Flash Memoir: "I Was Here"
A painting party
Welcome to another installment of Loss + Finding Home, a real-time flash memoir of the complete gut and remodel of our 1950s California ranch-style home. Answering the questions: What does it mean to be home? Who makes up a home? How do you build a home when there is always someone missing from the dinner table?
Previously on Loss and Finding Home, I told you about packing up a U-Haul and moving our family: Me, my husband Nick, and our four kiddos, three on earth and one in heaven, to a rental about a mile away. This week, I want to tell you about a painting party.
Way back when we first submitted our plans to the County of Santa Barbara1, I got the idea to have a painting party, where we invite a few friends over to an empty house and let the kids run wild, and maybe the adults would get into it, too. We could each grab a paintbrush, draw something silly, or write a note for the construction crew. I thought it would be fun to do something subversive. You’re told not to color on the walls your whole life, then your mom hands you a can of spray paint and says, “Have at it.” I also wanted some sort of ceremony, kind of like smashing a champagne bottle on a boat before its first voyage to say goodbye to the walls that have served us so well.
We did something similar for Peyton’s second birthday. At the time, our fence was held together by termites and approximately 250 layers of paint and needed to be replaced. We stretched a roll of white paper all along the back fence and invited ten or so toddlers over to make a mess, and since the fence was coming down anyway, it didn’t matter. That party remains one of my favorite memories of our backyard.
When I told Nick about the painting party, he rolled his eyes. He sees things practically as they are, and by his calculations, there was no time for a painting party. But I am all heart and very stubborn. “We are doing this!” I said like an indignant child.
Over the summer, I read the book The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why it Matters by Priya Parker2, and I became even more entrenched in this idea, and my plans grew more complicated. We’ve hosted countless meals in our backyard, and I didn’t want to leave anyone out, so the guestlist in my head grew exponentially. More guests would mean more paint, brushes, food, chairs, cups, and plates. I could see things getting complicated, but I ignored my worries. I would make this happen, and it would be special.
Last week, when I told you about the U-Haul and moving out, I didn’t talk about what it was like to go back to the house after all our personal items were gone. There was about a week between our last night in the house and the first day of demo. During that time, Nick was removing the appliances and shelving units and digging up the concrete pavers in the front yard. Each time I went back, it looked less and less like a house and more and more like a construction site.
I noticed a shift in the kids, too. They were curious about the process, but I could tell they were anxious. One night, Owen suggested we make a video of the old house so that we could remember what it looked like. Peyton was immediately against the idea, but I encouraged Owen to document whatever he felt he needed to. “Well, I don’t want to be in it!” Peyton said.
By Friday, I could see the proverbial writing on the wall. There would be no painting party, at least not in the way that I envisioned. Practically speaking, hosting people comfortably without a place to sit wouldn't work. Mrs. Parker would not approve. But more than that, I underestimated how emotional a gathering like that might be, especially for the kids. The moment was starting to feel too personal to share.
So I adjusted. On Sunday afternoon, Peyton and I picked up a box of acrylic paints and some foam brushes from Michael’s, and she invited one friend over. The two girls spent a few hours scribbling and painting all over the walls of the granny unit, and I painted a frog3 in the living room and some angel wings on the wall in Aiden’s room while Tatum played on the floor. We gave the girls some Uncrustables sandwiches, and everything was exactly as it should be.
That night, the five of us were back at the house, and I dug out a few old cans of spray paint. Nick still had a ton of work to do, but he took the baby outside, and the kids and I went a little wild.
They ran straight back to their bedroom, and I could hear them laughing in between the wooshing sound of the spray can. I was still working on my frog.
When I spelled “The Hendersons were here” in metallic silver paint, I realized why this was so important to me. In the same way you might carve “I was here” into a park bench, I wanted a moment that said, “We were here, and our time here mattered.”
While Aiden was treated in the hospital, each day, the nurse updated our whiteboard with their name, the name of our care partner, and the oncologist on the floor that day. They might also add goals for the day, like take a bath, or beat a fever, or manage pain. They also encouraged us to write down our questions so that we would be prepared when the doctor came through on rounds.
When Aiden died, the staff was so gracious and gave us several hours to say goodbye. Before I left, I grabbed one of the Expo markers and wrote, “Keep moving forward. Thank you for everything. xoxo Aiden.”
I recognize the impulse. I wanted to mark that I was here, that Aiden was here, that we fought with all our might, and that fight mattered. I wanted whoever saw that message to know that though we hate the outcome, we saw them, too. They were right there with us, and what they did mattered. Selfishly, I wanted them to remember Aiden. Children’s Hospital Los Angeles is a busy place, busy in a way you wish wasn’t needed, and Aiden’s room would likely be filled again the next day. I wanted to leave a little reminder in the hearts of the people who knew him.
I added, “Keep Moving Forward,” and when I stepped back, it looked finished, and I felt ready.
The five of us gathered in the room that has gone by many names in twelve years: guest room, Peyton’s room, Aiden’s room; while Aiden was in treatment, it was my Mother-in-law’s room, and then finally, it was Miss Tatum’s room. Aiden’s name was still spelled out in white letters on the wall4. I suggested we each remove one letter, and my heart broke a little.
Nick stayed behind to finish up, and I took the kids back to the rental. For all her talk of not wanting to see the “before” pictures, the instant we got in the car, Peyton grabbed my phone and started to scroll through the images. I could see tears in her eyes, and I said, “It’s okay to be sad about something ending.”
“I was here.”
Isn’t that what memoir is? Even a short one like this that comes to you in pieces? Even without the benefit of perspective? For those of us who write our stories down, aren’t we just saying to the world, This thing happened, and it feels really big, and I need to share it with someone because maybe you will think it’s big too? Maybe you will come across my virtual park bench and read my version of “I was here “and think, yeah, me too.”
This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.
Emily
Coming up… I hope to lighten things up with a story about our new roommate, a six-foot iron statue or a mermaid; I, of course, named her Airel.
a process that took a year and I’m still bitter about and don’t want to get into, other than to say, living in a city that is hostile to growth and has a severe housing shortage is very frustrating
I love hosting, and this book had me thinking hard about how I will change my approach to gatherings in the future. I did drift in and out while listening, but I didn't feel like I missed anything because I was lost in recalling past gatherings I've attended or hosted. I thought of my wedding, dinner parties, work conferences, and even my sweet son's funeral. It's the kind of nonfiction book that begs a re-reading, depending on your phase of life.
If you’re new here, you might be wondering what’s up with all these frogs. The short version is that frogs are incapable of traveling backward, and no matter what obstacle is in front of them, they can only move forward. When Aiden was sick, we saw frogs as a symbol of our mantra to “keep moving forward.”
I’m grateful I had no choice here because those letters would have stayed on that wall much longer than was healthy if it weren't for this remodel.
Heartbreaking, touching, and utterly beautiful. Thank you for sharing this Emily. 🥰 I’m glad you and your family keep moving forward.
Oh Emily, I’m once again moved to tears by your beautiful writing - such heart and honesty. I’m so grateful to have found you. I see you “here.”