An early lesson Adelaide taught me was to let go of what you can’t control and focus on what you can. We couldn’t control her seizures but we could make sure she was seen by the best doctors. I couldn’t always take her pain away but I could love and snuggle her so she knew she was never alone. I couldn’t control her multiple rare diseases but you better believe I had complete control of her resulting schedule, diet and medications. But what do you do when everything seems out of your control? Like, everything. 

Unfortunately, since Adelaide died, I’ve only thought of the first half of this lesson, the letting go, and as a result our present and future life fell further and further out of focus. Grieving during a pandemic that leaves your household unemployed can do that to you, I think. Then, in a grand attempt at refocusing, Miguel and I made the difficult decision to leave Chicago a few months earlier than planned and head back East. Here, we thought, we would have projects around our new house to keep us busy, fewer bills and an emotional fresh start. Gosh, we’re cute when we’re wrong

Heeding Adelaide’s lesson I hadn’t spent much time processing how returning to New Jersey would emotionally effect me. The feelings would come and and I just needed to ride the wave. In theory this was smart, anticipating grief doesn’t lessen or amplify the experience of it. However, because I hadn’t given it much thought I was completely unprepared for the tsunami that hit me on Interstate 78 as our surroundings became more and more familiar. We were 15 minutes out from our new home, it was 10pm and I was driving the last leg. Miguel was scrolling on his phone beside me and, thankfully, Jackson was passed out behind us so he didn’t witness what was, perhaps, inevitable. As each exit flew by, my brain began spiraling faster and faster: here we were, our little family returning to New Jersey after four years away - not unlike how we left, except, my daughter wasn’t in a car seat. No, her physical remains were nestled between us in a small wooden box.  We had Adelaide cremated since I didn’t want to bury her in Chicago when I knew we would be moving the following year. So, in our car, in her little box, she came with us. This was not how we were supposed to be returning. I glanced at Miguel, told him I needed him to take over driving and I pulled over on the shoulder of the road. The second I was in the passenger seat I lost it. Not just waterworks, but full on hyperventilating sobs. In between gasping breaths I pleaded with Miguel to go back to Chicago saying that I couldn’t do this. But even as my panic reached crescendo, In the back of my mind I knew we weren’t going back and that I could and would do this. After several minutes I was able to calm down. This transition was going to be really freaking hard and in a move of utter surrender I spent more time in bed than not over the next few days.

My mom and my Aunt arrived at the end of last week ready to help us unpack and to offer some much needed emotional support. We had been given a delivery window, from the moving company, of sometime between Thursday the 9th and Tuesday the 14th. By Friday the 10th, having heard no word, I reached out only to learn that the company was having a hard time getting in touch with our driver but we were told not to worry. Fat chance. I’ll spare you the long drawn out details of our back and forth phone calls filled with excuses on their side and frustration, desperation, and exacerbation on ours. By Tuesday, the last day in our delivery window, we were informed that the truck, carrying all of our belongings that did not fit inside our mini-van, would not be delivered until Monday, the 20th. TWO WEEKS after it was loaded on to the truck in Chicago. I know they are just things but it is those things that make our house a home. A home I am desperate to create amidst this grief-filled transition. Then I check myself and remember that there are so many other awful, horrible, no good things going on in the world right now. But it is admittedly hard to get my bearings when my own life feels bound to a tilt-a-whirl operated by a demonic raccoon. 

Yet, here we are with a roof over our heads and savings to pay the mortgage. Here we are -  Miguel, Jackson, Tabasco and me - safe and healthy. Do I wish Adelaide was with us safe and healthy? Every moment of everyday - but she can’t be, that is out of my control. Then I remember that Adelaide’s lesson didn’t stop with letting go. I’ve had my pity party, it was well-earned and perhaps even needed, but now its time refocus on the control I have. So, I will choose to love and hold dear the family I have in front of me. I will be grateful that my mother and aunt were able to drive to be with us and I will find aspects of life, within the chaos, that are controllable. Like the color of the walls on the entire first floor of our house that I just had my family help me repaint. In the meantime, while we wait for this truck, please keep the rest of my family in your thoughts as I continue to search out new aspects of my life I can control: like which some-assembly-required furniture to purchase next and how frequently Jackson should be bathing. Inchstones, friends, inchstones.