In mid-November 2021, it felt good to hear that greeting from residents in my newly acquired condo at the end of a nearly 3,000-mile bumpy road trip from Portland, Oregon to Asheville. Bumpy in the sense of stressors and obstacles, like trying to comply with various requests from my realtor in the long-distance process of purchasing a condo and not being able to get service on my phone or computer to comply as I traveled through the winding roads in the mountains of Utah and beyond.
In Amarillo, a rock hit my windshield from a truck in front of me. The crack was like a slow-moving but persistent unwanted intruder making its way to obscure my line of vision as I was laser focused on making it across the country before I met with any snowfall. Then, there was the last hotel stop in Memphis. I was exhausted and made it there just before dark only to be informed that there had been a water line burst and no water was available for guests “at this time…but it has been fixed, so…” I could have gone next door to the Days Inn, but my companion on this trip, my 4-year-old Havanese, Pace`, was not welcome.
We camped out in the waterless oasis, drinking bottled water, desperate for a place to rest as I yearned for my clean and comfortable (and recently sold) condo back in Oregon with free-flowing water and functioning toilets. Fortunately, the next stop was at an old friend’s house in Gatlinburg where Pace` was welcomed and enjoyed hanging out in the loft. I loved living in the Willamette Valley for over 12 years. I had cultivated relationships with many real, authentic friends and colleagues, had finally completed remodeling my condo in Beaverton, and established a manageable clientele who sought grief counseling and spiritual direction. My motivation for leaving? In a word, “time.” It was time for me to get closer to family, all of whom live on the East Coast. It was, as my priest-friend, Tony, likes to say, “what’s next.”
Not a small part of my decision to leave the comfort of my home in Oregon was the multitude of events that had transpired in the last couple of years. From March to December 2020, I, like many, lived in a world of isolation and fear, struck by a global pandemic. I got through 2020 without succumbing to CoVid, only to awaken on January 1, 2021 with what I thought was a mild cold. I tested negative for CoVid, negative on a rapid antibody test, but what I came to call “the crud” persisted. I felt dismissed by, or worse yet, invisible to my then PCP who ignored my pleas to do something more than tell me “these things take time,” get a sputum sample to determine what this infection was and despite my two trips to the Urgent Care doc. After almost four months, a couple of preliminary tests were ordered by my PCP and from them, I was diagnosed with Interstitial Lung Disease—a progressive terminal disease—by a PCP who had seen me only virtually and had failed to refer me to a pulmonologist. Because I was perfectly healthy prior to this sudden onset of symptoms, I disputed the diagnosis, but the PCP remained firm. I terminated my relationship with her and went to a university-related health care provider where I was seen by a pulmonologist who performed a bronchoscopy that not only ruled out ILD, but also relieved all the symptoms I had struggled with for 4 months. The cause of my symptoms? An infection, etiology unknown.
The unprecedented 116-degree heat bubble hit Portland in June, the day my granddaughter and her fiance` arrived in Oregon and lasted until they left to return to Florida. They made the best of it, much of which did not include me because of the heat, i.e., serious white water rafting. Hearing them talk about the future and having children made me sad knowing I would not be close enough to be a small part of their lives. My grandson was now studying for the Bar and called me almost daily. He would pass it, I assured him, but I knew what it was like to practice law: visits from him would be sparse as he pursued his career. In August, a dear friend and neighbor who had been diagnosed with non-smokers lung cancer two years prior, developed new symptoms which led to her death in September.
The message: Life is short and needs to be lived fully. By this time, I had visited Asheville and made a decision to sell my condo and relocate there.
I can say without a doubt, this was the most stressful transition I have ever experienced. From my childhood home in the Ohio Valley, I have moved to the “big city” Columbus, then Miami, the San Francisco Bay area, Southern California, Portland and Asheville NC. Of course, this was over a period of many years. I seem to be blessed to have lived in beautiful places at the right time, before they changed dramatically. I and Pace` are still adjusting to our new home, but so far, it seems right. We both are happy and healthy and within reasonable driving distance to several family members. As Spring arrives, I hope to be able to become more involved in Asheville, and to do what I have always done—live life fully!
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