Moments of pain and happiness

I haven't felt Sandy's presence much the past few days. I miss her more acutely when I don't feel her here. The word never echoes through my brain. Never going to see her again, never going to hug her, kiss her, argue with her, comfort her, tease her. Never going to feel her body against mine in bed; never going to hear her say, "Yum," as she spoons around me. Never going to eat bread she baked; never going to call her on the intercom and tell her to come up to bed already.

No  matter how much I read or how many people I talk to or how much I theorize, I don't understand mortality. How a personality, a vital being, can be here and then not here. It's always been hard for me to understand. I suppose that puts me in good company with most of humanity. Mortality is scary. It raises questions about the meaning of life - why bother if, no matter what we do, we'll eventually vanish?

For decades, I've found comfort in the idea that energy cannot be created or destroyed, and that what makes us us is our energy. That when we die, we don't disappear, but transform, with an individual's energy dissipating and joining with other energies. It's a beautiful idea in the abstract. But when it's Sandy's energy we're talking about, I want it here, in her body, but healthy this time. I want her to have another chance - not because I think she needs or wants it, but because I need her here.

When I see a photo of her or flash on a memory, I'm back in the moment of the conversation or the event, and she's real, she's alive to me. And then my brain nearly shatters again when I realize that she's gone. But she was just here, in my thoughts and memories. There is no path there, just here/not here. This must be why it's so helpful to tell the story of her death, again and again, relating our tale, providing the segue, putting it into context a little more, so that I can integrate it into my life story little by little.

I was out in the garden yesterday. It was a wonderful, blustery autumn afternoon. Warm enough that I was able to wear just a long-sleeved T-shirt, but cool enough that the air felt fresh. I put away the garden hoses for the winter, bundled up the faucet, harvested the last of the rhubarb, removed the last tomato plants from their pots, and did other autumn-y things. On a whim, I let the cats join me outside, and they came and went, checking in fairly regularly, and generally being goofy. I felt good for an hour or so. It wasn't the good I've felt sometimes when I feel Sandy strongly here -- or when I somehow manage to forget that she died. She wasn't apparently with me, and I never forgot that she died. I just wasn't despairing. I was enjoying the day just as I would have enjoyed it with Sandy here, just as she would have enjoyed it. I enjoyed the inherent pleasure of wind and kitties and earth and accomplishment.

Later, the pain returned. This is not a linear process. And I'm not sure I can feel good long-term with all those nevers haunting me. But it is interesting to step outside myself and watch my own reactions, trying not to judge (it's not wrong to be in pain; it's not wrong to feel good). These are lessons I never wanted to learn, experiences I never wanted to have. But they're mine, all the same.