Christmas Miracle

December 20, 2015. Life AC.

A year ago today I sold my first apartment. Five days before Christmas was not the best time to auction a property, but I wasn’t overly concerned. Whether it sold then or later in the New Year wasn’t going to have a huge impact on me; apart from the minor detail of having bought a new apartment two weeks earlier and settlement of that property was dependent on selling.

I’d been ferociously looking for a new apartment for almost two years, and it seemed I had every real estate agent on speed dial.  I had emotionally moved in to so many of the places I had seen, and would regularly stalk my new neighbourhoods. It was so easy to fall in love with all of the beautifully styled photographs, and quickly developed all sorts of fantasies about my new apartment, from the elaborate dinner parties I would host to curling up in front of the fireplace of my art deco home. Through my extensive and thorough search for the perfect apartment I had discovered a long list of uncanny similarities between real estate and dating; but that deserves its own blog entry.

It was Saturday 9 August and two of my favourite apartments were going to auction. I had pre-approval on a loan, researched the properties extensively, and prepared a spreadsheet comparing crime rates in each area; I was ready to bid. I had butterflies all morning, but that wasn’t because of the auctions. I’d had a biopsy the day before and the surgeon promised he’d call with my results. I already knew what he’d tell me, but little felt real about that day or the days that would follow. When I felt the lump in my breast less than 36 hours earlier, the fear was unmistakable and there was no doubt it was serious. When I woke in the morning knowing that I had to go straight to my GP, the entire day played out in my head. I knew I’d be getting probed and tested, and in a strange way, the visions I had that morning helped me prepare for the day. I went from my GP straight to a breast clinic where I had a mammogram, ultrasound and biopsy in a matter of hours. I changed into a fluffy white robe, was offered tea and biscuits and kept my sister close to distract me. Between procedures I picked up a magazine and flipped to the horoscopes; mine that day read as follows:

SATURN HAS BEEN IN YOUR SIGN FOR NEARLY TWO YEARS, PUTTING YOU AT THE MERCY OF THE TASKMASTER PLANET’S RIGOURS AND RESTRICTIONS. WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER, AND YOU’RE LIVING PROOF OF THAT. YOUR OPTIMISM IS REBORN NOW, THANKS TO THIS MONTH’S HEALING NEW MOON. THERE’S A FINAL HURDLE TO COME, BUT IN PREPARATION YOU’RE ARMED WITH YOUR RULER, PLUTO, GIVING YOU POWERS OF TRANSFORMATION, AND COLLABORATORS WHO LOVE WHAT YOU DO, SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO IT ALONE.

By the time my place was going to auction, I had finished 7 rounds of chemotherapy (out of a total of 8), so I ditched my usual headscarf and pulled on my brunette news presenter wig to cover my bald head. I didn’t want cancer to be my apartment’s selling point. There were 12 people at the auction; the auctioneer, the agent, my nosy neighbour and my entire family. The auctioneer suggested we cancel the auction due to ‘no genuine interest’ and list the property as a private sale. I was happy with the plan and we all went up to the apartment to go through the details. Minutes later a woman came through asking if she’d missed the auction, having seen the ‘auction today’ flag still hanging from the advertising board on the street. The experienced agent flashed an excited look at me, and motioned for me leave. 15 minutes later my Christmas miracle as I’ve named her, bought it for the full asking price, without having seen it prior to that day.

I was surprised how easy it was to let go of the tiny home that housed so many memories. It was a symbol of my independence and the place that witnessed the formation and disintegration of my first significant relationship. It was in this little flat that friends and I spent drunken nights laughing about nothing and dreaming about everything. It was where I constantly had to yell at men to stop urinating outside my window, avoided eye contact with the drug dealer downstairs and where Charlie sat on the floor months after he’d moved out and told me he’d slept with someone else. I had outgrown my little home years ago, and when the old Greek lady downstairs died from breast cancer three years earlier, I had (unknowingly) feared that would be my fate too.

Charlie and I spent about a year living together in my tiny apartment, and I remember him saying ‘only you could make me so happy trapped in that cage’. We had ordered a custom made bookshelf and spent an afternoon at my sisters painting it white, and before we finished he signed our initials and a love heart on the back panel. We almost broke up carrying the monstrous piece of furniture back to my place. I still laugh thinking of us yelling at each other in the street while we stared at the massive love heart between us.

That bookshelf, and the love he’d left on it haunted me for years after we broke up. It was the last thing to go when I moved out and I sold it to a friend for $50. I sat on the ledge of the window, sweating in my head scarf, and said goodbye to Charlie and to the lump of cheap timber that once held our joint belongings.