As I sit on the main floor waiting for an afterhours service call, I can hear the water dripping (pouring) into the rubbermaid tub I’ve set out to catch the leak in the basement.
“Follow the copper line to where it meets a water pipe, there should be a shut off valve” ….oh god… there isn’t one. I was about to shout out, “I’m a widow! I don’t know what I’m doing!!” when I realized this isn’t going to help the situation. …and why don’t I know these things anyway? Why weren’t we – as people bound to live in houses, apartments, etc. – pushed to learn about electronics and plumbing and furnaces?! Why aren’t there little tags on everything to indicate what they do? Why weren’t these issues caught when I had the company in for servicing at the start of winter?
I so badly want to hold onto our home, the place where we’ve built so many memories. Instances like this make me doubt myself; is it realistic to think I can handle a whole house myself? I’m not ready to sort through Mark’s belongings and pack it all up. As painful as it is some days and as ridiculous as it may sound, I want to be surrounded by his ‘things’. It shows me that besides in my memories, he existed, he lived, he was here.
Service call complete, water not pouring anymore, and another booking for Monday to actually fix the issue.
“Are you around on Monday for us to come fix it?” …as the sole owner and occupant, I guess I’ll have to be!