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.