More On Grief

Even though I'm deep in the midst of this first anniversary of the worst holiday season ever, I can still wake early, have my time on the cozy bedroom couch, listen to Sakura, the music I've always listened to on rainy days, look out my opened-in-December Florida windows over the petunias in the flower box to the rainy garden and write to you.  I have peace - yes, and even joy - in these moments.

My bathroom floor and How it Changed My Life

Geez. I bet this is the ONLY BLOG IN THE WORLD about a bathroom floor. Well, MY bathroom floor, anyway. Some time ago, years now, I thought I'd "do" the floors all over the house – creating something on the cement slab below the crappy carpet and linoleum.


I thought I'd start with the smallest floor in the house and go from there. That was the bathroom floor directly adjacent to my bedroom. (What kind of feng shui is that?) I should have taken that First Hint: It turned out it was nearly impossible to lift the existing floor (what WAS that? Rubber tiles?) It took weeks to finally get it up,(can’t get past this without adding: Oooh! Dirty!) finally down to cement. Got some cement paint, painting the floor blue. Then started this project that took about 10 years to complete. It became an under-the-sea dream sequence of everything fishy I could think of. I don’t know why that theme, other than I was looking downa lot, sitting over water (if you know what I mean…) I made stencils and acquired a lifetime supply (okay, Molly’s lifetime supply) of nail polishes. There were musical octopi, a giant squid (again, thank you Molly), starfish, bubbles, tributes to lost friends. It was glorious. And gave me something to look at as I sat…

I knew it was time to finish it. There was no space left. Every species was covered. The last bit was collaging pictures of my grandbabes’ little round faces into one of the big bubbles. It was So Sweet! I knew I loved it too much. I know it’s not good to be too attached to material things. I had a bad feeling about finishing it. I postponed and tried to get around it. But The Thing Was Done.

I went to the Screw It Up Yourself Place and explained the situation: A 10-year work of art in a tiny, nonventilated, bathroom. It needed to be sealed and preserved. The nice man sold me fiberglass sealer used to patch boats. Waterproof. Shiny. Toxic.


It was bad news from the start. Difficult to open, difficult instructions. The initial smell was SO BAD, I thought, this CANNOT be RIGHT. At every step I thought Stop Now. This is WRONG! I knew it was going to smell bad until it cured, so, planned a trip out of the house for the day. This little bathroom is, as mentioned, feet away from my bed. I have trouble sleeping anyway, and knew it needed to be dry by bedtime. The directions said it would cure in two hours.


I planned to apply the stuff, get myself together, and head up to Tampa to spend some time with Aforementioned Daughter. But the application process was mind-bendingly wrong wrong wrong. I couldn’t breathe. There was no getting myself together. I forgot to be mindful. I forgot I had a mind. I just thought GET THIS FINISHED AND RUNNNNN!

After a long day of staying away (and pleasant visiting) I came home and realized my worst nightmare. When I opened the front door, it was like Dorothy opening the door to Oz, but she was in Hell instead. The house smelled so bad, you could practically see the fumes in the air. I grabbed Chancey and spent the night at Tessa’s. Surely, it would be stank-free by morning!


But no. It was unbearable. My office was in the bedroom. The whole house smelled, but it was the worst in there. I sat and tried to work, to tough it out. Toughness didn’t happen. Headaches and nausea, fear and loathing did.


In the hours, then weeks that followed, there were endless phone calls with the company who manufactured the gluey, chemical I had applied. Picture a Bull (and the crap he might produce.) I spoke to Go-Screw Yourself. Lots of managers and their managers, and their information gathering, always ending up with, as my little son used to say, “I didn’t do nuthin!” I wasn’t looking to blame. I was looking to get my life and my house back to working order. The stink hung in the air for weeks. The floor never set up. It was tacky to the touch. On their advice, there were more layers poured. It was poured too thin. It needed to be thin to set up. Pour another layer and it will all dry. It’s on too thick. It needs ventilation. Ventilation won’t help. Parts of the tiny floor did dry and set up. But others were still peeling and bubbling. Fans were brought in. Doors and windows were left open, closed and left ajar in different combinations to try to direct the toxic stench out or contain it.


My office moved to another part of the house. I tried to sit and type, but even there, it was difficult with eyes and nose shut. Don’t even ask how nose is kept shut…


I was sleeping in the guest bedroom at the other end of the house and hanging around outside a lot. I lost weeks of work. I paid handymen and prayed we would not all meet in a cancer ward sometime in the future or in hell.


The jasmine bloomed outdoors as I put in serious swing time trying to figure out what my next move might be. The garden once again saved me. Rocking myself on that porch swing was the comfort I needed to try to form some kind of a plan. The garden remained ready and willing to transport me out of myself.


Finally, I called in floor guys. Montgomery Floors came in and cased the joint. (have I mentioned I’m from NJ?) They were pretty much flummoxed, too. They had their crew come in and sand and peel everything down to cement again. My artwork went lost in the process. So, the art work was gone, but The Stench survived! The Boss arrived with some two-part treatment usually used in apartments where someone has died and left death-molecules, which really seemed like what we were dealing with. Chemical stink stopped immediately, I was concerned that it was just masked by the new flowery scent. I’m not picky. Really! But smells are subjective. I usually can’t stand most perfumes or air fresheners. I could have lived with this, but didn’t want to just have to live with this clinging, unadoreable smell. I was wrong. After a day, the thrill was gone. And ALL odors. I was back to unscented scraped cement!


I headed down to the floor store (“Flo Sto?) and picked out beautiful granite they laid (I know!...) in a checkerboard pattern. It was wildly expensive but it had to be spectacular to cover my losses. I now can sit mesmerized, able to look down and ponder beauty again. It’s been months and I still love it. I step on the cool mountain rock and am uplifted. I still mourn my artwork, but it lives in my screensaver and the millions of pictures we took when I was about to begin the death-defying cover up.

So Good won out in the end. I had always lived in my bedroom. But now, forced out, other rooms in the house were re-done and re-purposed. I now work in the new office at the back of the house. Where once my little girls played and slept, I work and stare out the window. Sleep still happens in this room, but that’s another story… I spend mornings in the sunroom. I write on a regular basis here. I watch far less TV and sleep better at night. Charlie Rose, my pregnancy induced sleep-deprivation- state late-night companion for years, waits (too patiently) in the DVR until I’m ready for him. We meet in the living room instead of the bedroom. (another loss…)

I loved my life before, but this is a new, improved and expanded one. I was forced to stick with it and re-imagine. I still grieve all kinds of losses, but am starting to rejoice again. I’m grateful that This Too has passed. Stank didn’t stop me. It just slowed me down and redirected things.