The value of objects, and the greater value of letting go

Moving to London hasn't gone exactly as I had planned. After struggling to raise the funds to get here, I arrived with an indeterminate thyroid nodule (indeterminate for cancer), too little money, and a rude awakening when it came to finding a cat-friendly flat. Now, a few months later, I'm on the verge of finding a flat, still haven't determined the nature of the nodule (could not perform a biopsy after last ultrasound), and don't have enough cash. I had to hang on to my apartment in DC for three months due to terms of my lease, and it broke me.

So happy to be out of my lease, I rented a small storage unit in Falls Church, Va. I had grave doubts about this: I already have a long-standing unit in Conn., my principal home for nearly two decades, and I didn't want to incur additional expense. I also doubted I'd be back to the DC area for any serious reason and it seemed like a hassle to pick up stuff from storage. Nevertheless, I had too much stuff the weekend I was preparing to move.

I had a bad feeling from the get-go. I was first offered 1/2 off on an online rate, but then two days later, the offer had mysteriously disappeared so I paid double. The company who rented to me was Public Storage.

Because I'm a busy grad student, I can't let this derail me. I cried several times over this ordeal, particularly when I heard that my helper had had to throw out several books. My Anthony Bourdain cookbook and a gift from a coworker when I was moving to London are particularly painful losses. Seeing my coloring books from my adult coloring group in Texas smeared with water hurts my heart. I don't know if the fleece blanket will be the same after it's washed and dried. I am sure I won't get any of my clothes back.

I called my mother about all of this. She told me: "You know how people get to live into their 90s?" she asked. I said no. She continued, "By learning how to deal with loss, by dealing with loss well."

There is no way I wanted to hear that. When we are in pain, we want people to listen and acknowledge our pain. I had gone through a period of homelessness, something I never talk about. For me, loss is larger than it is for other people, and perhaps also I have a keener sense of why it's important to help "the homeless." Those objects, undoubtedly, represent "home". I had just given up the one home I still have, a nice apartment in Falls Church, to "live" in a lodge in London, where I go to grad school. I will be apartment hunting throughout this month, but money is still tight due to the long lease I had in Virginia. I'm hopeful but also worried I won't land well or soon. It terrifies me, to the point of nightmares. So that's why a doll, a coloring book, a pair of skis or little stockings for me and my cat mean so much. I remember all of them in the last home I had.

Yet, I do have to remain strong; I do have to let go of what I no longer have. Luckily, the woman I hired, Amanda was able to save the antique doll and apparently the pictures; the coloring books might make it as well. I have to be strong and be grateful that I still have my cherished pet, Wally, my parents, my brother, and for now, my health. I have to let go.

I doubt I'll live to 90. I am not sure I want to. But I do want to live at least another 20 years, and the quality of my life will suffer if I can't laugh off some of this stuff. I mean, what are the odds that nothing would be hurt in my Connecticut storage facility for six and a half years, but in one week, my new locker in Virginia is a wash? Literally?

My eighteenth-century studies course at King's College is focused on objects this week. I will be choosing an object to talk about, along with my partner Carlos, at the British Museum on Tuesday. Because I've suffered this loss, I am looking at these items anew: what survived? What is the value of my object considering others must have perished? What did it take to hold on to this and what did it replace?