So, when we parted I was 6 months post joining the Dead Parent Club, a Club which I sincerely hope & suggest you stay the hell away from. Things got Worse. Worse as in Very, Very, Very Bad. The first holiday season after a death is renowned to be brutal, for an excellent reason. It. Is. Excruciating.
In the Spring, my parent's house sold. I spent 2 months in Oregon, packing my distraught mother up and shepherding an endless parade of kindly repairmen through the house as they made expensive repairs we could not afford. The buyers delighted us by coming back twice with more repairs AND a lower offer. It rained record amounts, and for Oregon, that's saying something. At long last, we welcomed the movers with shell-shocked faces and loaded up the moving van with at least 3x what could possibly fit in my mom's new senior living apartment. The next morning, I deposited my mother on an airplane and I began the cross-country drive home to Texas. This time I had no awesome Spartan trailer and no posse of awesome friends. Just me and the dog, a poor little American Eskimo, relocating to the Gulf Coast.