Of Nests and Diapers

I’ve been nesting.

And no, I’m not pregnant. That scenario has far too many problems, so if that was your first guess, set down your device and back away slowly. 

Now that I think about it, I am shaped a lot like a pregnant woman for the moment. But that’s just my cortisol baby.

I’ve always had a nest of sorts, a cozy place where I’ve gone when I needed a break from the world, a place to find comfort and rest. But it hasn’t always been a healthy practice. I’m great at escaping, and I admit I did too much of that for too much of my life. Since losing Al, it’s been more of a purposeful retreat, a place to rest, cry, and heal. 

We moved Al’s hospital bed to the basement soon after his death and brought the other half of our split King bed back to my room. And when I say we, it means that I directed other people to do it because, as I mentioned in my last post, I have a hard time putting dishes away, let alone dragging beds, frames, and controls up and down the stairs. Not to mention dust bunnies, cat toys, and chunks of dried food that would undoubtedly cling to anything I had the strength to drag through the house.

It was a fantastic setup when my best friend came and took care of me for a glorious week at the end of September. After that, the second half of my bed became part of my nest. I found comfort in the space Al and I shared. I spoke to him out loud many times as if he were still in the room with me (I still do this but not as often), telling him about my day, how much I missed him, asking for him to pray for me, and laughing at our favorite TV shows. I sometimes caught myself glancing at the bed next to mine to see if he was laughing, forgetting for the briefest moment that he was gone.

I can still see the way his laugh would transform his whole face if he found something particularly funny, even with his paralysis. His eyes lit up when he was truly tickled. And then he would chuckle about whatever it was on and off for at least an hour.

I started planning my grief before Al died. By this, I mean something different than anticipatory grief, which is the grief of watching someone die, watching the life we knew die along with him. That started a long time ago. But when I started looking ahead, I knew I would need a long break after he was gone. I told everyone that I was going to sleep for a year, but unfortunately, I was too young to collect Al’s disability, and I was waiting for my own disability determination.

That denial came a few days after his death.

And then, sheer panic since I didn’t know how I was supposed to support myself with no help from Social Security, no ability to work, and years' worth of burnout.

I needed the respite, so I had to get creative. I’m an introvert, so building a nest for my comfort and occasional retreat was what I needed. I had responsibilities like planning the funeral, reporting his death to different creditors, switching utilities to my name, and trying to figure out how to earn some money. But when it started to feel like too much, I’d take a break in my nest. I gave myself permission to retreat, rest, heal, and grieve every day.

In order to have a complete and functioning nest, I made sure it was stocked with Kleenex, my phone and charger, an assortment of pillows to prop up various body parts, the TV remote, water, and snacks like trail mix, nuts, dried fruit, and of course, chocolate. Oh, and Chapstick. And I would occasionally pull out letters or cards from Al and keep them near my heart.

Having all my necessities within arm's reach meant I didn’t have to go out again for a long while when I retreated to my nest. I gave myself permission to be a hermit, which I am at heart anyway. I enjoy being with friends, but I also love squirreling away in my nest when I’ve had too much socializing. I can hide away for as long as I need to, and I can go several days on my own. Okay, maybe not entirely on my own because, as I mentioned, while I was at Mom and Dad’s, it was nice to wake up to coffee, even when I woke up at 5:00 AM! And it's one of my ultimate to smell dinner being made, especially when I'm not making it. It’s nice to have life going on around me, even when I choose to step out of it for a while. 

Unfortunately, my nest began to spontaneously spawn things like unfolded laundry, string cheese wrappers, and opened-but-not-put-away Amazon boxes.

Oh, and cloth diapers.

Now, before you start to think this is getting weird and maybe far too personal, I didn’t use the diapers for that.

I bought a pack of cloth diapers from Amazon when Al came home as a quadriplegic. They are highly absorbent, so I used them to keep things tidy around his trach. After I destroyed roughly 37 boxes of Kleenex with my crying and nose-blowing, I decided those cloth diapers would be much more sturdy than the flimsy tissues and toilet paper I’d been using. 

So, yes, I started using cloth diapers as snot rags. 

And yes, they are very effective. 

One day, a child of mine asked me why I called them diapers. 

Because they’re diapers, Jen says, looking at her cronies in the audience, who all nod in understanding.

However, my offspring stood there, staring blankly.

I could feel my hair turning gray as I sat down and said, “Have a seat, young one, and let me paint a picture of a simpler - and more disgusting - time."

I described the method of wrapping a baby’s bum in an absorbent piece of cloth, pinning the cloth shut at the baby’s hips with enormous, sharp pins, and then putting a pair of plastic underpants, complete with skin-pinching elastic, over the diaper. 

And that wasn't even the worst part.

Those diapers were not disposable and, therefore, had to be washed. And no, we didn’t just throw the whole soiled nappy into the washing machine. If the diaper contained anything that wasn’t yellow, we would dunk the entire soiled diaper in the toilet until the “soil” fell out in the toilet, which was the best-case scenario. If that didn’t happen, we occasionally had to scrub the diaper.

In the toilet. 

With no gloves.

That diaper was then placed into a diaper pail, which was basically a trash can with a cover filled with bleach water. When the pail started to smell more like diapers than bleach, it was time to do the laundry. 

Family lore tells of siblings or cousins roughhousing on a bunk bed in the back room. Right next to the bunk bed was the diaper pail. One thing led to another during the frolicking, and one child ended up in the diaper pail. Head first. Perhaps my mom can fill in the details of that particular incident because it's funny as hell.

I realize that many friends my age and older will probably understand this whole process. In general, the last generation to be cloth-diapered is now passing middle age. I don’t mean to ignore the people out there who still use cloth diapers, which is a mystery to me, not because of the environmental impact but because of the sheer determination to go through the foul process of washing and reusing diapers instead of just throwing the whole stinking mess away.

Now that we’ve thoroughly discussed diapers, I’d like to emphasize how much I love having a bathroom in my bedroom. And again, I'd like to emphasize how much I do not wear diapers. 

Yet.

Anyway, back to the story at hand. 

My nest gradually became overrun with empty water bottles, crumbs, random papers, and a scale replica of Mt. Everest built with snotty tissues and toilet paper. Around that time, I realized I needed a more remote and secluded nest.

When I got to my parents’ house, I created another marvelous nest extending to my entire bedroom. First, I tried sleeping in the big bed, but when I sat on the edge of the bed the following day, the frame kind of..collapsed. (We’ll talk about the damage to my ego another time.) 

I chose to move my base of operations to the bunk bed, which is at least 30 years old. The bottom bunk is a full-size bed, which is perfect for this full-size woman, even if the mattress is basically a thin-crust pizza. 

My nest at my parents’ house included all the necessary supplies, including my body pillow, which my dad wasn't happy about since he had to make space for it in the trunk of the car, which was already overloaded with my luggage. The point of all this is to say that I had three weeks of uninterrupted, safe rest at my parents’ house. 

When I had sincerely considered what I wanted and needed in terms of rest, the word "coddled" kept popping up in my head. Even if the word usually has a negative connotation, it was exactly what I needed.

To be coddled means to be indulgently overprotected. Coddling someone means treating them with too much care or kindness, often to the point of spoiling them. I didn’t want to be spoiled. I can’t even imagine what being spoiled would look like at this point. But I wanted - and needed - to be protected from the onslaught of stress that I’d endured for years. My nest at my parents’ house provided just that.

I won’t go into more detail as I’ve already written a post about my UP retreat. As I began to face the return to my home, I knew instinctively that I had to create a new nest at home. Not the same King bed piled high with laundry, but something much more functional while still being safe and cozy. I hadn’t even considered what my “new” nest would look like, but my brain just started planning it before I was even aware.

I had to make the room mine.

It was no longer ours.

Just mine. 

The first thing I did was to box up all the medical supplies and look into places to donate them. (The boxes are still in my dining room, but hey, they’re no longer in my bedroom, so that’s a start.) That triggered at least a day of crying, which honestly surprised me, but only momentarily. Grief isn’t always predictable.

I had a few tough days where I couldn’t stop weeping. During those times, I cried out to God to comfort me, and I asked Al to show me he was still near. Thus far, I’ve had a few experiences of Al being very near when I’m grieving. But if you knew Al, you know he had a kooky sense of humor. 

When I was sprucing up the room to make it my own, I cleaned the walls to put up a mirror and a few paintings. And there on the wall were some revolting reminders of my husband. And I just knew he was laughing as I scraped the dried bits off the wall. You see, Al had a trach, which meant he coughed a lot and produced a lot of mucus, and occasionally, his coughs were powerful enough to send mucus flying at alarming rates and great distances.

Hence, the scraping of bits off the wall.

And knowing Al, he was probably laughing right next to me. We never had trouble laughing at life - the good, the bad, the ugly, and even the truly vile. The problem was that when something disgusting happened, Al would laugh, and laughing would usually make him cough harder.

Back to my room. The kids moved the second bed to the basement, and I removed everything else that made it look like a hospital room and added my own cozy touches, including string lights across my ceiling. I’ve always loved the soft glow of string lights. They remind me of a romantic summer evening under the stars, enjoying food and wine with friends. Or a cozy evening by the fire while the snow falls outside. They're the first thing I turn on in the morning, even before the sun comes up, and they make me smile each time.

My room became my new nest with lots of fuzzy blankets and cozy pillows, soft lighting, and plenty of space for a yoga mat (or occasional piles of clothes to be sorted at a later time - don’t judge), Joy’s art desk, and an indulgently comfy office chair. I created a space for me to retreat, write, cry, laugh, and maybe even go a little crazy, as I’ve been known to do.

I’m grateful for the way everything turned out. I’ve always wanted a personal, private studio, a happy place within my home. I’ve always wanted an in-ground pool as well, but something tells me that won’t happen for a long, long time, especially if I want it indoors where I can use it year-round. When I write my first bestseller, I’m doing that. Or at least I’ll put some of my earnings into a jar since I probably won’t be able to build a house big enough to house an indoor pool. Maybe that will happen with my second bestseller.

Ultimately, one of the many things I lost when Al died was safety and security, knowing that no matter how bad things got, I always had a partner who walked with me every step of the way. Now, I’m responsible for my own safety and my own security. Creating my little nest was the best thing I’ve done in a while. As I mentioned, it gives me respite, but it also helps me to regain my courage to leave the nest and engage the world as necessary.

One last note regarding diapers: As my child was thoroughly and appropriately disgusted by the tale of diapering in the 1970s, I didn't have the heart to tell them what handkerchiefs were used for. 

My new nest. Please note this is not a home decorating blog, so it's a little rough but still perfect for me.