelessness, not knowing where we will sleep, having so few options, thinking about our family being split apart, not knowing if we will qualify to rent an apartment, is taking a profound emotional toll on me, and on us. It takes vast amounts of effort to hold myself together, to not be depressed, and to quell complaints of victimization. When I visit family and friends, it is difficult to relax. I notice the abundance of food, household supplies, and unnecessary stuff lying around. I think, “Look at all this stuff! Look at what they can afford to buy. They are relaxed because they have money. They are not worried about losing their house.” The only person who truly knows how little money we have is my good friend, a certified tax preparer, who files our taxes. I can only talk about crisis so much, and then I stop. In my world, the crisis is all there is, but in the lives of friends and family who are doing fine, they can only do and say so much.

With the weight of all of this on my mind, I want desperately to feel relief, to feel inspired. So, I start saying aloud, “I just want to be inspired,” over and over again. Without realizing what is happening, by voicing aloud that I want to feel inspired, I proclaim I am finally ready to receive help. A few days later, after service at my mother’s spiritual center, my mother stops by our house. I have attended service with her a few times. The reverend speaks of quieting the mind, turning within through meditation and personal transformation, things I have not ever heard in a church service. I’m not sure how these recommendations can help with our current situation, but nevertheless, I’m curious. When my mother stops by late Sunday morning, she has two books she’s bought for me. She occasionally stops by on Sundays after church to visit with the kids and comes bearing gifts. Despite everything, she is absolute with unconditional love. She doesn’t bring up the argument with Matt or the mortgage. She hands me the two books, one of which is the initiator of a spiritual watershed moment. “I bought these for you.” The Power of Intention, by Dr. Wayne Dyer, boldly catches my attention.

Trusting my mother’s judgment, over the course of the next few days I read The Power of Intention. Change, intention, perception, thoughts become things, silence, meditation, energy, transformation, and clarity are not foreign to me, but then again, they are. I have not heard these words explained in a way I can relate to and apply to challenges in my life. The book is by no means the answer to my problems, but it is another unexpected miracle. It sparks curiosity. I want to know more about how perception influences our experience of life, how we attract things, situations and people into our lives that reflect our level of consciousness. I want to know more about consciousness, what it is, and the role it plays in my life. I want to know more about spirituality, how I can once again feel connected to life and have faith. And I want to know how to begin on my own because I cannot afford a therapist. The book is the beginning of inspiration—exactly what I need. I finish the book within a few days, and listen to the library audiobook three times over the next few weeks. Asking for inspiration and then starting to receive it opened me up to a new way of thinking, a new way of perceiving life, and a new approach to living it. I am ready to acknowledge I have orchestrated a mess. I am ready to understand which intentions brought me to the chaos that now encompasses every aspect of my life. From the book, I begin to understand the following:

❍If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at will change.

❍Before any action is taken, decide what it is you really want, and set the intention.

❍Be reflective and stop all judgment of yourself and others.

❍Meditate consistently to reconnect with yourself.

❍Be appreciative. Showing gratitude begins the internal shift that allows you to see love and connection to all things.

Considering these ideas, I realize I haven’t been fully honest with myself, or Dennis, in my decision to stay at home. Of course I wanted to be there for Greyson and Mckenna, but on a deeper level I also wanted to force Dennis to take care of me so I would feel loved. When I pushed so hard for something we couldn’t afford, I didn’t realize there was a subconscious emotional need underlying my decision—that a deeply wounded part of myself played a part in guiding the decision. It is very easy to blame all the problems I experienced on Dennis’ illness, my family, and my situation—all things outside of me. It is, however, extremely difficult to accept that I need to take a deeply thorough look at myself and my role in creating the ugliness.

I quietly begin to devote myself to emotional healing. I read more books related to spiritual growth, and notice a common theme throughout the books: the benefits of quieting the mind through meditation and prayer. If this many authors are saying the exact same thing, it must have merit.

When I first begin to meditate, I am desperate for someone, something, anything to save me from my problems. I actually remember thinking, “Maybe if I meditate for a few weeks, all of my problems will just go away.” Despite the initial difficulty of the mental seesaw between tiny gaps of stillness and stressful thoughts, I continue to meditate. It seems everything that bothers me during the day wants my attention during meditation. I experience brief moments of feeling quiet, safe, and at ease, then I think of something that bothers me. A rotation of duality plays out in my mind: calm/fear, ease/disease, anger/peace. Every emotion I feel, but do not completely express, comes up for review. I don’t know what this duality means, or if I’m “doing it right;” nevertheless I continue. Each night, it becomes a little easier. While simultaneously experiencing brief moments of silence, I also observe the negative patterns in my beliefs which rise up for review. The brief moments of stillness allow space to become aware of the dominant thoughts and beliefs I hold, and to see unhealthy patterns in my thoughts. I continue to meditate late at night, after the kids and Dennis are asleep. I do this for months alongside the impending arrival of the foreclosure. Meditation helps me to feel more relaxed, but it is momentary. I am under a lot of stress, we are under a lot of stress, and meditation consistently provides momentary relief to cope with the situation.

Then, one day, amidst intermittent calm throughout the day, I pull into the driveway after picking the kids up from school and notice something on the front door. There are two white pieces of paper taped to the front door, visible to everyone. We are beyond the period to reinstate the loan and stop the foreclosure process. It is the Notice of Foreclosure Trustee Sale. The house will be sold in thirty days. I am shaken with fear and the thought of having to tell Dennis, and my parents, it is officially over. There are no more delays, no more holding it off, requests for more time. It is done. The date of the sale is set. Two days later, at 7:20 a.m., as I back out of the driveway to take the kids to school, a man runs up to the car, hastily knocks on the car window and ask, “Do you live here?” I roll the window down just enough to hear him clearly. “Yes.” He says, “Great. These are for you. You’ve been served,” and slides the papers through the car window opening. When I return from dropping the kids off, a different man stands in our front yard pounding a “For Sale” sign down into the grass. When he finishes, the sign is tall and white, visible as soon as you make the turn onto the block. In less than thirty days, we have to figure out what to do with our furniture and the new appliances, and where we will go. One month earlier, my parents contacted a realtor to sell the house. For two weekends we had to leave so the realtor could hold “Open House.” There was one offer made on the house, but we are not sure why the bank did not accept the offer.

In July 2010, the day of the sale, the day we tried to delay and prevent for four years has arrived. That morning, there are no neighbors outside to say goodbye to and no visit from a bank official. It is depressingly anti-climactic in a way I never imagined. With no warning, or prior notice in the mail, the power shuts off at 8:00 a.m. In the eerily quiet and empty house, Dennis and I do a final walk-through. We had watched news reports of disgruntled foreclosed homeowners who destroyed the house before moving out; a “screw you” to the bank. We don’t break anything. There was too much love put into the house to destroy anything. The experience has destroyed enough. After a few minutes of silence, Dennis asks, “Are you ready to go?” I’m not, but I answer, “Yes.” Quietly and uneventfully, with no sign of the mental and emotional trauma we went through, we walk out of the house for the last time. He starts the truck engine and slowly pulls forward out of the driveway. It is over. We drive to the end of the block to the stop sign, as we have done many times before, as if nothing is different. But everything is different. We are different. And we have no idea what comes next.