01/01/2018

January 1, 2018. 

8 (ish) am. 

I piled my Dad's guitar and my dog (plus Mike's) in my Kia and drove from my hometown of 30 years towards what would be my new home: Savannah, Georgia. 

  

I paused at the end of my driveway and stared at my childhood home in my rearview mirror before hitting 'play' on a carefully curated Spotify playlist (no sad songs-- karaoke classics and 90s rap only), easing my foot off the brake and giving a thumbs up over the steering wheel where I hoped my boyfriend could see it. Let's roll. 

  

He was pulling a (large) trailer with everything else I owned inside of it, and may or may not have seen my attempt at reassuring him I was fine. He knew I wasn't, anyway-- but it did make me feel better to try and sell it. 

  

I had hugged my Mom and Bonus Dad goodbye the night before.  About a thousand times. I tried not to think about how she might be feeling, and focused on the left turn signal of the trailer while we waited for the break in traffic we needed to pull onto the highway. 

I remember stretching my arm to my right, and scritching Rowdy's head; he sighed and turned to look at me. This was his first road-trip with me and I spoke up to tell him not to worry, I was an excellent driver. He sighed again and sank his frame down into the seat further. I snorted and faced forward in time to see the brake lights on the trailer fade and had an intrusive thought-- a memory. 

To paint a picture, I have to offer some backstory from a part of my life that until now has been carefully compartmentalized and squashed into a metaphorical old Samsonite suitcase I had to metaphorically sit down to in order to close it.  I'm foggy on the exact timeline but somewhere in late February/early Match of 2015, my Daddy was dying and I was living at his house in a spare room to help his wife care for him. His wife had asked me  to move in the day they found out Dad's cancer was terminal and I had agreed without hesitation. 

I was in a relationship with a man I'd met a few weeks before-- a relationship that my grief, depression and overwhelming need to squeeze as many monumental moments in with my Dad before I lost him led me to believe was The Relationship: capital T, capital R.  It was very important to me that the timelines overlapped. This man had to be the one. (Spoiler: He most certainly was not.) He was in the military, and had just gotten orders to a tour in Hawaii. 

The night before the memory in question, he had sat me down to talk. He told me that he wanted to go there then fly me out to marry me and live there with him, happily ever after style. I had agreed without hesitation for the second time in 6 months, and I was bursting to tell someone. 

By this time I had been a woman in her late 20s, living with her dog in a spare room in a house that wasn't hers, for months. I had two full-time jobs: a home health graveyard-shift gig, and a 24/7 care-giver/worry wart. There wasn't much balance-- I cared for my client for 12 hours straight, clocked out and went home to take care of whatever my Dad needed help with at home. His appetite was a moving target, and none of us knew how he would feel from one hour to the next. He had chemo  that made him sensitive to heat and cold, not to mention incredibly nauseous, twice a week or so. He had a plethora of pharmaceuticals that had to be administered at specific times. I was completely and totally burnt out, but there is a responsibility that comes with always being the quippy, funny one. I would give Dad his insulin and blood thinner injections, and crack jokes to ease his vulnerability. I offered self-deprecating humor about my poor housekeeping skills  and softened my backbone to keep the peace when his wife started finding opportunities to snap at me. We had gone from very close and laughing together to me walking on eggshells. I loved her and knew she was going through hell, so I took it on the chin and kept it moving. We brainstormed ways to sneak calories into the food Dad did manage to keep down when he decided he wanted to eat, and watched the man we both loved dearly slip away. 

On the evening of the memory in question, Dad was just in the other room and was resting after chemo. His wife was sitting on their bed reading a book when I plopped down beside her and told her the news about Hawaii and my plan to hop on a place and ride off into the sunset. She asked a few questions and seemed to feed from my excitement when I answered them. She asked if I'd told Dad yet and I shook my head-- I had not, and wasn't sure how to approach it so was giving it time. She nodded and looked contemplative, somber for a second before looking at me and saying, "So that's it, huh?" I nodded excitedly (honestly, this was the swift beginning of the WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING time period of my life ushered in by unmedicated depression and blind panic at staring down the barrel of losing a parent) and as long as I live, I will never forget her laughing like I had just cracked one hell of a joke. She had a contagious laugh, and I almost joined in just before she looked at me and said, expressionless, "I always knew you would be the type of woman to follow a man." She smirked, silent for a few seconds and then cackled, throwing her head back. She shook her head, gave half an eye-roll and told me to go check on my Dad. She laughed again. I felt stuck, but I tilted my head at her and wanting to be in on the joke, laughed half-heartedly while I got up to peek in on Dad obediently. 

He was fine, of course-- and then one day I blinked and he wasn't. When he left, along with him went any trace of the close relationship I had had with his wife. Before the end of 2015, we had lost both of them and I eventually managed to stop dwelling on the negative things and focus on the positive memories. Eventually, The Relationship fell apart, predictably-- though there are no memories worth salvaging, there. 

Months passed, years passed. 

My home-health client passed away. 

I met a man who could make me belly laugh. He thought I was pretty, he liked hearing stories about Dad, and he had really cute dogs. 

He lived 300 miles away. 

After dating for 18 months and putting countless miles on both of our cars, I packed my life in boxes and bags and pointed my compass south. 

I pressed my foot down on the gas and eased into the turning lane, following the lead of my boyfriend ahead of me in traffic. Here I was again. I was literally following a man. I could hear the laughter at the prospect of a prediction come to life and winced. I kept going, though. 

I followed him down the coast and into our home. I trailed behind him and told him to watch his step as he and a friend helped move our couch into the house. It snowed the first 2 days after I moved in and I was like velcro, shadowing his every move for 48 hours straight after having lived apart for so long. I couldn't get enough of the fact that if I wanted to see him, I only had to walk into the next room. 

In the back of my head, I heard Dad's wife telling me she always knew I would be the kind of woman to follow a man. She had meant to belittle me, and for a long time, I had let her. 

She was right, I was absolutely the type of woman to follow a man, and thank God for it. One of the things he loves about me most is my heart, and I'm learning to be kinder to myself and make the voice in my head my own and not the echo of others. 

 The truth is, though, I have followed many people. 

I hovered behind my nieces and nephews as they learned to walk in order to cushion the fall if they toppled over. I have slowly approached stray dogs to show them affection and sneak them a snack. I've stealthily scooped up turtles in the middle of the highway and moved them from harm's way. I have broken speed limits racing to be by a family member's side in their final moments and hold their hand until their last breath. I have cared for the elderly and supported their every step. I've dropped my purse trying to get to the door in time to help the very pregnant mom ahead of me carrying a toddler into the grocery store to hold the door open. I've trailed behind a friend while she packs a bag in a hurry to get out of the house before her abusive spouse gets home, and  quietly reminded her that she is strong and tried to convey confidence that everything would be okay. I've chased down a stranger who dropped a wad of cash in the parking lot to be sure it was returned to them. I've driven around with groceries in my car in case I see a less fortunate person out in town who needs a little help getting by and feeding their family.

I have uprooted my home and my life to support my Dad when he needed me most, and didn't even pause. I guess that is just the kind of person I am. 

Three years and one day ago I moved my entire life for a man who would move heaven and earth for me. 

Two and a half years later, I married my best friend in the universe surrounded by a handful of people who love us and want the best for us and have never made us feel anything but treasured. 

I would follow you anywhere, Mike. 

I love you.