I’m an immigrant who was born to an immigrant who was born to an immigrant and on and on for generations. You’d think that moving would be in my genes!
I’ve had plenty of practice in moving. As an adult, I’ve lived in Urbandale, Iowa; Coventry, Oxford, and Birmingham, England; Council Bluffs, Iowa; Fairfax, Virginia; Newport Beach and Costa Mesa, California; Southlake, Texas; and Fairfax, Virginia again.
I still say, moving is hard. So hard. You think you’ll keep up with old friends, but eventually, you just can’t. You think you’ll make new friends, but it isn’t easy. You think you’ve figured out how to make packing and unpacking easy. Ha!
But all moves are not created equal. One of mine stands out in my mind as different. It was the worst and the best of them all.
The Worst Move Starts
It started in California, on the very day that we returned from a three-month sabbatical. My husband suddenly and unexpectedly found himself without a job. Since the start-up company where I was the co-founder and CEO was not yet profitable, we found ourselves, overnight, facing the terrifying prospect of having no income. And, because we were living in a rental, the sooner we moved, the better.
We had no choice. We had a huge garage sale, put the rest of our possessions in storage, said goodbye to our friends and my carefully cultivated garden, and moved in with my parents in Southlake. Yup, at nearly 60 years old, I was moving back in with Mom and Dad. They were more than willing, partially because Mom needed help with Dad, who’d been unwell for almost a year.
Over the next months, my husband applied for one job after another. All he got was part-time tutoring, which just about covered the costs of our food. I was busy helping Mom take care of my ailing dad, so couldn’t apply for anything. My parents found our bulldog one stressor too many, so we housed the dog with a kind friend. And with not enough income to repair our very elderly cars, we soon had to scrap one and leave the other to rust. Loss upon loss.
Even Worse
We arrived in Texas just in time to celebrate my parent’s 60th wedding anniversary, but things went downhill from there. All too soon, I noticed Dad was beginning to turn yellow. That, along with Dad’s recent onset of diabetes, decreased appetite, and abysmal energy levels, led me to suspect he had pancreatic cancer.
The physician insisted the tests did not show cancer. The surgeon said he could operate to remove the blockage of Dad’s bile duct in a few months. I didn’t find this acceptable. I knew he wouldn’t survive that long, so I phoned one doctor after another. Surgery happened two days later, and my suspicions were confirmed.
Dad had inoperable pancreatic cancer. The subsequent swelling of his abdomen told me there was also no point in subjecting him to chemo. My beloved dad passed only a couple of months later. Obviously, a huge loss!
The Best Move
So why was this move, with all its accompanying loss, the best? Because I was there. I was there. Every day, I was privileged to take Dad’s blood pressure, administer his medications, and sit with my hand on his arm. Every day, I could enjoy helping to host family members and friends, who came from far and wide, to spend time with a man who’d made their lives so much better. I saw Mom bend down and whisper love into Dad’s ear every day. I’ll never forget that beautiful sight.
During the last two weeks of his life, I got to take turns with my siblings sitting or lying beside him throughout the nights, caring for his every need. Just three days before the end, I saw Dad smile and heard him thank his family for lovingly caring for him. I got to feel his hand as he stroked my cheek just before losing consciousness. I would not have traded this awesome experience for all the houses, cars, jobs, and dogs in the world!
Things Get Better
A few days before Dad’s memorial service, my husband and I found part-time jobs working together for an international nonprofit. Soon afterward, we picked up our dog, had our remaining car repaired, and moved to Fairfax, Virginia. Another move. We were to live only minutes from our four children and our wonderful grandchildren! Our season of loss was over and, best of all, I have no regrets. Dad and I said all that needed to be said—when he died, I was full of his love. What could be better than that?
This article was written for a secular podcast, so there was no mention of faith. BUT, my blog is not always secular. Throughout this experience, I was very aware of the mercy and presence of the Lord. He demonstrated His love in a way I will never forget, and I am grateful.