In this special episode, I present an essay about my feelings about leaving the home I’ve lived in since I was three years old. Normally, a podcast like this would include lots of nostalgic photos of my home and neighborhood. Unfortunately, I don’t have time or energy to create the kind of video masterpiece I would normally create for such an episode. This time, it’s just me talking. Here is my nostalgic essay “It’s Just a Building.”

Hi, this is Chris Young. Welcome to a special episode of Contemplating Life.

In my previous episode, I talked about my 70th birthday and how it was also a celebration of all the good times we’ve had in this house. My family moved here in May 1959, just two months short of my fourth birthday.

Sometime around my 70th birthday in July 2025, I wrote the first draft of an essay called “It’s Just a Building.” I’ve tried to find a market for it. Indianapolis Monthly Magazine, which had previously published two of my autobiographical essays, wasn’t interested. There is another local magazine (I can’t remember its name), and I sent out an inquiry but never heard back.

I’ve updated it a couple of times. Here is the latest version of “It’s Just a Building.”

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It’s just a building, for God’s sake – a collection of wood, glass, drywall, paint, asphalt shingles, and aluminum trim. It was primarily built in a factory as a collection of trusses, walls, doors, and windows. Those prefabricated components were shipped here from Lafayette, Indiana, on a flatbed truck and erected in a single day onto a concrete slab.

Just months before that slab was poured, there was nothing here but farmland. In less than a year, a new neighborhood sprang to life. Sewer, water, and gas pipes were laid. The streets were paved, and sidewalks were poured. Utility poles and trees were planted throughout the area. They call the neighborhood Eagledale.

The street in question is only one block long. There are 12 houses on each side of the street, many of which were originally identical in design. There were only five varieties. They were painted in different colors to give them character, but the repetitive designs made them monotonous. No one seemed to care. The buildings were there to serve a purpose.

Construction of the houses was merely the beginning. Something else was being created out of less tangible materials than wood and drywall. These houses would grow into something much more important – they became homes.

The raw materials of a home are people and memories.

The buildings were transformed into homes by newlywed couples and the children who would follow. They would bring with them toys, bicycles, cars, lawnmowers, cooking smells, laughter, music, and tears.

Gradually, bushes, flower boxes, and more trees were added. Front porches were redesigned with awnings and brick retaining walls. Fences were erected. The monotony of design gradually disappeared, giving way to individual tastes.

Garages were added alongside the buildings. Patios were poured in backyards. Storage sheds appeared. Extra rooms were added, and some renovations were so extensive that they doubled the floor plan’s square footage.

Families would come and go, and as they did, what was once one family’s home gradually transformed into another family’s home. One by one, the original owners left, taking with them the memories created there.

That’s all except for one home. My home.

When my family moved into the new house on Cossell Drive in the Eagledale neighborhood on the northwest side of Indianapolis, I was six weeks shy of my fourth birthday—67 years ago.

I’m the last of the original occupants of these buildings. All of the other original families have been gone for many years, and soon, I will be gone as well.

Barring some unforeseen and unlikely turn of events, I will be leaving this building for the last time and entering a skilled nursing facility sometime within the next couple of months. My sisters, who hold the deed to this building and property, will sell it, just as all the other homes on this street were sold by their original owners. A new family will remake it in their image. They will call it “home,” but it won’t be my home.

I only have the vaguest memories of my family’s first home, where we lived for the first three years of my life. For all intents and purposes, this is the only home I’ve ever had. I don’t know what the word “home” means unless it describes this building.

Home isn’t a building. It’s an idea. It’s a concept. It’s part of one’s life.

Leaving this home will mean losing part of my life. I don’t know what life is like if it’s not rooted in this building.

The word “home” implies safety. Will I feel safe after losing this home? Will I be safe after losing this home?

There is no way of knowing. It’s scary.

They say that there are five stages of loss or grief.

The first is denial. I suppose I’m past that one because I can’t deny that I will be leaving this place for either a nursing facility or a cemetery. I have a lifelong disability caused by a genetic neuromuscular disease known as Spinal Muscular Atrophy, Type 2. At age 71, I am likely the oldest living person with that particular disability. Like everyone, my days are numbered. I can’t deny that. So, even if I manage to avoid a nursing facility, I will be leaving this home someday.

Stage 2 is anger. Some anger remains. It’s not fair that Medicare and Medicaid won’t cover 24/7 in-home care, even if it would be cheaper than a skilled nursing facility. The injustice and stupidity of that still make me angry.

I am firmly in the third stage: bargaining. I’m still bargaining with Medicaid to find a way to stay in my home. I am bargaining with multiple skilled nursing facilities to get a private room. Most only offer a small shared room with no privacy and no personal space. Such rooms do not have sufficient space for a desktop computer desk. I will have to get by on a laptop. I doubt I can continue creating my autobiographical podcast– Contemplating Life. I can’t imagine playing online games with my friends around the world on a small laptop.

My disease is progressing, and I can easily see a day coming soon when I will be bedridden. When that happens, I won’t be able to do any of those hobbies anymore anyway. I’d still rather be bedridden at home than in a facility.

Stage 4 is depression. Hell yes, I’m depressed. Wouldn’t you be if you were leaving the only home you had known for 67 years? Okay, so that sounds more like anger than depression, but trust me when I tell you, the sleepless nights wondering about what will happen next have left me significantly depressed. One hour a week with my therapist gives me a chance to talk through my feelings. It helps. But it doesn’t solve anything.

Even if somehow I managed to stay in my home for a few more years, I’m still faced with the inevitability of my mortality. Can I look the Grim Reaper in the eyes and not blink? Even if I win the battle to stay here, I will eventually lose the war to stay alive.

The final stage is acceptance. Do I have any other choice but to accept my fate? Sure, I’ll keep bargaining until the last minute. However, coping with a lifelong neuromuscular disease that has slowly eroded what little physical ability I had as a child is a master class in acceptance. I wouldn’t have lasted this long with some shred of sanity had I not learned to accept my fate.

So, I’m losing my home. Along with it vanish familiarity, safety, security, and a deeply rooted sense of belonging to a particular place in a particular building on a particular street in a particular neighborhood in a particular city, state, and country.

And I am grieving that loss.

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In upcoming episodes, we will continue chronicling my struggle to find a suitable placement for me in a skilled nursing facility that will provide safety and quality of life that keep me comfortable for the remainder of my days.

So, as always… if you find this podcast educational, entertaining, enlightening, or even inspiring, consider sponsoring me on Patreon for just $5 per month. You’ll get early access to the podcast and other exclusive content. I’m not in this for money, but every bit helps.

As always, my deepest thanks to my financial supporters and everyone who supports me in any way. That means more to me than words can express.

Even if you can’t provide financial support, please share the links to this podcast on social media so I can grow my audience. All of my back episodes are available, so check those out. If you have any comments, questions, or other feedback, please feel free to comment on any of the platforms where you found this podcast. I will see you next time as we continue contemplating life. Until then, fly safe, everyone.