Thoughts on what's real

According to the calendar, it's been half a year since the day I had jury duty while Sandy had her teeth cleaned and got fitted for her radiation mask. I called her from the courthouse to see how her radiation oncology appointment had gone, whether she'd learned more about the cause of the nausea over the weekend. She'd been given a different prescription to take the place of Ranitidine, and the nurse had increased her steroid dosage. I did a little research on my iPad and understood the logic; I emailed Sandy to say that made sense to me, told her I'd pick up her new prescription on my way home.

I wasn't called to voir dire until late in the afternoon. The case was expected to continue into Sandy's radiation treatments. I told the judge that we weren't expecting anything major, but I was Sandy's caregiver and was concerned that her health might be compromised if I served on the jury during that time. The judge excused me without further questions. I felt a little guilty; my concern had been legitimate, but likely as not, radiation would be uneventful and Sandy wouldn't need me much.

I walked home from the courthouse; it was a hot day (for Seattle, for weather wimps), and I called her as I approached our neighborhood. She'd managed to pick up her prescription on her way home from the dentist. Girls who have jury duty and go to the dentist deserve ice cream, I said. Yes, yes, yes, she said, salted caramel, please. So I stopped at Molly Moon's on my way home and waited forever in line to bring home a pint of vanilla and a pint of salted caramel.

It was just a day. An unusual day in that I had jury duty, she had a dental appointment, and she went to a medical appointment without me, but just a day. If things hadn't turned upside down for us nine days later, I don't know how well I'd remember the bits and pieces of that day without prompting. But things did turn upside down, and that day remains "recent," as if it were just a few days ago, because it was real. And everything that happened from 6:30 p.m. June 15 onward is less than real, somehow.

I can remember details of days in the hospital or hospice, of bike rides in August or days preparing for Sandy's memorial, of dinners with friends or hours spent talking to Sandy, alone in the house, in October. But I have to reach a little bit to do that, and it's as if I'm viewing all those days through smudged glasses. Reality is our life together, full of small annoyances and frequent moments of laughter, small favors done for each other, and the celebration of minor and major accomplishments. Everything else is what came after.

I treasure the photos of the day-to-day events of our reality.
This was taken in July 2007 at a park on one of our regular bike routes.

I haven't taken any photos since Sandy left. This is not time to cling to, not time I'll want to revisit through images. This is a time of putting one foot in front of the other, watching the clock continue to tick, checking things off my to do list, savoring the occasional feeling of accomplishment, laughing as frequently as possible — and yet not feeling joy. This is not reality, and I can't quite imagine that the future will be either.