Homesick (Roxy)

April 10, 2018

You know that kid who begged for a sleepover at her best friend’s house only to feel homesick around 11:30 P.M. and call home for a ride? That was me.  

I remember going to a sleepover when I was eight years old. While we were busy lip syncing to songs on the radio, playing board games, and making up dances, I was great! But when it was time to start winding down for the night, I became anxious. This is when I usually panicked and asked to call home. I adored my friends and I was comfortable with their families, but there was something about bedtime that made me feel uneasy, and out of place.  Bedtime seemed like a special family time which made me miss my parents like crazy. In my house bedtime included goodnight kisses, prayers, and “God Bless You” with crosses traced on our foreheads from Mom and Dad… from my mom and dad.

My parents and our home provided such a strong feeling of safety and comfort there’s no possible way anyone else’s could measure up. Being in another family’s house during bedtime left me feeling lonely… homesick.  After my dad rescued me from a couple of sleepovers, I became the friend who was only “allowed” to stay until 11:30. Not because I was afraid or homesick of course because that would be uncool. My parents were older than most, so they were extra strict. Yeah, that was the reason I had to go home early… but not really.

I know it seems strange because I’m a pretty outgoing person, but I have never been big on sleepovers, or vacations either for that matter because...well, I really like my own home and my own people. It provides a certain amount of comfort and safety. A lot has changed since I was eight years old... but not really.

The roles have just shifted a little. A month ago we had to drive one of my daughter’s friends home earlier than expected.  She was having fun at our house, but when it was time for bed, she looked up at me with an expression of panic that was all too familiar. I was not surprised when her eyes filled with tears and she said, “Roxy, I miss my mom and dad.” And then waterworks. Both of us!

She was seven. I was 40. We were both feeling homesick for our parents. Her tears were expected and acceptable. But mine? I don’t do crying. Not usually anyway.  I hate crying, and what’s worse is that this was the second time I had cried in a week. The other time was on a Sunday after church. What started as a few tears quickly turned into sobs.

The priest had been talking about how people felt welcome in various places.  He was saying he hoped the people in our congregation made visitors feel “at home” in our church. As soon as the word “home” left his lips, the tears welled up in my eyes. I kept it together until the end of Mass, but not much longer. On the car ride home, I was trying to explain the random tears to my husband. The first words that stumbled out of my mouth were, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just feel homesick.” Poor Brian was trying his best to be supportive, but I saw the frustration in his eyes.  He had to be thinking, “We’ve been gone for like two hours! How are you homesick?” I even started laughing before he said a word because I knew how ridiculous it all sounded, but it was the truth. 

Lately, I’ve had that homesick feeling a lot, even in places I always felt comfortable. Recently, I have generally felt confused and indecisive which is unusual for me. I typically feel right at home anywhere and I usually know exactly what I want. These feelings didn’t just begin on this Sunday either. They had been building for a while. For like… three years.          

Three years ago we buried my mother. We watched her suffer for over a year and within a month of her death, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.  I was trading off with my siblings taking care of him in 8-12 hour shifts, sleeping at his house or bringing him into my own. Four months later my oldest brother, Mike, lost his battle with lung cancer. In the words of Kara Clark…

I had a lot of shit!

The family that raised me was falling apart. I was so busy taking care of my dad that I could barely function. I didn’t know how to rest.  It seemed that as soon as I tried to sleep or even relax, I had some emergency that required my attention. I was in survival mode, and I never really had the time to acknowledge my own feelings of grief.

St. Paul’s Memory Care Unit and Hospice services saved my family, but after Dad moved there, we had no reason to keep his house. We had kept him there for over a year and managed the best we could, but juggling Dad’s daily care along with our own family responsibilities finally became too much. We had to sell the house.

A few weeks ago, on the third anniversary of my mother’s death, I started driving past our old house on West Street. Even though it’s a couple blocks out of my way, I have been taking the “detour” over and over again each day after work. I’m not sure why, because every time I drive by I just miss it even more.   

I loved that house. My parents designed it, and my uncle built it 45 years ago. Everything about it was warm and inviting from the smells in the kitchen to the conversation with the family. Growing up, most of my friends likely enjoyed a meal there or some pool time in the backyard. It was the greatest place to enjoy being a kid.

I have so many memories of growing up in that house and returning as an adult. My brothers and sisters were always dropping in. It’s how we stayed so close despite our 21 year age span. Without our parents’ house it seemed more difficult now.  Their house served as a hub where we would all gather. Even once I became an adult, it was my favorite place to return for a visit. Probably because I never felt like a visitor. I felt like I belonged there. My people were there.

There were six of us kids.  We all loved this house. On any summer day my oldest brother, Mike, could be found manning the grill or creating some new concoction in the kitchen. Whatever he made never lasted very long because the rest of us loved his cooking.

My sister, Kim, dropped in for short visits. She played with the dog, and she always brought toys for my children.

Jamie typically showed up after her work hours had ended. Most times she toted freshly picked berries, or some kind of new dessert for us to try.

When Pete walked in the house, the volume got louder… everyone’s, not just his. He entertained all of us with funny stories and lots of sarcasm.

The only one louder than Pete was his twin sister Paula. We teased her about being a “suck up” because she was constantly bringing flowers, homemade cards, or little treasures to our parents which they adored.

Paula and I lounged poolside every sunny day since we were both teachers, and we had the summers off. We browsed through magazines, swam with our kids, and had lunch with my mom and dad. These were some of the simplest and best times in my life! The combination of these activities, these people, and this house felt like home to me. I miss it. All of it.

It will be one year in June since we sold my parents’ house.  It took us seven months to clean out 45 years of memories. The new family who moved in has three kids and a dog. I couldn’t help but wonder who was occupying my old bedroom. I wanted to know if they painted the walls. Did they host large holiday dinners in the sunroom like my mom did? Did they remodel the rest of the basement which used to be my dad’s office? Did the kids who now live here yell down the laundry chute the way I used to?… “Hellooooooo!”  

I should be happy that someone is making this house their home, but happy is not the feeling I have when I drive past. I feel like a guest at bedtime in someone else’s house...homesick just like when I was an 8-year-old missing my parents, wanting to be picked-up from the sleepover. I was the baby of the family who lived in this house, but not anymore, and it’s hard growing up!  

As a teacher, I often seek out quotes to help others overcome difficult times. When I read this quote I knew it was for me.  “Growing up is difficult, letting go is difficult; but nothing is worse than being stuck where you no longer belong.”  

Ain’t that the truth!  I have to grow up, and let go of this house… but I don’t have to let go of the memories we made here... and that gives me peace.

What I will remember most of this house is the simple fact that my parents were always there.  Anytime I had a rough day (even as an adult), I just headed home, where I was instantly greeted by the world’s best listeners, my favorite sounding boards. They invested their time in me which is the most generous gift a person can give to a child. And not a day goes by when I don’t wish I could have just a few more minutes of it… more time with my entire family of 8, the way it used to be.

I guess everything comes full circle.

My parents, my siblings, and the house I grew up in provided me with a feeling of safety for almost 40 years.  Even though I’m struggling to embrace all of these changes and let go of my childhood home, deep down I know it’s not the house I miss as much as the memories I made there with the people I loved. As each day passes, I am learning it’s normal for me to miss them and even to cry tears for them. I’m also learning that all homes are temporary and a true home isn’t the shelter provided by a building; it’s the support and love of a family.