Yesterday I moved out of both my parents’ houses. Everything I own is either in my apartment or in my car, with the exception of a crate of collectibles at my mom’s and my telescope at my dad’s. The collectibles I will be pricing and selling. The telescope I need back in my life. It was a weird experience, being permanently gone. Looking at my empty bedroom at my mom’s house was like…I don’t really know, but it was strange. It was also strange sifting through piles of old stuff — I found everything from the only pair of high heels I’d ever owned to a second-grade science fair poster.

My mom made me lunch and dinner. For lunch we had sandwiches with roasted chicken and Baconnaise — which she bought from QVC because she thought it was hilarious. (A word to the wise: it’s overpriced and kind of ooky, actually.) Occasionally I understand the stock that I come from. Over dinner, she told me an incredible story.

She was at the drug store the other day and was talking to this woman waiting in line in front of her. Apparently she had been home sick with something for a while and had a visiting nurse come to her home. Her chart had said explicitly that she was allergic to a certain kind of antibiotic. One day, the visiting nurse proceeded to give her an intravenous dose of that same antibiotic. She went into cardiac arrest, and according to her family members who were home, the nurse called 9-11, but didn’t start CPR.

When the paramedics got there she was flatlining, and they immediately started emergency CPR and got her into the ambulance. When they took her to the hospital they defibrillated her and she revived, but they thought she’d probably have severe brain damage because her brain had been cut off for minutes. Miraculously, three weeks later, there she is, standing in line at the drug store, telling the whole thing to my mom.

Do we ever really completely move out of anywhere?

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