When selling a home everything that can possibly go wrong does. In the midst of the pandemic, the stress and frustration reaches an unimaginable climax.

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“Are you Kathryn?” he said. The August night air was dense with late summer humidity. I turned around to face a police officer clad in a crisp dark uniform, silhouetted in the cruiser’s headlights. I thought it was strange that he would ask me such a question. “How do you know my name?” I stood looking at him, oblivious to the vehicle I hadn’t heard approach.

“We’ve been looking for you over four hours, Kathryn. When you left the Marriott and didn’t return, the night manager called us. We were concerned you could head toward I-94 and walk into traffic.”

That was one of the craziest things I had ever heard. Why on earth would I do that? The officer helped me climb into the backseat of the SUV, after realizing the onboard computer didn’t allow for a front seat passenger. The dome light shined a brief glimpse on my robe and hands –the sullied material, the belt soiled to black, fragments of coral polish chipped across dirty nails.

On the drive back to the hotel, the officer sketched out details of the incident, none of which I remembered or made sense. He paused and I asked how I could have been missing four hours, since it was only midnight. Watching me in the rearview mirror, he explained the time was 4:30, nearing daybreak. I protested that simply could not be true. The officer gently assured me that it was, pointing to the white LCD numbers emanating from the dashboard clock.

He described how I had approached the hotel front desk in robe and pajamas, carrying my purse and a tote bag. I requested a cup of coffee from the night manager. She left to fetch the beverage, explaining she needed to brew a fresh pot which would take several minutes. When she came back, my floral purse was on the counter, but I was nowhere to be found. After 30

minutes I had not returned. She contacted the police, who spent the next several hours in search of me.

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Three events are considered the most stressful in a person’s life – the death of a loved one, divorce, and selling your home. Having experienced unexpected death and divorce, the anxiety of selling a house amid the COVID-19 pandemic won decisively.

In a two-week period, nearly 30 showings of my home occurred without a single offer. Before clients could enter, doorknobs and hard surfaces were disinfected; would-be buyers instructed to wear booties and use hand sanitizer. With no restaurants or movie theaters open, my Pilates instructor, Debra, graciously offered her office as a refuge. On days of multiple showings, I remained at the studio for hours. Then I returned to my house, rummaged through by anonymous people. I couldn’t stand the foot and handprints of strangers in my private space. I expunged every remnant of their transgressions, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.

It wasn’t simply the affront of unknown individuals trampling through a dwelling that still belonged to me. They were stamping on layers of memories and emotions accrued over an 18-year history encompassing love, joy, sorrow, and betrayal. This had been the very last house my then-husband had looked at the day before beginning his new job as a Deacon for an area Catholic church. I was still teaching in Illinois and had moved in sight unseen. I was thrilled at how well he had considered my desires – the coveted jetted tub, an all-white kitchen, high windows saturating the house with natural light.

Memories of tragedy left their imprint too. Seated alone at our dining room table, the ache cleaving at my heart on a dreary February day, softly murmuring, “Daddy” through stinging tears. My spouse and I were planning to celebrate his 47th birthday that day. Then my youngest

brother had called from Nebraska with the shocking news our father had died of an embolism. Or the night my husband and I sat stiffly across from the living room fireplace, having become a fractured couple who were living separate lives. Months of false hopes rising that marriage counseling could restore us, then discovering his deception - an affair with a co-worker and my public humiliation. I made my final stand as a married woman in this house, refusing to give my husband the legal separation he desired rather than a divorce, to maintain the pretense of marriage in the eyes of God.

Living in this dwelling I witnessed my rebirth and transformation from a supportive wife who had repressed her true self into a single, confident woman discovering her voice. I celebrated my independence by undertaking a major renovation infusing the house with my personality. Several years of enjoyment followed.

Around 2019 I began noticing decay seeping into the neighborhood. Houses weren’t being maintained, timeworn vehicles of residents filled guest parking spots, and homeowners were constantly at war with the Home-Owner Association (HOA) board over lawncare and snow removal expenses. Board members exerted their pettiness by kicking off those they felt had betrayed them, feeding a sense of supreme importance in otherwise toothless lives. While I sympathized, I could not remain here. I chose to build my forever home that I would help design. I recognized that once I moved, any emotional attachment to this dwelling would die away.

Severing those connections was tougher than I anticipated. Unforeseen obstacles emerged. I received one offer, from what real estate professionals sarcastically referred to as “Zillow-certified” buyers. This person insisted to his agent he “had done his research and the house wasn’t worth a penny more” than the offensive offer of $21,000 below my asking price. I contemplated taking the house off the market. The HOA forced my hand. They announced that

the replacement of driveways scheduled for late summer, when I had hoped to be a distant memory, would instead take place in June. Residents couldn’t park in the development and no prospective homebuyer would want to risk breaking a hip on fresh asphalt. The listing was temporarily off the market.

Work the asphalt firm assured us would take no longer than nine days bled into three weeks. Gravel, tar, and dust coated every surface. My realtor called with news amid the chaos that two early home seekers had asked for second viewings. A list of safety precautions was drawn up – the potential buyers could walk only on the grass, needed to be diligent of high curbs cut above the roads surface, and wear comfortable shoes. I was a shudder of nerves that someone might fall, then questioned if further deep cleaning, safeguards, and my own anxiety warranted the strain intensifying through my body.

A couple being transferred made an offer, almost the full asking price. Relocation meant they possessed a home buying allowance from a corporation. I was ecstatic. Sun poked through the haze draping the past months. Completing this taxing journey was within reach. However, there was still a home inspection to contend with. Another unknown individual invaded my dwelling.

In Minnesota, inspectors do not have to be licensed; they simply take courses, certifying them to relay every infraction that must be fixed for the sale to proceed. I thought I had done my due diligence in having the furnace and air conditioner serviced, coats of fresh paint applied, the deck stained, windows washed, repairs made, damaged siding replaced. But inspectors are paid to find defects. Awaiting the results was agony. When I got word that I had received a passing grade, I was as giddy as a college student surviving final exams.

I exhaled in relief and the conviction I had exceeded my quota of surprises and no more were in sight. But the asphalt business gave notice they would repave the private road—over the days I had scheduled to move out. Frantic calls to the management company brought more regrettable news—the dates could not be changed without incurring $10,000 in additional costs. A juggling act ensued allowing haulers to pass stealthily beyond the yellow plastic tape sealing off the street and onto the newly refurbished driveway.

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That sliver of light at the end of this bleak tunnel brightened steadily. I settled at the Marriott. Just as I got comfortable, my real estate broker delivered more troubling news. The buyer’s agent insisted on two walk-throughs—one before I vacated the premises and the second afterward. Any damage incurred by the movers would be my responsibility. What the hell? That’s why I hired professionals, wasn’t it?

The agent representing me was as stunned as I. “I’ve never heard of this before,” she said. “But he’s new to the industry.” Suspicion throbbed in my gut. What I envisioned was a zealous sales associate hunting for a higher commission at my expense.

Cancellation of the contract wasn’t an option. Summer was advancing toward the cusp of autumn. The house must be sold before the waning light faded to darkness and snowfall encrusted the land. I grudgingly signed the purchase agreement amendment. The knots twisting my body refused to loosen. Nightmares of the sale collapsing at the last-minute interrupted sleep.

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The police officer had discovered me dirty, bruised, and bloody, wandering in the middle of the street. At the hotel, a team of four officers strongly urged me to seek medical care. The fog hovering over my brain started to lift, as I recalled movers arriving in three hours to load my

belongings. My refusal to go to the hospital was adamant. The police hesitantly allowed me back into my room.

In front of the dresser mirror, I was shocked at the damaged face staring back. Dark crescents of blood pooled under both eyes: cuts, scratches, and insect bites exposed welts of pink flesh. My hair was stringy, and the rest of me smelled of a foul odor—pungent in its sticky sweetness—making me recall the cheap wine scored on the sly in high school.

Every inch of my beat-up frame ached or itched. Dark eggplant bruises marked calves, thighs, and buttocks. I showered, scrubbing off this filthy enigmatic layer as best I could. The new owners were taking possession at noon, and I did not see beyond directing the movers and attending closings for both homes. Fortunately, masks were mandatory, obscuring most of my marred face. I did not want the imposition of questions I could not answer. A friend oversaw the moving crew, vacuuming her way out while I attended the two closings.

When the movers departed and I found myself alone in the new house for the first time, genuine fright consumed me. Why did I leave the hotel? Where had I been walking for hours? My mind was a chalk board wiped clean.

A close friend, Debra, arrived unannounced with house-warming gifts. She visibly flinched at the sight of my swollen face. I collapsed into a heap of choking sobs, terrified of what those lost hours might portend. Debra insisted I get medical attention, driving me to the hospital for a comprehensive examination. I hoped desperately the ER doctor would miraculously produce the missing pieces of my memory.

The physician ordered a CT scan of my brain, to check for bleeding or traumatic injury. The tests were normal. It was what she said next that seemed unfathomable. “You have suffered an episode of transient global amnesia (TGA) which is precipitated by extremely stressful life

situations. Moving and selling a house are at the top of that list. Occurrences of TGA last between 12 — 24 hours. You are recovering quite well. On average, we see cases every two months. Victims generally do not suffer another bout or recollect what happened.”

As the doctor spoke, realization that I had heard of transient global amnesia registered. It had been a plot twist in a cheesy movie or TV show. At the time, I could not suspend my disbelief at the revelation and imagined only a writer could devise such an outlandish condition. I had difficulty suppressing laughter at the discovery TGA does, in fact, exist.

My midnight adventure ended happily. I was not sexually assaulted, maimed, or worse. The bruises faded into blotchy green and yellow patches, healing over a period of weeks. I felt profound appreciation toward the hotel manager and police officers who searched until they found me, calling my name. I wrote heartfelt letters of gratitude, explaining an occurrence of TGA had led to the incident. I also warned that I am a writer, and not to be surprised if they should find themselves in a fictionalized story involving an unaccompanied woman, meandering through neighborhoods in her pajamas suffering from transient global amnesia.

By Kathryn Schleich

From: United States

Website: http://kathrynschleich.com

Twitter: authorkschleich