I Didn’t Come Home to an Empty House

I came home to a space where the love of my life was no longer physically here.

But I did not come home to an empty house.

I came home to my four furry loves.

Sophi. Mac. Livvy. Finn.

There were paws across the floor and toys scattered throughout the house. Food bowls to fill. Doors to open. Walks to take. Cats appearing precisely when they decided their presence was required. Dogs who apparently believed every trip through the kitchen should involve them.

There was noise.

There was movement.

There was need.

There was life.

And, perhaps most unexpectedly, there was still joy.

Music has always filled our home, and Doug and I danced. Nothing formal. Sometimes it was barely dancing at all. A song would move us, one of us would reach for the other, and for a few moments we would dance.

I still turn the music on and up.

And when the music calls for it, I still dance.

Only now, Mac has decided he is Doug’s understudy.

He comes bounding over, joyously jumps up, and we two-step together.

For approximately two steps.

That’s about the extent of his choreography.

Naturally, this brings Sophi out to investigate. She needs to know exactly what sort of foolishness has broken out and whether her participation—or supervision—is required.

And then there’s Finn.

Every so often I scoop him into my arms and samba (or attempted samba) around the kitchen island, singing and dancing while he looks at me with an expression that can only be interpreted as:

What. The. Hell.

And I laugh.

Sometimes really laugh.

Those moments matter.

Not because Mac could ever take Doug’s place on the dance floor. Not because four furry loves could somehow fill the space left by the man with whom I shared my life.

They don’t.

Doug’s space is Doug’s space.

But I’m learning there is a difference between the space someone leaves and the life that remains.

My house still wakes up every morning.

Mac wants breakfast.

Sophi wants outside.

Finn is rolling through the house because the entire place has apparently become his personal play zone.

And Livvy finds a comfortable spot and settles in with the quiet confidence of someone who knows the house belongs to her anyway.

They each have their own rhythms, personalities, and expectations of me, and absolutely no concern about what I may have planned for the day.

Mac brings me toys. Sophi keeps tabs on Mac with the toys. Finn creates his own entertainment, whether entertainment was scheduled or not. Livvy finds me when she wants to be close.

They don’t ask whether I’m having a difficult day before needing something from me.

And they certainly don’t ask whether it’s appropriate to be joyful before bringing joy barreling into the room.

They simply live.

And because they live here with me, so do I.

They get me outside. They make me move. They interrupt me. They curl against me when the house grows quiet. They make me laugh when I wasn’t expecting to laugh or lick the tears when they start rolling.

And occasionally, they dance with me.

When Doug passed, the rhythm of my days changed overnight. After years in which dementia and caregiving had become woven into our lives, I made a very intentional decision not to immediately figure out what came next.

For 30 days, I would simply just be.

No expectations about what grief should look like. No timetable for finding my way forward. No measuring myself against how anyone else had traveled a similar path.

I would run my own race.

What seemed like such a simple decision at the time has proven to be monumental. I gave myself space between the life I had known and whatever might come next.

But I wasn’t actually in that space alone.

The four of them were right there with me.

They still needed me, but they didn’t need me in the way caregiving had needed me. They needed breakfast. A walk. A door opened. A toy thrown. A scratch behind the ears. A warm lap.

And in return, they gave me something beautifully uncomplicated.

Presence.

They met me wherever I was.

Again and again.

I am learning there is an enormous difference between a quiet house and an empty one.

My house became very quiet after Doug passed.

But it was never empty.

There is an absence here that I feel every day. There is no replacing the life and love Doug and I shared, nor would I ever want to.

But his physical absence and the love still surrounding me can occupy the same space.

Because there is also a joyful cinnamon colored goofball coming toward me with as many toys as he can possibly fit in his mouth.

There is a little black-and-white supervisor making sure nothing escapes her attention.

There is a cat turning the house into his playground, and occasionally being unwillingly sambaed around the kitchen island.

And there is another quietly curling up nearby, reminding me that presence doesn’t always need to make a sound.

There are paws.

There are purrs.

There is laughter.

There is ridiculousness.

There is love.

I did not come home to an empty house.

I came home to a house still full of life.

And day by day, all that life keeps inviting me to join in