The deed is done

Literally, the deed is done. James, our attorney, came by this afternoon and I signed the deed that transfers Sandy's interest in the house to me. I also signed the papers that officially close her estate, attesting that I've paid all her debts and distributed what was designated to her heirs.

I expected this to be an emotional meeting. Last time I met with James, thinking I'd be signing those papers, I was very fragile. But today the signing actually felt pretty routine, just legal papers that required my signature.

Us, in 2000

It was important to me that the house be paid off while Sandy's name was still on the title. I did that in October; the lien was removed, and the escrow account was reconciled, so that's all done now.

On Monday, I walked down to the state Department of Licensing office and transferred the title of the car into my name. That was a little hard; it's always painful for me to tell someone that Sandy is dead or to show them the death certificate. But I didn't feel like I was erasing her, or that the car was any less hers. I plan to donate it to a nonprofit very soon, so changing the title felt more like the kind of administrative task I usually took care of for both of us. Rather than harming her, I felt I was taking care of her. I was dealing with the annoying details, just as I made the arrangements to have her old car donated eleven years ago.

The car title must be what catalyzed my shift in thinking about the house title. I've said all along that if she returns after I've removed her from the title, we'll just add her back. Now I've decided that changing the title is just a practical matter, granting me power of attorney over her share of the house while she's unable to deal with financial and legal obligations. It's still her home. It's still our house. I'm just handling things for a while.

No matter how much I know, logically, that she isn't going to return, I feel uneasy making any changes until I identify how we'd reverse or accommodate them if she does come back. Since these contingency plans will only go into effect if she returns, this thinking hurts no one and gives me peace of mind, so I'm not doing anything to curb it. And I know that everyone, including Sandy, will be impressed with my forethought if she does come back!

Bargaining

The stages of grief have been discredited; it turns out that grievers feel a lot of different things, in no particular order. But I still relate to the names of the stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression. Everything but acceptance; that one I can't wrap my head around.

I think the original concept of bargaining was the idea of bargaining with God or some other greater power. In her book about widowhood, Joyce Carol Oates says she somehow thought that if she just did everything right, if she was good enough, her husband would return. I can relate to that. I've felt that. If I get through the day's to-do list, get the kitchen tidy, pull off the memorial, bike enough miles, whatever — if I'm good, the universe will stop punishing me and give me Sandy back. But I don't go there very often.

Most of the time, I go right to the source. I bargain with Sandy. I know that people don't return from the dead, and yet every religious and cultural tradition seems to have stories of it happening. I believe that Sandy would have returned if she could have, but I also think her desire to return has waned. So, if I want to lure her back, I need to offer her prezzies. Sandy has always loved prezzies.

Last December, we went over to Viv's and Sandy helped introduce
the tradition of making spritz cookies to a new generation.

I talk to her as I go through the day, and I sprinkle little promises in. "I'll get rid of the car, but when you return, we'll buy a Smart car!"

"Let's get you a dog!"

"We'll make spritz cookies if you come back!" (Spritz cookies were Sandy's favorite holiday cookie, and she had many good childhood memories attached to them.)

"If you come back and you're healthy, we can finally remodel the kitchen!"

"You can read as much as you want."

I've promised her travel to Turkey (a long-planned, but never-taken trip); a safari in Africa (we never thought we could afford it); weekends on Whidbey Island and San Juan Island, in Victoria and Vancouver, B.C.; a week in Santa Barbara; an East Coast tour; another trip to Mexico (planned for our 15th anniversary but put off because of chemo last year); a return trip to Venice.

I've coaxed her back with news of the progress we're making on gaining marriage equality in Washington state: "Come back and marry me, woman!"

I've promised her that she never has to work if she doesn't want to; I'll support us both. But if she does want to work, I'll help her find something that makes her happy.

Occasionally, I turn to guilt (the cats need two people, not just one; she wasn't supposed to leave me; I need her), but guilt has never been a good motivator for Sandy. She just adds it to the weapons she uses to beat herself up — or else she gets angry. Positive reinforcement is a much better tool, and I have so many prezzies to offer.

A flat-screen TV. (She wanted one, but felt it irresponsible to buy one while our perfectly good large TV was working fine.)

A stand mixer. (A year ago she was researching to find the perfect one for breadmakers.)

A ceanothus, and any other blue flower her heart desires.

The list grows daily, sometimes hourly, as I think of things I want to do for her, do with her, buy for her, give her, or help her achieve. If she does come back, we may have to take out a new mortgage on the house to pay for everything I've promised her. But that's a small price to pay, indeed.

Giving thanks

I've been wallowing in self-pity most of the past week, so when Thanksgiving came, I wasn't much in the mood for making the traditional list of gratitude. But in the past twenty minutes, I've realized how grateful I am for three different aspects of the ordeal this summer. True gratitude feels good.

The village came through in 2006, too, as dozens of people helped
us paint our house between Sandy's surgery and the start of chemo.
Here, they were wrangling the foundation plant so they could get
to the house. It took several people to pull that thing back.

When it took a village, the village was there. Whether it was accompanying me in urgent care, joining me in meeting with the doctors, getting our car emissions tested, keeping family and friends informed, keeping me fed (despite my resistance), attending to the removal of the hospital bed so that I didn't have to face it when I returned home, fetching specific food at Sandy's whim, checking on the cats, or helping Sandy know just how loved she was, our family of origin and family of choice — our village — really came through. I don't know how people manage without such a strong and versatile community, and I'm glad I didn't have to find out. Thank you all.

We had good health insurance. We didn't have the cadillac plan we'd had when Sandy was a Microsoft employee, but our plan has low limits on annual out-of-pocket spending and broad coverage of services. Aside from a couple of ambulance rides and a few prescriptions, I didn't have to pay for any of Sandy's medical care in the last five weeks, through two weeks of hospitalization, a full set of brain radiation, several MRIs and CT scans and chest Xrays and lots of blood work, and her final ten days in the hospice facility. The entire time she had cancer — from her first diagnosis of the primary tumor in 2006 until the day she died — we were able to evaluate each treatment option based on efficacy and appropriateness, never having to weigh whether we could afford it. And I was left with no medical debt. I wish that were true for all families affected by cancer. 

I control my own schedule. I'm self-employed, and I'd already decided to take the summer off while we adjusted to a new chemo regimen, so I had no work obligations in June or July. I was able to spend every day and every night in the hospital and at the hospice facility with Sandy. I probably would have, anyway, but I'd have been risking my job to do so. Or I'd have been trying to work from the hospital or hospice, something I was in no position mentally or emotionally to do. I was very attentive to Sandy's wellbeing and to all the medical decisions and issues, but I had no energy left to focus on anything else.

There are literally hundreds of other things I'm grateful for regarding the past year and a half, since Sandy's diagnosis with metastatic cancer. And thousands upon thousands of things I'm grateful for relating to the rest of our life together and my life in general. But these three are important, and they arose spontaneously, and I'm just going to savor the feeling of gratitude for a while.

Words that don't comfort

My grief is my own; I know from speaking with others and reading a fair amount about grief that the experience is deeply individual and personal. So I do not speak for all grievers. But I am not the only one who hasn't been comforted by the idea that the deceased is no longer in pain.

I know that those who say it mean well. And I have never wanted Sandy to be in pain. But there are many reasons that such a simple thought can get my back up so quickly.

First, it ignores my pain, which was particularly intense in the weeks that people tended to talk about Sandy no longer being in pain. Is it really okay that I'm in constant pain as long as she's not? My pain has lasted longer than her nerve pain did. Aren't we even now? And yet my pain continues.

Second, it implies that there were two options: pain or death. Our vision was never to keep Sandy alive and in pain. We weren't fighting some evil overlord who attempted to keep her alive and suffering. We fought cancer. The cancer caused the pain as it killed her. Saving her from the cancer would have saved her from the pain. They were one and the same evil.

She was miserable for much of our trip in May,
but the day we spent at Arches, she felt good.

Third, she wasn't in pain all the time. Her pain was nearly unbearable as the cancer moved into her central nervous system, and it was especially debilitating as it worsened and no one could identify its cause. But even then, there were days without pain. Days she enjoyed. The night of my birthday, June 3, she felt good enough to walk down Madison to have a wonderful dinner with me. The day she started radiation — the day our lives changed forever — she kept remarking about how good she felt, and she was ambitiously laying out plans. Sandy's life was more than pain. She was vocal about the pain, which I appreciated, because it meant I could help her resolve it. But it was not constant, and it was not her life.

I know there are things to be grateful for: that she didn't linger in the state of acute suffering for long, that she knew she was loved, that we had 15 and a half years together (and time before that as friends), that we had a chance to say goodbye and all the things we needed to say. And I am grateful for all the people who sent her cards, gifts, and flowers, and who made donations in her name — and for all those who have offered their support to me, as I took care of her and as I've tried to find my way without her.

Changing the mantra

Venice, Italy: 2003, perched four or five feet off the ground
on the base of the Campanile in Piazza San Marco

Typically, in difficult times, we'd say, "We'll get through this." We meant, of course, that we'd face the challenge together and come out the other side to resume our regular lives. It was our version of "This, too, shall pass," and the emphasis was on we.

In May 2010, Sandy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The oncologist told her that she'd be on chemo the rest of her life. Her chemo in 2006/2007 had been nearly unbearable; she remembered well just how miserable she'd been the whole time, how much it had stolen from her. So she was distressed about the idea of ongoing chemo. We instinctively started to say, "We'll get through this," but realized that wouldn't work. This time getting through this would find her dead and me alone. Neither of us had any desire to emphasize that.

Instead, we adopted the phrase, "We'll make it work." We said that a lot in May and June of that year, shorthand for the idea that we'd get her treatment and make sure she had a good quality of life. We looked forward to the "new normal" as she suffered those first few months.

And then we got there. Our new normal involved chemo three weeks out of four, and there were definitely a few bumps, but she was no longer in pain, no longer so fatigued, no longer anemic, no longer having trouble breathing. We stopped having to say that we'd make it work, because we already had.

Things went so well that I began to think we really could keep her alive until the cure. She believed that, too. But when I slipped up one day this spring and said, "We'll get through this," she corrected me quickly. "We'll make it work," she said firmly. I repeated what she'd said, out of respect for her and not wanting to jinx anything.

We did make it work. We found our new normal. In the face of this monster, we regained a significant degree of control and believed our fate really was in our hands. And I know that all the things we did definitely improved her quality of life, and probably kept her alive longer than she would have been. 

Ultimately, though, we got through it, and when the 14-month ordeal was over, she was dead and I was painfully alone.

Doing the hard things

I remember a friend saying how much she admired me, taking care of the cats and everything else by myself, back when I was single in my own apartment in 1994. At the time, I thought it seemed like an odd comment. She'd been partnered for many years, but I couldn't even conceive of another person being helpful, rather than hindrance. My idea of getting something done efficiently was doing it myself.

Fast-forward a bit, and I was grateful to rely on Sandy's assistance, complementary expertise, and moral support whenever anything unexpected arose: cat health emergencies, human health emergencies, household appliance failures, flooded basement, fallen tree, and so on.

In June, I passed our car as I walked home from the grocery store, and I noticed that the back section (the part that doesn't open) of the rear driver's side window was shattered. The glass remained in place, but it had a pretty impressive pattern. I continued home and told Sandy. She was lying on the sofa, attempting a nap. I asked what she thought we should do; should we call the police? She wasn't sure, but she thought she should probably go back to sleep. I coaxed her up off the sofa and trudged up the street with her. She was not pleased, but she did it. It was our car, our problem. And when she saw the window, she agreed it was impressive and troubling; it almost looked like it had been shot. We took photos, moved the car closer to the house, and then I began to tape the glass in place while she called the police. From there, I took on the rest of the work, always checking in with her to see if she agreed. Twenty-four hours later, the glass was repaired, courtesy of our insurance company, and all was well.

No matter how large or how small the problem, my first instinct is to confer with Sandy. Even in areas that were my primary responsibility, I always talked with her before acting. I was the one who made the ultimate decisions about cat care, for example, but we always discussed together whether it was time to go to the emergency vet, whether we should change feeding schedules, whether we should add a litterbox to the first floor, whatever the issue was. I wouldn't have had it any other way.
And now, it's all mine to do. I talk to her, of course, and I imagine what she'd say or do if she were here. But all of the phone calls and Internet research and thinking and deciding fall on my shoulders. It makes even minor crises overwhelming and exhausting.

I'll take care of the house; it's worth it. But the car is too much trouble, and brings me too much stress, for the minimal convenience it offers. So after a minor and distressing car emergency yesterday, which took much of today to remedy, I think I'm finally ready to donate the car to a good cause soon. I'm making the lists of things to do while I still have a car, and I'll probably join Zipcar, which has several vehicles available within a few blocks of our house. It's a big move. The only way I've been able to embrace it fully is to know that we always said this car just needed to last until the house was paid off (and I paid it off last month) so when Sandy returns, we can get the Smart car that's been on her wish list since 2001. 

Snow and chemo and murder

I've been thinking a lot lately about the events of November 22 last year, the Monday before Thanksgiving.

We woke up in the morning excited about the first snow of the year, but we were surprised at the local excitement when we walked out the door. The intersection of 15th & Union was blocked off with police tape, and we assumed there had been a traffic accident due to the weather. (That corner has been the site of many accidents even in ideal conditions.)

As we crossed 15th & Pike, we realized our block of 15th was taped off from that side, too. A police car was parked next to the tape, and we asked the officer what was going on. He said it was just an assault.

He said it pretty calmly. At the time, we turned to each other and said, "Just an assault?" but we kept going because we needed to get to an oncology appointment. It's an eight-block walk, and with Sandy's hip issues, it often took about 20 minutes.

We received good news about tumor marker levels and recent scans, and made a new plan with the oncologist for when a chemo break would be appropriate. Then we crossed the hall to the oncology infusion and went through our usual chemo routine: did a crossword puzzle together, planned menus for the week and made a shopping list, caught up with our favorite infusion nurses, ate lunch, and then read or napped or played games on the iPad. Sandy drifted off pretty early that day. Each time they gave her Benadryl to prevent an allergic reaction to the Taxol, and it always made her sleepy. I chatted with the nurses about the snow while Sandy slept, and we monitored the snow as it started and stopped repeatedly. And then it changed. It started coming down heavily and the temperature dropped outside; it started sticking just as Sandy's infusion was ending. The staff was concerned about how they were going to get home that evening, and we were just as glad we were departing to walk home then and not any later.

Sandy, walking home from chemo.
Many were jealous of her walking sticks that day.

On our block, we met some neighbors on the sidewalk and they filled us in on the excitement we'd missed that morning. A mentally ill homeless man had been walking down the street next to a guy who lived just a couple of blocks from us. The killer imagined that the stranger he was walking next to had given his sister a venereal disease (apparently this was a common fantasy he had, and it always made him angry). He was carrying a camping axe because he'd decided to try camping in local woods (I never found out where he thought there were woods in our urban neighborhood) and in his anger, he brought the axe down on the innocent stranger's head. In front of the house just across Union. We didn't know all of this at the time; all anyone knew was that a local man had been killed with an axe.

I didn't know either the killer or the victim, and we only casually knew the neighbor whose yard became a crime scene. The killer was caught within minutes. Some kids who attend the school across the street had been walking back to class and witnessed it; they were understandably traumatized. Other neighbors heard the sound of the axe coming down and the victim screaming; we were oblivious, probably because the school kids scream all the time.

Sandy always took a lot of photos when it snowed. Anyone
who came across our photo collection would assume
we lived in a snowy clime. But it did come down fast that day.
She took this photo as I was departing for the grocery store.
(Look closely, and you can see me in my white coat and
dark scarf exiting the porch.)

It was sobering to think about how we treat (or fail to treat) mental illness, and to recognize that, really, just about anyone could have been that guy's victim. (It was later discovered that he'd killed a guy a day or two before in another part of town.)

But many of the details I remember of that day are not tinged with trauma. We brought home an end table that had been left by the dumpsters at an apartment building on our block; it became the bedside table in the guest room. Sandy swept the snow off our sidewalks to try to minimize what we'd need to shovel later, but the snow was falling fast enough that her efforts were quickly obscured. I went to the grocery store and was glad we'd be staying home, because the sidewalks were starting to ice up.

Though Seattle, and especially our neighborhood, were in shock over the killing, the winter wonderland of the next several days distracted people with more mundane concerns and, frankly, gave many of us an excuse to celebrate life.

It's hard to believe it's been a year. A year ago we mourned the senseless violence, and we were grateful that we were safe. We'd had good news at Sandy's oncology appointment, and we were optimistic about our future, while aware of the strong reminder that life was full of unexpected events. The roads grew more treacherous outside, but we were cozy and safe, together in our home.

Considering travel

Sandy in the Keystone Cabin on Whidbey Island when we were
there for our anniversary in 2005. We were also there for our
anniversary last year, and many other weekends over the years.

I haven't been out of town since Sandy died. If we'd had the summer we planned, we'd have gone camping multiple times, spent at least a weekend on San Juan Island, and by now we'd probably have gone to Whidbey Island again. Or Mt. Rainier for a weekend.

We traveled to get away from our to-do lists, and in the last year, to take a little vacation from all the reminders of cancer. Our weekend trips were times for physical activity (biking, hiking, kayaking), exploring (wandering around Victoria, Vancouver, or one of the islands), good food, and reading. Lots of reading. Lying around on sofas engrossed in books or magazines, interrupting to read especially interesting or well-written bits to each other.

The truth is that I need a vacation. I'm overdue for some time away from my to-do list and the reminders of all that I've lost. But the thought of traveling panics me. Not the travel itself; I've never feared for my physical safety when traveling alone, and I'm quite capable of negotiating all that goes along with travel. My panic comes from the idea of actually being in a place that used to bring us peace. I crave our familiar destinations, and I fear that they'll be too painful for me to bear.

So, try someplace new, right? Ah, but that sounds impossible. Here in Seattle, I rush home to be back in the space where Sandy lived, to be in a place filled with memories of her (and sometimes filled with her spirit now). If I went someplace familiar, I could still picture her there. If I go someplace we didn't go together, I fear I'll feel even further from her.

I've been playing with the idea of a weekend away for a month or more now, but it's becoming more focused as we approach our 16th anniversary. I want to mark that day in some way, and a night in one of our favorite spots seems like an appropriate way to honor it. I just don't know whether I can bear it.

On the verge of marriage in Washington

While my entire focus last year was on taking care of Sandy and keeping her alive until the cure, her main priority was gaining us the right to marry in our home state of Washington. She enlisted friends and family in letter-writing campaigns to lobby the state legislature; she posted about it on her blog; she solicited donations for organizations fighting for that right.

We'd always said we wanted to marry in our home state, but that if things looked bad, we'd travel to marry in a state that would marry us. It didn't quite work out that way. By the time we knew we didn't have much time, she couldn't travel. 

Sandy got to marry Greg in the 80's
but she never got to marry me.

At the hospice, when she was confused, she asked where our wedding pictures were. Before that, when we were still at home but knew we weren't going to get to marry before she died, she asked if we'd be married when the legislature finally passed it; she wanted our registered domestic partnership to convert to marriage retroactively.

We'll never get to marry legally. And so I find it bittersweet that our home state is finally moving toward marriage. It looks like 2012 will be the year. The House is with us, and I think we can swing the votes in the Senate. If it does go to referendum, I'm confident that we'll win with the voters.

It's important; it's way overdue; and it will mean the difference to thousands of families across the state. So today, I pledged my support and committed to doing all I can to gain full marriage equality in this state in the next year. It hurts. But the fight was one we would have taken on even if it hadn't been about our relationship, and the urgency doesn't change just because we won't personally get to benefit from it.

I went to the community meeting for Washington United for Marriage this afternoon. Jamie Pedersen, our representative and personal friend, saw me and came over to ask me how Sandy was doing. He hadn't heard about Sandy's death yet. I cried as I talked with him about it, and then I cried again when he told our story to the entire room. And in between, I cried every time somebody talked about the importance of the word "marriage," of recognizing and respecting our relationships, of working to gain the federal rights and responsibilities as well, including social security survivorship benefits (which I was not eligible for, because we were not married in the eyes of the federal government).

I expect to do a lot of crying as this effort plays out this year. But then, I'm already doing a lot of crying, so a few more tears shouldn't keep me from helping to make history. Right?

Four months

Four months ago today, very early in the morning, I became a widow; Laura lost her best friend; Doña lost her daughter; Viv, Mindy, and Pete lost their sister; many people lost a close friend; and many many others lost a friend, colleague, relative, mentor, patient, and so much else. The world changed. Yet, inexplicably, it went on.

It was just about a year ago, November 14, 2010, that we
went for a hike with Colleen. That was a good day.

It's hard to understand how four months can have passed. I've changed, certainly, and I've been adjusting to this new, harsh reality. But she's been so present in my life that I can't quite wrap my head around her absence.

I still want Sandy to return. I'm not sure she would come back now, though, even if she could. Sandy was often overwhelmed by life, burdened by her criticisms of herself, frequently self-sabotaging. It must be very freeing to be done with all that, to leave the to-do list behind. No matter the circumstances of my departure, I've always enjoyed quitting jobs, knowing that I could walk away from whatever I couldn't face or just hadn't gotten around to. On July 19, everything Sandy left undone became either moot or someone else's (my) problem. She doesn't owe anyone anything anymore, and she can't let anyone (including herself) down.

I'm glad she has that freedom. And I'm grateful that she's chosen to spend time with me, without obligation or expectation. That's a huge gift.

Waiting to sleep

I've been waking hourly all night almost every night since a week or two after Sandy died. No wonder I'm exhausted.

I've always been a light sleeper, with a habit of insomnia. Typically, I've had trouble falling asleep in the first place, and then if I wake during the night, it was common for it to take me an hour to get back to sleep.

This is different. Now, I put off turning out the light until midnight or 1:00 a.m., but then sometimes fall asleep right away and sometimes lie awake a while. Then I wake every hour or so, each time turning to the clock expecting to find that it's morning—and I fall asleep again almost immediately.

Sandy and Belly, sleeping in 2006

I haven't used an alarm clock in years. I had a strong internal sense of time and could trust myself to wake up when I want to. When she was working, Sandy would tell me what time she wanted to be up in the morning and then set an alarm clock for five minutes later, as a back-up. It was very rare that the alarm went off before I nudged her awake.

Now, though, time is skewed for me. I wake at 3 a.m. thinking it's time to rise. I no longer instinctively know what time it is when I'm in the garden or running errands. I rarely know what day of the week it is, or even what month it is. I can always tell you how many days or weeks it's been since Sandy died, but I can't fathom how that number is accurate. My sense of time apparently stopped (or paused? will it come back?) at 1:20 a.m. on July 19. Even my pocket watches have stopped working since Sandy died, and so have the ones she used. I am living outside of time, waiting for her to return.

In fact, I suspect I'm waking every hour because I'm waiting for Sandy to come to bed. Every now and then she'd stay at work finishing up some project or other until about 4 a.m. Though I'd attempt sleep, I'd wake frequently, aware that she wasn't yet home.

If only she'd come home, I think I'd get a good night's sleep.

The decision to continue

Sandy was (and is) a major force in my world, the central thread of my life. It seems inconceivable that her heart stopped and mine kept beating.

I don't have survivor's guilt. My grief is largely selfish.  I don't think "I shouldn't get to enjoy this because Sandy can't." Instead, I find it difficult to enjoy things without Sandy to share them with me.

Immediately after her death, I felt disconnected with the world. Everything was wrong, and I was waiting for the universe to correct itself, to bring her back. I managed to accomplish things that absolutely had to be done, but I felt no passion, no investment. Life was on hold.

I've rarely actually been suicidal these past four months, but I've frequently thought death would be welcome. At least, the universe would be a little more balanced if my heart had stopped beating, too. And maybe - just maybe - my energy would find Sandy's and I'd be able to share in her experiences again.

I recognized early on that at some point, I'd have to make a decision about whether to continue or not. That is, I'd have to consciously decide to continue living, consciously commit to engaging in the world and pursuing goals and envisioning a future. At the time, I couldn't imagine doing any of those things, but I believed that I would eventually make the decision to continue.

I have made that decision. In fact, I've made it multiple times. What I didn't foresee back in August was that it wasn't a one-time decision. I make it; I begin to engage; I begin to see a future. And then the grief resets, and once again I can't imagine how I'm alive without her. Once again, my goals are mainly to catch up on things and get enough organized that I can die without leaving a mess for anyone to clean up when I'm gone. The decision to continue is one that I have to make anew repeatedly.

In A Widow's Story, Joyce Carol Oates talks about suicide a lot. She considered it much more than I have; I don't relate to her taking comfort in a cache of pills, for example. When I think of dying,  I just imagine my heart stopping on its own one night, not even from the pain or effort of grief, but just because eventually the impossible must give way.

Oates wrote that the widow's task is to stay alive, that she's been successful if she's alive on the first anniversary of her widowhood. I probably will be. But there are likely to be a lot of decisions between now and then.

Visitation dreams

Several weeks ago, I wanted to know more about ways I might communicate with Sandy, since she's obviously around. I stumbled upon a site that talked about visitation dreams. This site said that, according to Kevin Kovelant, a consciousness studies professor at JFK University, visitation dreams often have these features:

• The dream feels more real than the usual dream: more clarity, focus, and steadiness of mind.
• A “felt sense” that the person is really them, not just a memory. “That was grandma – I know it was her.”
• Very little plot: usually the dream narrative consists of the interaction between the dream ego and the figure of the deceased person.
• Strong emotions are commonly reported: love, forgiveness, anger, fear.
• A “physical” touch between the spirit and the dreamer, usually a hug or a reaching out.
• The deceased dream figure often looks younger and healthier than when they passed on. 

I've thought about these qualities a great deal as I remember the dreams I've had of Sandy since she died. There are many dreams where she's a character in a story, dreams that are similar to dreams I've always had (because of course I dreamed about her when she was alive, too), dreams that I now think of largely as metaphorical dreams. As is common for most people, I expect, most of my dreams are representations of my subconscious chewing on something or processing the day's events—or sometimes communicating something to me that my conscious self is unwilling to hear.

But there are dreams that I knew right away were interactions between me and her spirit—not my subconscious using her symbolically. And those dreams tend to have almost no plot; they're almost entirely conversation. In those dreams, too, we speak about the fact that she died. At least one of Sandy's friends has had what appears to me to have been a visitation dream, as well, and I suspect that more have.

I've been reading A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates, a book about the pain she felt when her husband died unexpectedly. She only describes one visitation dream, and she doesn't even seem to realize for sure that that's what it was—but she aches to return to it, as it was the "happiest event" of her life in the weeks since Ray died.

Again, I realize I am fortunate that Sandy has been with me so often. But I'm not sure whether I can count on it continuing. Last week, in a very vivid dream, Sandy and I were standing in someone's kitchen and she told me that she hadn't felt very fulfilled or engaged recently, and she thought she'd better go away for a while. When I expressed dismay, she smiled and said, "I can still call you!" And then she said she'd probably be back in a few days anyway. I realized I was worried that she'd go away and then die before she returned; when I remembered that she'd already died, I knew I didn't need to worry.

The house got very empty. I didn't feel her here at all. It hurt.

A few days later, I dreamed that I called her on her cellphone and she answered. But when I asked where she was, she said only, "I'm with a friend you don't know." I asked if I could come to her, and she was adamant that I could not. (Repeatedly, before she died and since, she has been clear that I am not to follow her; she wants me to live. But I want her to live!) The conversation got a little lighter then, as she confessed to drinking nine or ten diet Pepsis a day (a treat she gave up in deference to my distrust of aspartame). I said she might as well have them, the issue was moot now, and asked whether she was enjoying them. She sheepishly said, "No." And we laughed.

It's good to have her back!

And then a couple of days ago, she was back, in the house with me, and she's been around a fair amount this week. I'd love to know if anyone saw her while she was away from me— somehow I got the sense she was going to be spending time with friends on the East coast— but because she said she was with a friend I didn't know, I don't even know who to ask!

About those objects that move

In my last post, I said she hadn't explained how she moves objects. I thought maybe I'd describe what I'm talking about. There may be some other explanation for the things that I believe she's moved, but I haven't found any.

The New York Times dated June 15, which appeared on July 20 in the planting strip where we always put out the trash, was the first one. I do not think that she physically put the paper there, but I have no idea how she manipulated its presence.

A couple of months ago, while I was making dinner and listening to an NPR story about Hurricane Irene approaching the Northeast, the "evacuation priorities" list fluttered from the refrigerator to the floor. Several years ago, when folks in central Washington were being evacuated on short notice due to flooding, Sandy and I sat down and noted what our priorities would be if we were ever told to get out quickly. It's just a short list of what to grab (cats, wallets, passports, medications, that sort of thing). We'd stuck it to the fridge and it had stayed there for years, unbothered by strong gusts of wind or the refrigerator door opening or shutting or Nada jumping to the top of the cabinets. But while I was listening to a broadcast about people evacuating ahead of the hurricane in New York, the evacuation priorities list fluttered to the floor. I said, "No, honey, we don't need to evacuate. It's the East coast that needs to worry." But I realized a couple of days later, when I hadn't felt her presence for a while, that she hadn't been telling me to get out; she'd been telling me that she had to go check on her friends.

Other things have fallen or somehow moved, apparently on their own. The most recent was just a few minutes ago. I made stew today, the first time since Sandy died. Stew-making was her domain, and I've been nervous about it. I finally used my memory of Sandy's process and my own common sense to come up with something halfway decent and very satisfying. I'd scooped up a bowlful to eat with hot-from-the-oven cornbread (that part was easy; it was always my job to make the cornbread), and I'd left the large pot of stew on the stove to cook a little longer. While I was eating, listening to the radio, I heard a loud thunk. I yelled at the cat and got up to see what Nada had gotten into. Sandy's computer backpack had fallen from its hook onto the floor just outside the kitchen door. Nada was nowhere in sight - but I noticed then that the stew was burning. I got that taken care of, and then realized that both cats were asleep on the sofa, and had been when the backpack fell. That backpack had been hanging just fine on its hook for weeks, since I last used it. And if it hadn't fallen, I'd not have thought to check on the stew. And keeping an eye on the stew was Sandy's job. Others may see the equation differently, but when I do the math, it's pretty clear that Sandy is still on duty.

What comes after

I watched Hereafter on DVD last night. It's the Matt Damon movie that came out earlier this year. It was particularly poignant for me right now.

I tend not to think that big-budget movies are likely to be accurate when it comes to science or technology—or much of anything else. Accuracy is often sacrificed for the sake of whatever story they're trying to tell. And of course, we don't know what happens when we die, but it's been the subject of popular entertainment as long as there have been humans.

Anything resembling omniscience would
be a great playground for Sandy

That said, the treatment of the afterlife in this movie resonated with me. It seemed to reflect what I've inferred from my experiences with Sandy since she died: a lack of pain, a feeling of weightlessness, a sort of omniscience, and the ability to become almost anything. I've communicated with her enough to know that she's not in pain, not even depressed anymore, but that she has felt some distress over my pain. She's explained the barrier between the planes as a sort of plexiglass that she can see through but not cross through. She has not explained how, then, she can sometimes move objects. Or so many other things. How I want her to write me a long letter, describing the full experience, from the moment of her last breath to now!

Instead, I try to be content with the contact we do have, the information she is able to share. And I seek wisdom and insight wherever I can find it. The representations of post-death existence in the movie gave me great comfort. I'll take what I can get.

Weary eyes

My eyes are tired. Waves of grief wash through me, often without warning, several times a day. I sob, scream, keen, grab my chest, double over — there is much drama here where no one can see me but the cats. And then the wave passes, and I move on to whatever is next on my to-do list or I laugh at the cats' antics or listen to the news; I resume a "normal" life until the next wave arrives. 

I haven't logged them, so I couldn't tell you whether they are more frequent or less than they were a week ago or a month ago. But I do think they're more sudden, and they pass more quickly than they used to. Certainly, they move through me more completely if I surrender to them entirely, if I just allow myself to have a full-body-and-mind breakdown, experience my pain, scream with rage.

We don't take a lot of pictures of people crying - and Sandy hated to
cry, hated how her eyes felt afterwards. So here's a photo of her with
Grumpus in December 2005. He was always good
for goofy relief from emotional drama.

I miss Sandy at every moment, and I'm aware of the loss all the time. But I can also become engrossed in what I'm reading or my work or whatever task engages me. And then I'll wonder sometimes why my eyes are so tired, or why my glasses are so smudged. The waves are fast and they feel separate from the rest of the time, so that I forget that I've had an emotional downpour, sometimes just five minutes earlier. But my eyes remember. They are weary, as they've always been after a hard cry. And it's been nearly four months since I've had more than a couple of hours without one.

Her socks

Sandy's brother knitted her some amazing wool socks last year. They fit perfectly, were warm and snuggly (not itchy), and she loved them. She wore them when we went camping, and she wore them in the hospital in June. At some point when we were home for hospice, they were laid on the edge of the stairs. That's where they've been ever since.

I've moved them off the stairs to sweep, but always returned them to the same place. I don't even know who put them there originally (probably me), but I somehow believe that's where Sandy will look for them.

A few days ago, Belly started carrying them around, just as he carries hats, scarves, gloves, his toys, and sometimes blankets. Sometimes he brings a sock to me and drops it at my feet. Once he managed to put it in the trash can in my office. (He likes to put his treasures in things. The trash can in my office is a very accessible way to do that when a shoe isn't available. I always go through the trash before emptying it, just in case Belly has been busy.)

Each time, I've rescued the sock from the floor, trash can, bed, chair, or wherever else he's put it, and I've returned both of them to the stairs. It occurred to me this morning that I could put them in the drawer. That's almost certainly what I intended to do when I left them on the stairs in the first place; often I put things there to remind myself to carry them up to the bedroom or my office. But I'm anxious about it. Will Sandy know to look there?

A couple of things strike me here. First, suppose Sandy did come looking for her socks. You might assume that she'd look in the sock drawer before she looked on the stairs. But somehow it never occurred to her to look in the sock drawer. I was always the one who "found" her cozy socks for her. Go figure.

Second, legally, those socks are mine now. (Thanks, Pete.) It's all mine. She's gone. Her kindle is mine (though I recharge it after I use it because I want it to be ready to go when she reaches for it). Her laptop is mine (though I only use it when I'm checking her mail or doing things related to her). Her books, CDs, DVDs, photo albums, blankets, jackets, tchotchkes, baking dishes, cookbooks, flours and grains, walking sticks, camping equipment, shoes, clothing — all mine legally and practically, but all very much hers in my mind. I wear her clothing daily, but I wear it because it's hers. I take care of things because they're hers, put them in places where I know she'd be able to find them.

I don't do any of this consciously. If she came back through some unprecedented miracle, her possessions would be the least of our thoughts. She'd reclaim what's still around, and we'd purchase replacements for the things I've given away or used up. I'm not concerned that she'll think I don't love her, not actually worried that she won't be able to find things.

It's all habit, long-term association. I'm used to living my life with her in mind, used to thinking of our space as a cooperative enterprise. One in which I often failed to move my shoes out of the middle of the floor — but I tried to remember. One in which she downloaded photos and erased them from the camera without telling me — but then bent over backwards to make sure I got copies when she realized what she'd done. We lived our lives with each other in mind, and we often got it wrong. But the habit was there. 

I'm not giving up that habit any time soon. I don't know that I could if I wanted to. But I think I'll move the socks to the drawer. I really don't want to lose anything that Sandy cherished.

Five months ago

There's a post-it on the bathroom mirror, a note on the electronic piano keyboard, other little notes sprinkled around the house. I left them for Sandy in June, when I went to Portland for the weekend. We were both nervous about my being gone that weekend. Sandy had been in pain, nauseated, and suddenly horribly constipated. At the time, we blamed the constipation on the narcotics she was taking, but I suspect now that she was more susceptible because of the cancer stealthily invading her central nervous system. At any rate, she was miserable.

I debated whether to go to Portland for my college reunion. I'd wanted Sandy to go with me, but she'd begged off of the trip a few weeks before, and she wasn't wild about my going. Finally, when she had some relief Thursday night, we agreed I should go to Portland on Friday. She'd planned ahead to take care of herself: She'd be with friends Friday night, see her therapist on Saturday, have a phone date with Laura on Saturday, and have Colleen over for Reiki on Sunday.

On June 13, Sandy modeled a shirt Tonia had given her.
These are the last photos I have of her before she was
admitted to the hospital on the 17th.

I was gone for all of about 54 hours. We spoke on the phone at least three times, and exchanged several emails. She was miserable, and then she'd nap and feel better. And then she grew miserable again. As always, when she was miserable, she believed she always had been and always would be in pain. And when she felt better, she was certain the relief was permanent.

I had a great weekend away, spending quality time with Tonia and hanging out on campus. I was conscious of the relief I felt on Saturday, having a day away from caregiving. But I missed Sandy terribly, and I worried about her. I was glad to get home, and she was happy to have me back.

It was five months ago today that she helped me pull the bike in without letting the cats out, and then we embraced. I noted in my journal how small and frail she seemed. I doubt she'd gotten that much weaker that weekend; I think I just saw her more clearly after some time away.

Three days later, she started brain radiation and our lives began a swift downward spiral. The encouraging notes I wrote to her before the weekend away remain scattered around the house. I haven't been able to make myself remove them, and I take comfort in knowing that she saw them the last weekend she spent time alone in the house.

Reality sucks

It's been a hard week. Sandy's absence has been acutely painful. She'd have nursed my wounds last weekend (as I've already written here), been engaged in discussing election results, and taken care of me when my day went wrong yesterday.

Tuesday, I had a migraine, which made me feel much more fragile -- but it was also Election Day, and that's always been a big deal for us. Usually, we each settle in with a computer and we have the TV or radio on; we track issues and candidates across the country and locally as the results come in. We read analyses and share what we're learning on all fronts with each other. This year, partially because I had a migraine but mostly because I was missing her, I spent all of 15 minutes checking election results. The world of politics is less urgent, less relevant, less real when all I can think about is Sandy's absence.

Yesterday, I had a flat tire as I was biking home from therapy. I'd been running late when I left the house, and I didn't have my wallet or a cell phone. So I couldn't call anyone for help and I couldn't catch a bus. I desperately wanted to borrow a passing jogger's phone and call Sandy, but I knew she wouldn't answer. This kind of crisis was her territory; she was always the one who stepped forward to handle mechanical issues. I tried to think what Sandy would have me do.

Here we are at Tour de Cure with Colleen in 2007.
It's the old bike rack, but she managed to get three bikes onto it
with confidence. I still watched the rearview mirror obsessively,
always sure the rack or a bike would bounce off into the street.

I hobbled the bike to an area that I expected to be well-lit, where there'd be a parking lot for the car when I came back to fetch it, and I locked it up. Then I hoofed it the five miles home, arriving shortly after nightfall (5:10 p.m.). Luckily, it wasn't raining. I drank some water, ate a few grapes, changed clothes, and grabbed the bike rack. Drove through the dark streets to where I'd left the bike. There was some light, but not much, and I had a hard time wrestling with the bike rack. Putting it on the car had been Sandy's job; I usually just tugged straps when she told me to. The hardest part was figuring out which hooks go where. But then I remembered that she'd sewn a "T" into the strap next to the hooks that go at the top, and I did manage to get the thing on the car, fairly secure.

I got the bike itself onto the rack and then drove cautiously home. Unloaded the bike and carried it into the house. So far, so good, but then I had to park the car. The school across the street was having an event, and after fifteen minutes of driving around the neighborhood, I found a spot in a two-hour zone four blocks away.

I was exhausted when I got home, and I knew how different my experience would have been if Sandy had been here. For one thing, I'd have remembered to take the cellphone, because I often called her to let her know I was on my way home. She'd either have fetched me with the car, or she'd have been home when I got there and taken charge of putting the rack on the car, etc. And if I'd had to do all of that myself, she'd have at least made me dinner and made soothing sounds.

I don't care for this new world. Not at all.

The first-person plural

A dear friend visited us in May, the first time Sandy and I had seen him in years. I didn't know much about his personal life these days, but after about an hour's conversation, I recognized a pattern. "You're speaking in the we," I said."That's new."

It was new to us, but he'd been living with this woman for several years, and they were now engaged. I enjoyed hearing about his partner and look forward to meeting her. But what mainly stuck with me was how we communicate relationship/family/group status without even thinking about it.

December 2001, Mt. Rainier

I was aware when I began speaking in the we, early in my relationship with Sandy. I would catch myself, self-conscious, worried that it somehow compromised my independence. Over time, I let go of my resistance, because the first-person plural was simply the most accurate, most honest, way to describe events, plans, or habits in my life. For example, "we're behind in the garden," or "we're overdue for a vacation," "our house," "our cats," "our nieces and nephews." My work was mine, as was my office; she had her own room in the house, too, and her own jobs. Some friends were hers or mine, others were ours; sometimes the same person shifted from one to the other depending on context. I hadn't given the pronouns much thought since sometime in the late 90's. They just flowed naturally.

And then she died. Legally, everything that was hers or ours became mine. All of our plans and habits became mine alone. The house, the garden, the cats, travel plans, finances - all mine. But the first-person singular was foreign to me. In early August, for example, I told a friend, "We were lucky the water main burst further down the street, so they didn't dig up our planting strip." Sandy had been dead two weeks before the water main burst. But she planted most of what's in the planting strip; she had the greater investment there. It would have been wrong to say that I was lucky that they didn't have to dig up my planting strip. But it was inaccurate to say that we were lucky - and I pondered whether I was being honest.

For weeks, I tripped over the pronouns, self-conscious about the implication that she was alive, afraid people would think I was in denial or just plain crazy. But I didn't want to erase her, didn't want to feel like I suddenly lived alone, didn't want to ignore her part in whatever habit or plan I described. I found conversation awkward, as I'd think about who I was talking to and how they'd react to one pronoun or another.

Finally, a month or so ago, I stopped worrying about it. Now, sometimes I speak in the we; sometimes I speak in the I; sometimes I refer to the house, so I don't have to choose a pronoun. I let my speech reflect my reality of the moment, which may or may not be the same as the general reality that the world recognizes. I simply speak my truth.