Working

Sandy at Microsoft, back in 2001

After months of not working while we were on vacation, and then Sandy was dying, and then I was grieving intensely, I've been gradually increasing my work since September. Now I'm doing all that I would normally do. And it occurred to me a few minutes ago that though I feel very different, in many ways, my day today is very similar to a day I'd have had two years ago, when Sandy was gone all day working at Microsoft. I'm working on similar projects, with the same clients, as I was then. I took out the trash, recycling, and yard waste. I had leftover stew for lunch. I've answered email and had phone conferences and signed a few Internet petitions. The actual tasks of the day are very similar. It's what surrounds the day that changes it.

For example, I'm very tired. The challenge in taking on my regular work load is that I never know whether I'm going to get enough sleep. After it takes me a while to fall asleep, I wake frequently every night. And that's after I get to bed late. I do not feel rested.

I used to love going to bed; snuggling in with Sandy was my favorite time of day. Now I dread ending the day. Bed itself is often lovely, once I get there, and is a nice nest for reading, listening to music, doing sudoku or crossword puzzles, talking to Sandy. It's when the light is out and I expect her to say, "Do you want to curl around me or want me to curl around you?" that I despair. It's waking up hourly and having her still not be in bed that unsettles me.

Some of my delay is just that I get distracted. We'd come upstairs to get ready for bed, and then I'd duck into my office (a few feet from the bedroom) to check on something, and fifteen minutes later, Sandy would call out, annoyed, "I thought you were coming to bed!" I don't have anyone keeping track of me anymore. No one notices or cares that my "quick check" turns into a couple of hours of replying to email and reading blogs and getting just a couple more things done on my work project. There's no one waiting for me in bed.


The other big difference during the work day itself is that I don't receive any email or phone calls from Sandy, and I don't send any to her. We used to talk two or three times a day, and exchange at least as many emails. I still check my email expectantly, but there's never anything from her. There's no one to ask how my meeting went or to cheer when I get my work done early, or to know that something we'd been anticipating arrived in the mail.

I do still talk to Sandy all day long, and I feel her presence a lot of the time, and for that I'm very grateful. But I'd give anything to hear her singing as she approaches the front door, and then after a kiss in greeting, ask me, "So, have you had dinner thoughts?" Or, when she's a bit later than I expected, to walk outside and see her down the street, leaning against something, finishing whatever she's reading before she gets home; to walk up to her and say her name, and have her look up, disoriented, and then just beam at me. I'd give anything to see that smile again.