Oh ... My ... God

by Donna Schoenkopf

Don’t ask me what it is. I won’t tell you.

I will only tell you that I am faced with the very real possibility that I might lose everything I’ve saved for years for, worked for, planned for, dreamed of and built, out of the earth. It looks like it may all go away in the blink of an eye over a stupid, insignificant mistake. Sixty-seven years old and wiped out.

When I first realized that I might lose my home, and then, upon thinking about it more deeply, realizing that there was not only a probability but a likelihood that it would happen, I felt a kind of calm.

But it is now two days later and fear has emerged, in all its stifling, crippling power, and with that emotion came another—panic, which is fear’s verb.

I think I’m going through the five stages of grief over the presumed loss of my home and my life here at Chigger Lake.

First stage:

Denial and Isolation

I was in denial when I first realized what might be happening. In fact, I was in denial for at least two years. I kept thinking that somehow I was protected. That my worst fears were groundless. That I was just making a mountain out of a molehill. So I would dismiss my worry and move on through the day, the month, the year.

But that was not to be the case. The molehill was actually a mountain and when I was finally faced with the incontrovertible truth about the situation, I went to that dandy partner of denial, isolation. I was frozen in shock. I walked around, doing my usual particulars, but frozen, nonetheless. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling; it was no feeling at all.

Underneath that frozen state, though, I could feel, deep down, the stirrings of the “Oh ... my ... God!” feeling, and it was so awful that I would just shut it down.

Anger

Then I got angry. With myself. I shook my head and muttered as I walked around the house. I kept going over how it happened, how stupid I was, how I thought I knew what I was doing, but didn’t really.

I usually stay in that state for only a short time because a mistake is not a deliberate thing or cruel, so ... what’s done is done. It serves no purpose to slosh around in it. It’s too debilitating to stay there.

Bargaining

I think I’m in the third stage of grief as I write this. The fact that I don’t believe in God eliminates bargaining with Him/Her/It, but I find myself looking for loopholes in my situation. That’s my version of bargaining. Looking for loopholes.

At the present time I am making lists to calm my panic by finding solutions. Did you know that people switch on their rational minds when they make lists? It also takes away the gut wrenching that accompanies negative emotions. Rational thinking doesn’t let emotions rule. (Here’s a little trick I learned years ago: When someone is raging or ranting or raving or whatever, ask them what time it is. They’ll immediately stop to look at their watch or think about it because the rational part of the brain is the part a person uses to tell time. Heh. Sometimes the calm only lasts a second or two, but sometimes the break from emotion will restore rational thought and peace reigns.)

But I digress.

 My rational lists include:

• Call to inquire about whether or not the problem exists.
• Contact experts in the field who can tell me how bad the problem is.
• Get opinions from people who might have solutions.
• Make more lists of what to do.

However, these things are just a prelude to what I really have to look at.

The real list is the list I must make to directly confront the worst possible scenario of losing everything. The reason losing my house is so horrible (besides the deep emotional attachment I have to it) is that I literally cannot afford to even pay a small amount of rent anywhere. The life I lead now is comfortable, but not plush. If I had to pay rent, my tenuous grasp on solvency would dissolve.

I would have to have a full-time job.

That fact leads me to think about how and where I would live.

Would I rent or buy? If I rented, what would I rent? A room from someone? If so, what do I do with all my stuff? Give it to my children? Sell it all? (My eyes look over all the things I’ve acquired over the years and all the moving I’ve done and what I’ve hauled from place to place, the things that told me I was home, when the actual house was not “home” yet.)

Or would I rent a big house where I could rent out the extra rooms? That feels better to me. In fact, I’ve been wanting to be communal. That might be my chance to actually do it.

Where would I rent a house? California? Oklahoma? Costa Rica? Greece? British Columbia?

I think about how I miss my children and California calls me. I go on the Internet and Siskyou County looks cheap. Hmmmm.

What if I buy some land and build another house or buy a ready-built house? (How about THAT for denial?) With what money, girl? It took me all my life to pull together the resources for my little house here in Oklahoma, so how could I ever pull that together again? Forget that idea. I probably will never own a home again. This was my first one. I built it the way I wanted it. Ohhhh. The pain of loss.

Maybe I could sell my car and buy a motor home of some type. I could live in it. Travel. I’d have to give my dogs away, though. They’d hate living in a motor home. They’re used to country living. Also, the most I’m ever going to get for my car is about $8,000 and that’s if there IS a God and He/She/It answers my prayers and throws me a bone.

I think about the people I’ve seen on television after a calamity has happened, like an earthquake or fire or flood. I think about them saying that they’re just glad to be alive. Then I feel guilty for being so materialistic. Then I think about them having insurance. And rebuilding.

I think about my own situation and how it’s not like theirs. I’m alive and my children are alive, but no insurance will cover this. All the money I’ve sunk into insurance in this house! All the money I’ve spent on planting shrubs and trees and grass seed! I look at the sinks and kitchen cabinets and the tile in the bathroom and the outdoor shower and the sliding glass doors and windows. My first house. I built this. And now it will likely be gone.

Oh, for crying out loud. There I go, wallowing again. This is not like me. Ask anyone. I always, always, think everything will turn out well.

Who knows? Maybe it will.

Okay, I didn’t plan it this way, I swear to God, but I just got an email from a professional who said not to panic. It’s not a big deal.

Jesus Christ.

I hope he’s right and I’m wrong.

A Postscript

Good morning.

I researched all last night and this morning, my mind panicky and my heart on the verge of breaking, and discovered that I can remedy my huge mold problem (that was my secret sorrow) with some extensive fix-it solutions. It will cost a lot of money, so I am going to take out a reverse mortgage on my house, leaving my children's inheritance with less of a free and clear situation out here at Chigger Lake. But half a loaf is better than none, not that my darling children ever, ever expected an inheritance from me. It is way more important to me to give them something when I die, than it is to them.

I feel excited and happy about this. When I first realized how extensive the mold was and did research on why it happened (my fault) I felt as though I was at the bottom of an abyss of hopelessness and loss. I don't feel that way now. Next week's story will be about what the actual problem is and what my plans are. You and I will have quite an adventure together as I work through the whole challenge.

It just goes to show you, you never know what's around the corner.

I feel vindicated in my eternal (except for very rare waves of despair) optimism.

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