My wife died in our home in Manhattan. Moving felt like losing her again.

Mine 26 year old woman died on April 3, 2021, at our home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She was 51. With my arms wrapped around her and my head on her chest, listening to her heart beat its last beat, I felt my heart stop at the same time.

I don’t remember the first days after her death. I know my sister took me to her house, and I’m pretty sure she fed me, but I can’t tell you what I did, who I talked to, or even slept.

The first real memory I have the idea of ​​returning to our house a few days later. I remember this clearly. I walked through the door and the silence overwhelmed me. I sat down on the floor, barely making it through the entrance, and cried.

The warmth and comfort I had felt every time I walked through the door for fifteen years was gone. Instead, there was a cold, shockingly silent place, filled only with the memories of Lori’s final days. I don’t remember how long I sat there, but I do remember that at one point a neighbor put his hand on my shoulder, asked if I needed anything, and then quietly closed the door.

Then I realized that I had no home anymore.

I traveled every weekend to get away

I started traveling every weekend. No exotic trips. Instead, I asked friends and family if I could stay with them for a few days. I promised not to get in the way or even need anything. To be honest, I didn’t want to communicate with anyone and just hoped to be left alone. But being alone in Lori’s and my apartment was exponentially worse than being left alone in someone else’s house. I could feel the warmth and comfort as I walked into someone else’s house, but not my own.

And yet I couldn’t move.

I was tethered to the life it contained, mine, hers, ours. We moved into the apartment in 2005, shortly after Lori’s second recurrence of her brain tumor. We had no children. A choice for the prisoner’s dilemma which we made after her initial diagnosis, when we were faced with the decision to begin treatment immediately and hope she survived, or take the time necessary to harvest her eggs, knowing that the tumor would likely progress beyond treatment.

I couldn’t move after she died

We built our life in that apartment. While we defend four brain surgeryendless treatments and watching our friends grow their families while we couldn’t do the same, Lori and I found peace and happiness within the four walls of our home. The smell of molasses cookies baking in the oven, the creaking of the wood floors. Lori looked up at me from behind her needlepoint and jokingly called me Johnny because I watched way too much TV. We had sex in every room, ate on the floor and our door was always open to friends and family.

Everyone knew you didn’t need an invitation. You were always welcome. Just come in and there are always drinks, food and of course homemade cookies. We had our best and worst days in that apartment, and along the way our souls seeped into the floor, the walls, and even the air. It was more than our house; it was the place where the stress of the day washed away as soon as you crossed the threshold. There was a memory around every corner, and if I ever felt lost, even for a moment, stepping inside grounded me.

When Lori died, I couldn’t move. I thought about it. Every day. But eventually I became paralyzed by fear, guilt and worry. Without her I would already be lost. The memories of our life together were alive and well in that apartment. Frozen in time and place. As much as I didn’t want to be there, it was the only place I felt safe. It was what I knew, and when the rest of my world had just been torn apart, the apartment was the only place that felt stable. A small, indefinable, but incredibly strong bond with my old life. That I just couldn’t let go.

It didn’t help that Lori had random notes, journals, and travel stories stashed in every nook and cranny throughout the apartment, waiting to be found. Like a squirrel hiding acorns for the future. Lori always did this for herself. She would forgetfully put Hershey kisses in every pocket of every jacket she owned, and when they suddenly appeared in her hand, she would say out loud, “Thank you, future Lori!”

Every day after her death was like a treasure hunt. When you move, you risk missing one of these hidden treasures or, worse, accidentally throwing it away and losing it forever.

I had to let go

Four years passed in one moment. Other than Lori’s and my birthday and the day she died, I lost track of all time. Every day felt largely the same. I was caught in a loop. Tied to a life that no longer existed and a timeline that had ended, but unwilling to start a new one.

And then one day my sister said, “Johnny, you can’t move on if you don’t let go.” At first I didn’t understand. Did she mean for me to move on, knowing it won’t be as good as when I was with Lori? So I asked her. She said no, but that I still had a chance to live.

I looked at more than 70 apartments

So I decided to talk to a real estate agent, just to see how it felt. Before I knew it I had signed a contract. My real estate agent told me to clean up the apartment and stage it.

I had no idea what that actually meant until I walked through the apartment door after that work was done. Not a single memory was left behind. To be more precise, no furniture, books, photos, drawings or trinkets that made the apartment our home were left behind. Every item that brought back a memory was gone.

Instead of my memories, there was an apartment designed to be photographed, but not lived in. I called my realtor and screamed, cried, ranted and finally just collapsed on the bed.

It took six months to find a new place. I must have looked at more than 70 apartments. Every time you come up with an excuse why it wasn’t right. Along the way, I became incredibly close friends with my real estate agent, who, I think, in many ways, understood me better than some of my best friends.

And then the moment happened. I walked into a pre-war apartment with 10-foot ceilings, a fireplace, wood floors and 100-year-old black wrought-iron windows. It had pocket doors, a kitchen and bathrooms with marble countertops, a beautiful garden at the back, and it was quiet. When I stepped inside, I felt peaceful. The first time in over four years I felt this way. I think my face gave it away because my real estate agent said, “This is it. This is your house. You’re ready. It’s time. I can’t wait to see what happens in your new life.” And to my surprise, I couldn’t either.