The morning that our storage container was scheduled to arrive in Salt Lake City is pretty blurry to me.

All I remember is that I brought Lou a beet juice from a super healthy restaurant that catered to winter hippies and vegans. When I got to the hospital that morning, the nurses gave me an update on Lou’s night — which I recall was predictably eventful for someone in Lou’s condition. 

I remember that it was difficult for Lou to accept that I was pulling off another move-in on my own. But it wasn’t a big deal. I was just going to have the movers shove all of our stuff into our new condo, and then get back to the hospital as soon as I could in case Lou was released that afternoon.

Henry’s family was eager to have us stay with them for one final night before we actually moved out, and Lou needed the extra comfort that Henry’s daughters always provided in his life. They were constantly brightening up our lives, and so I wanted Lou to have a dose of sunshine at the end of such a bleak couple of days.

When I got to the building we were moving into, I had a few more pieces of paper to sign before I could get our keys and elevator FOBs. The building manager then showed me how to operate the freight elevator. This condo was nothing like the loft in Miami. In fact, as soon as I had the keys in my freezing little hand, I realized how small and poorly constructed the building was.

When I unlocked the door to our new unit, it was mostly how I remembered it. It had very high ceilings, and polished concrete floors (which made that condo so…cold.) 

But. 

What I didn’t remember was the fact that our unit was really small.

So much smaller than I recalled. In fact, I dug up our original lease agreement in my backpack just to make sure I was in the unit that Lou and I agreed to rent. Yep. It was the right unit. My mind had just been overly generous in my recollections. (Clearly, a bad habit that I have from writing fiction!)

As I walked by the tiny galley kitchen, it surprised me when I noticed how short the refrigerator was. I didn’t even have to lift up on my tippy toes to see the top of it. Suddenly, I had this horrible flash-forward image of Lou trying to stoop low enough to see into the refrigerator. That was never going to work. The white countertops and the dark wood cabinets were familiar to me, but I remembered the kitchen having more counter space… 

Everything seemed to have shrunk when things transitioned from my memory to my reality.

As I moved into the combination dining room / living room area, I felt my heart squeeze up with shock. There was no way I didn’t notice how small this condo was! It was ridiculously small! But it was officially ours, and there was no turning back at this point.

So, I tried to imagine how to position our dining table and six chairs in the space that seemed dedicated to dining — without blocking the doorway to the master bedroom — and still leaving enough room for the sofa and armchair we were going to need to buy to create a living room. It was going to be so tight — which might mean we were going to have to find a tiny little IKEA situation to make this work.

But… I already knew that Lou doesn’t do tiny little IKEA situations.

The greatest shock of my “mis-memory” of our new home hit me hard when I walked into the guest bedroom. It was absolutely miniature! There was no way a bed and the desk I still had were going to fit into the room. In fact, I actually stretched out on the freezing cold floor in the guest room to see how much room would be left if I placed the bed along the far wall.

If I pushed my head up flat against the wall, there was maybe four feet between my feet and the other bedroom wall. I’m not even as long as the bed I had planned to put in that room, so how in the world could I make this work? I remember lying there on the numbingly cold concrete floor. Suddenly, I felt like I was going to start crying…

How was I going to make this place into a home? 

It felt like we were moving into a dollhouse or something, and I couldn’t believe Lou and I never noticed how small this condo was when we were touring the complex. I suppose they get you by showing you the model unit. They purposely showcase freakishly tiny furnishings with lovely finishes to make you think your things will fit, and look just as nice. But it’s a very rude awakening when you walk into a reality that will never contain anything that can make your life feel safe, warm, or good again…

When I moved into the master bedroom, it wasn’t that much larger than the guest room. The only real difference was the fact that it had an ensuite bathroom, and walk-in closet that was a decent size — but not big enough for two wardrobes. (No chance.) But at least I could set up Lou’s clothes in that closet, and somehow, that helped me rally a little. I quickly came up with a plan in my mind to put my clothing in the regular closet in the guest room. That was the best I could do. 

But the real challenge on my mind was how to fit Lou’s biggest and most favorite piece of his “man furniture” into the master bedroom: his distressed leather sleigh bed. 

It was a very handsome piece of furniture that had taken quite a beating during all of our moves — but somehow, that headboard and footboard only looked cooler because of that. It was one of the only things in Lou’s collection of man things that I semi-liked. But at that moment in time, I felt overwhelmed by the miscalculations we’d made in the size of our new condo, and I knew without even measuring that Lou’s enormous bed frame would never fit. 

There was only one other closet I hadn’t looked in yet. Between the guest room and the guest bathroom were two double doors that I instantly remembered with great fondness. When I pulled on the handles, the two doors opened with a fresh yawn to reveal a brand new washer and dryer! There was a handy shelf mounted just above the two units, and I could smell the clean odor of the newly painted walls. The manufacture’s tags were still taped to the outside of the washer — which excited me a great deal. 

Brand. New. Machines…

I remember saying to myself: “Maybe if I spend all of my time looking at this washing machine and dryer, I can make a life for myself in Utah. But other than that…I’m not sure I will ever be happy here.”