Transition

Transition.  Just the word implies effort and uncertainty.  I hadn't thought that at 61-almost-62 that I would be making a move - a transition - to a whole new part of the country.  Yet, I can't say that it was wholly unexpected.  

I remember standing near my butcher block peninsula in my Yorba Linda kitchen, vocally expressing to Craig my interest in moving.  I was tired of our house, tired of the expenses associated with it, tired of never getting it quite "done."  "Talk to your friend, Jim Argabrite.  Ask him how things are going in Texas.  See if he has a place for you."  Craig had tentatively broached the conversation with Jim, but nothing had come of it.

Of course, I loved living near my family and dear friends.  My sister, Cindy, and I had always lived in the same city, a situation I took for granted.  My brother, Rob, and I lived in the same ward and our families took up an entire church bench.  Again, a routine situation that I took for granted.  I could drive past my childhood home, my children's first home, or my husband's first home with me any day or time I wanted - they were all in the same area.  I had lived in that area for 50 years.  I knew where everything was, where to go to get a certain thing, and how long it would take to get there.  I was never lost.  I owned it all.

During the summer of 2012, I had a serious health scare.  I had pneumonia, but had been misdiagnosed.  As a result of a sinus infection, my heart had gone into atrial fibrillation, and the doctors treated me for that, somehow missing the fact that I couldn't speak in complete sentences without pausing to breathe.  I couldn't walk from my family room to the front door by the living room without stopping to catch my breath.  Finally I listed the symptoms to a PA, who had missed all of them before, and I was back in the hospital.  This time, I was in Intensive Care.  During a few scary days, my family wasn't sure that I'd pull through.  They considered, probably for the first time, how their lives would change if I died.

Thinking about that kind of transition was difficult for some of them.  And, I think, very healthy.  No one lives forever.  Both of my parents have transitioned to the Afterlife, and while I miss each of them every day, somehow my life continues.  I knew my kids would be fine, no matter where I was or what I was doing.  That was an important piece of information for me.

The following summer proved to be eventful as well.  One son graduated with a Master's Degree from USC, one son married the love of his life, one son decided to wait for a missionary to see if she was the love of his life, and our daughter had transitioned out of college and into her first real job in Austin, TX.  The weekend of Mother's Day in 2013 was the most wonderful weekend of my life.  My husband and I had all four of our kids in the temple with us at the same time on the same day.  What a joy.  Indescribable.  That was followed by a beautiful wedding reception at the church where I had grown up.  The next day was Mother's Day, and I had all of my kids in the living room of our home that morning.  I will treasure those hours always.  They are my most favorite hours of my whole life.  I had no idea that a major transition was coming.  I was immersed in the moment.

A few months later, Craig got a call from Jim Argabrite.  Jim had been Craig's boss several times before, at various companies.  They had been friends for more than 30 years.  Jim was with an Internet security company called Entrust, and they had a position that would be perfect for Craig.  In Texas…

Our home was in California.  I was teaching at Cal State Fullerton.  The dean was a bonafide narcissist, who was intent on breaking my refusal to satisfy his excessive need for admiration.  He was a zoologist who insisted on directing a language acquisition program.  He had never acquired a foreign language, yet needed to be an expert in that field to satisfy his ego.  I did not respect him.  He knew it.  He was angry.  I was his target.  I refused to pander to him, as others did.  He made my work life as miserable as he possibly could, without crossing any legal lines.  Suffice it to say, I was not happy. 

If we moved – transitioned – to Texas, several possibilities opened to us: we could own a home free and clear, I could retire, and Craig could have a secure career.  If we stayed in California, we would probably downsize but stay in Orange County, still have a mortgage, I’d still have to work, and face the possibility of Craig’s being laid-off (again).  The choice became clear.  We began the process of transition.