Time just keeps passing

The days march on, relentlessly. Though milestones related to Sandy's death are less frequent, it's a rare hour that I don't think about her, talk to her, or realize once again how bizarre it is that she's been dead for so many months.

An hour ago, I was spinning on the bike on the trainer in the living room, watching a video streaming on my laptop. I had trouble hearing it over the loud trainer, and remembered that Sandy frequently connected her laptop or iPod to the stereo, amplifying the sound. I fumbled around in the tangle of cords behind the stereo, looking for the one that would plug into my laptop. Frustrated at one point, I thought I'd just have to wait until she got home, and then remembered she can't walk me through such tasks anymore. A few minutes later, I wondered whether she'd removed the cord for some reason, and then realized I've used it since her death. Eventually, I figured it out, but only after a considerable amount of confusion — more about her not being here than about finding the cord itself.

I stared at bookcases in the bedroom this morning, recognizing that many things in the house remain untouched, unmoved, since Sandy died. I criticized myself for getting "stuck," for keeping things in place for sentimental reasons — and just as quickly decided the criticism wasn't valid: most of the things that haven't moved since Sandy died had been in the same place for the decade before her death. (How often do you rearrange your bookshelves, after all?)

I visited a dear friend in Portland for a couple of days this week, testing my ability to spend the night away from home. It wasn't as painful as I expected it to be. In fact, the hardest part was that I wanted to call Sandy to let her know my train had arrived safely, to tell her about a meal we ate, to check in. The last time I'd been in Portland was in June 2010, the weekend before Sandy started radiation. That weekend was my college reunion, full of activity, but I'd talked to Sandy several times on the phone and exchanged multiple emails with her during the 48 hours I was away. This time, I felt a pang every time I reached for the phone and realized she wouldn't be there to answer if I called.

I started knitting again in Portland, the first time since Sandy
died. I'd been making her a pair of gloves, and I didn't have
the heart to continue the project without her. But I'm nearly
done with them now, and I'll wear them, thinking of her.
Here she was several years ago, modeling the neck
warmer I knitted for her at her request.

Over all, though, the experience was encouraging. I think I should be able to visit family and friends or even have a weekend away by myself without suffering from a complete breakdown. That's good. I want Sandy and my memories of her to remain a strong presence in my life, but I don't want that life to be small or defined by fear.

A year ago I was dreading flipping the advent of 2012. I couldn't fathom entering a year that Sandy had never known, especially one that had been so much in our consciousness because of the presidential election. But that year is almost past now, a whole calendar without her. 2013 isn't quite as hard to imagine. We never talked about 2013; we'd stopped planning that far ahead. So at this point, I don't know that the year matters that much. A year without Sandy is a year without Sandy; we've come far enough that it's easier to let the days pile up on each other without cursing each one. Perhaps that in itself is a notable milestone.

Weddings and benefits

Since December 6, it's been difficult in Seattle to avoid images of happy same-sex couples displaying newly acquired marriage licenses or walking jubilantly down the courthouse steps after saying their vows. In many conversations I've had in a variety of settings and contexts, someone will casually mention that they were married this afternoon or can't attend a meeting Thursday evening because that's when they're getting married. All around me is an air of celebration.

I managed at first to focus on the political and legal aspects of the issue, distracting myself from the personal stories. When others brought them up, I changed the subject. The stories aren't foreign to me; I've been blessed to hear them during the years I've worked on this issue. They have moved me in the past, but those same stories leave me resentful now. And I don't like that about myself. I want to feel happy for those people. I worked for their rights as well as my own, and I value their relationships. However, right now, their exuberance is a reminder of my loss, and I'm jealous. Better just to avoid all of it as much as possible.

I felt the loss most acutely last Sunday, our seventeenth anniversary. Had Sandy lived, we almost certainly would have chosen to marry that day, even though it would have meant moving the ceremony inside due to cold, wet weather. I spent the day feeling sorry for myself, wallowing in regrets and wishing for what can never be.

A good night's sleep and a reassuring dream helped me remember how lucky I am to have loved and been loved by Sandy, how fortunate I am that she's still such a presence in my life, and how miraculous it is that our marriage will be retractively recognized years after her death. We won't have our wedding, but the marriage we already knew we had will be a matter of legal record. It's just a matter of time now, just a little over 18 months before that recognition occurs.

I've been looking forward to June 30, 2014, as the date that Sandy's deathbed wish will be fulfilled, but I saw the recognition as largely symbolic. It's coming too late for me to receive the benefits and consideration I should have received as a widow, after all, even if DOMA has fallen by then. The options I had for the IRA I inherited were much more limited than they would have been; I received no Social Security death benefit; over and over again, I had to report that I was making arrangements or settling matters as a "non-spouse." Those are insults that won't be washed away.

But it turns out that this legal recognition of our marriage may yet have some practical benefit that hadn't occurred to me. Assuming the third part of DOMA is ruled unconstitutional by the Supreme Court in 2013 or Congress eventually repeals it, I may yet be able to claim some benefits as Sandy's widow.

There are many married couples in this picture from the Sides family reunion
in July 2007, taken just a few weeks before we were able to register as
domestic partners. When our RDP is converted, our marriage will have
an effective date of July 25, 2007, and once DOMA disappears, it will
be treated equally to all those other marriages.

I'd thought my inability to claim her Social Security benefits inconsequential, as mine are higher than hers anyway. But then I read an article in a random financial newsletter this week. (I don't even subscribe to it; they just sent me a sample, and it'd been sitting on the coffee table. When I cleaned off the coffee table, I flipped through it.)

The article outlined all the ways a widow or widower might choose to claim benefits, depending on their own earnings and their spouse's earnings. It's just possible that it would make sense for me to claim Sandy's benefits at an earlier age (say, 62), when I'd be able to receive just a percentage of them, and then to hold off on claiming my own until I reach the age that provides the maximum benefit, at which point I'd switch. I'd read about this flexibility in the past, but never thought it would affect me - either because Sandy hadn't yet died when I read about it or because she'd died before our marriage was recognized.

But now I realize that, with our marriage a matter of legal record, effective four years before she died, if DOMA is no longer in place, there's no reason I wouldn't be able to claim the benefits just as any other widow does. I don't know whether it will make sense financially to do so, or even whether Social Security will work in the same way eighteen years from now. But I do know that it feels amazing to realize that the time is coming that our relationship will be seen in the same light as the marriages of our friends and family members. That whether I claim Sandy's benefits will depend on my financial situation, Social Security rules, whether I've remarried, and other things that affect everyone -- not the fact that Sandy and I were both women. That's huge. I don't even know if I can convey how huge that is. And that realization gave me my own little celebration. I'm so grateful that our relationship will soon be granted the equal status that Sandy craved for it. And that it's just possible she'll have the opportunity to take care of me once again, something I know would make her very happy. 

San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium

The biggest event of the year for breast cancer researchers and advocates is the San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium, which ended a week ago. The research that's presented there hasn't been published anywhere yet, and it's often many months before it makes it to mainstream news, if it ever does.

Two years ago, I pored over every abstract online, seeking hope for Sandy's cancer, which was so far responding well to treatment. I scribbled the names of promising drugs and information about studies and trials related to them. It was through an abstract that I first learned about the Army of Women (the Dr. Susan Love Foundation's project to find subjects for clinical trials related to breast cancer). And as I read about the San Antonio symposium, I saw several references to National Breast Cancer Coalition advocates interacting directly with some of the top researchers and medical personnel in the country; that's when I joined NBCC.

Two years later, I and most of the women I know are members of the Army of Women. (If you haven't signed up, do! You'll receive notice of trials, and if you qualify, you can help make a difference. They need those who've been diagnosed and treated for breast cancer, but also those who haven't.)

I'm an advocate with the National Breast Cancer Coalition now, and I know much more than I did two years ago. In large part, I know more due to NBCC training.

And I still find hope in the data released and discussed in San Antonio. Two years ago, I told Sandy she was the hot topic, as so much of the researchers were starting to focus on triple-negative breast cancer. That's even more true today, and they've learned a lot in two years, particularly related to the heterogeneity of triple-negative breast cancer. Some is aggressive; some isn't. It's defined by what it isn't (it isn't estrogen-receptor positive; it isn't progesterone-receptor positive; it isn't Her2 positive), which makes it difficult to provide targeted therapies. But the understanding of subsets is offering the opportunity for more effective treatment, a way to identify individual tumors by what they are, rather than by what they aren't.

Two years ago this weekend, on Whidbey Island, feeling
relatively optimistic on our 15th anniversary.

I don't read every abstract anymore. I'm not chasing down possible clinical trials for Sandy, and I'm no longer running into the other room, dripping statistics and drug names in an optimistic frenzy. (She finally said to me, "I don't need to know all the details. That's really your department. Just come in and say 'Hope! Hope! Hope!'")

You can find a good and encouraging description of the highlights of the triple-negative research presented at this year's symposium at http://curetoday.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/blog.showIndex/guest/2012/12/9/A-recap-of-triplenegative-breast-cancer-research-from-San-Antonio

A less encouraging, but more analytical summary of the symposium as a whole and of its notable research for all types of breast cancer is at http://blog.breastcancerdeadline2020.org/?p=472. The author of the post describes her frustration with what I think of as tweaking - playing around with doses and moving drugs from one group to another, often in search of a market rather than following some clear scientific theory. She's right when she says we need to pull scientists and the rest of the breast cancer research community into a common pursuit, which is exactly what the 2020 Breast Cancer Deadline is doing. So perhaps SABCS will be less frustrating and more exciting in future.

This year, the abstracts are available online only for those who attended the symposium, which is disappointing. But you can check out the program to see the names of papers presented at www.sabcs.org, and the abstracts may eventually be posted for the public. Abstracts from previous years are still available.

The is stage

It was a physical sensation, something shifting in my chest, a displacement of weight. Neither a lightening nor an additional burden, but the same weight, slipped into a different place. A physical manifestation of the realization that Sandy isn't coming back. That what I've known to be true since she died last year, I now know at a cellular level to be true.

It was an abrupt change, though not exactly sudden. (How could it be sudden when I've been straddling sanity and insanity for sixteen months?)

I don't know what happened, why I now find it possible to comprehend that we won't be getting our life back. It may have been the election, with the marriage victory here and still no Sandy. It could be the tincture my naturopath has me taking (nasty, grassy-tasting herbal stuff) to even out my perimenopause-challenged hormones. Or it could just have been time.

I have no doubt that Sandy has been very present in my life since her death. That part isn't insanity. And I'm confident that she'll continue to be with me, that someday we'll be together again on a different plane, that she is not lost to me.

Sandy, at Myrtle Edwards Park in May 2010, shortly after learning she had
metastatic breast cancer. She'd been told not to ride her bike because
of the tumor in her femur, so she and Christine went for a spin through
Myrtle Edwards Park before she put the bike away until her leg healed.

But now, on this plane, on this planet, in this lifetime, I still have some things to do. I have always believed that I am in the world to change the world, and that requires energy and intention and presence. It requires me to live in reality. And it requires me to pay attention to my own priorities and preferences.

I wondered at first whether this was a temporary shift. For so long I found comfort in fantasy -- knowing it was fantasy, but still allowing myself to believe that she really would reappear. So I've watched myself, observed the changes. I noticed that I've started referring to "my" house, "my" cats, and "my" garden; sometimes I consciously switch to "our," but it's an awkward decision, no longer my instinctive pronoun. I've started to notice what I want to do, where I want to travel, rather than trying to live Sandy's life for her in some way. I removed everything from the front of the fridge that didn't please me, the things that were there because Sandy liked them. And though each day still ends with my imploring Sandy to come back to me if there's any way she can, it's more of a reminder that I miss her than an expectation that she'll somehow have the ability to come back.

The universe -- or perhaps Sandy? -- is affirming the shift. Synchronicity strikes again. I read The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving last week, a book that had been on hold for months. Near the end of the book, one of the characters tells another, who's grieving intensely a couple of years after a tragedy: "We're past the if stage. We're past the how stage and the why stage. We're in the is stage."

I'm in the is stage now. Past the hows and the whys and the buts and the completely baseless optimism. Sandy died. She's here in other ways, but she's not coming back physically. And I need to make the most of my time here, whether it's another day or fifty years.

Tonight, then, I watched this week's episode of a TV show I watch frequently and it focussed on the story of a man whose behavior was damaging others, all because of his own guilt and grief over a death three years ago. An intervention taught him that he can't change the past, but he can make the future. The same message I've heard from several directions the past couple of weeks.

I'm not done grieving. My want is palpable, and at times I still feel terribly, horribly alone. But I'm no longer waiting for Sandy to return. I've moved into a new, apparently lasting stage, living with what is instead of what I wish were.

Dying as transition

Sandy and I used to talk about dying suddenly, instantaneously, and simultaneously. We talked about a massive tree branch crushing our car on Mt. Rainier, a plane crash, a fatal traffic accident. The goal was to die without suffering, and to not leave one of us a widow.

As it happened, Sandy's death was relatively quick for a cancer death, but far from instantaneous. She suffered considerably in the weeks and months that preceded her death. And she left me behind. But the experience of the last several days of her life, when her pain was under control, have changed my thinking about preferred methods of death.

New to my collection, this photo was taken by a friend in 2002.
She just found the photos from that day and sent them to me. A
wonderful gift and the rare kind of surprise I welcome.

In the last few weeks of her life, and especially the last few days, Sandy let go of plans and worldly concerns, found resolution in relationships, and prepared to move on. She communicated with people that others couldn't see, and she apparently had some out-of-body experiences, loosening the ties between the physical and the metaphysical aspects of herself.

As she went through these transitions, those who love her were engaged in our own processes. We grieved, celebrated memories, and came to terms with the reality that she was dying. I say "we," but each of us responded differently, and I was the least successful in facing her death. I've read that this final period is a time for the dying person to release attachments to others, and in turn, for those left behind to separate. I wasn't prepared to do that, but I did benefit from the natural death process.

I've just read Final Gifts, a book written by a couple of hospice nurses in 1993. They realized that the dying often communicate in ways that the living misidentify as hallucinations or confusion, so they decided to share their insights. The book is full of individual stories, many of which illustrate experiences I recognized from Sandy's process: interactions with people who have died previously; speaking in metaphors; needing to have certain matters dealt with before they can die peacefully. Some of what the authors say is speculation, and I think they make some unwarranted assumptions about the impulsive efforts to walk that sometimes occur just before death — they seem to think dying people are actually trying to make the journey physically, but from the conversations I've had and other things I've read, it seems much more likely to me that, that close to death, the body "forgets" its disabilities and makes one last effort to live — but many of their conclusions ring true.

I'd absolutely recommend the book to anyone who is caring for someone with a terminal illness. I wish I'd read it before Sandy died. I've been remembering Sandy's outbursts and puzzling statements from those weeks in hospice, attempting to evaluate which truly were paranoia from the steroids (the accusation that I wasn't human; the fear that her food had been poisoned; the belief that her sister was an imposter) and which were real (her delight in interacting with people we couldn't see; her emphasis to me that I should be grateful for our 15+ years together; her description of having just been in our bedroom and seen the cats on the bed).

There are some events that I'm not sure how to categorize, though.When she relived the time she nearly drowned over and over again, was that really hallucination brought on by the gurgling moisture in her throat or was she trying to communicate that she was being pulled under before she'd done all that she needed to do? (That first demanding cry, more of an order, "Help me!" as she looked straight into my eyes, glaring and stern, still haunts me. My immediate impulse was that she was angry that I'd stopped trying to save her life, but once the nurse arrived, we realized she thought she was drowning.) When she said we could still Skype, was she referring to the visitation dreams we'd have — or was she, as I thought at the time, believing we were talking about her traveling to France? After she'd been a total ham with her family one evening, throwing pills around the room, she got very serious and said we needed to talk about what I'd said, that I was breaking up with her and needed to move on. At the time, I told her I'd never break up with her; I thought I was reassuring her when I said I'd always stay with her. Now I wonder if she was telling me that she needed to know I could move on after her death, that I'd be okay. I think my initial interpretations were probably correct, because she relaxed after I reassured her I wasn't leaving, just as she relaxed another time when I told her that, no, I wasn't planning to kill her. So those probably were the product of steroid-induced paranoia. But I desperately want to know that I gave her what she needed as she was dying.

I still support our death with dignity law, and I even wish Sandy could have gotten the pills she was entitled to and determined to have. But I'm glad she had the slower dying process, the ability to make the transition, to straddle both worlds and know that she had nothing to fear. When I think about my own death, I now hope that I have just enough time between the onset of illness and my final breath to make the same transition and gain the same confidence and comfort. I imagine it must be rather shocking for a spirit to go from life to death so suddenly, and I've never cared for surprises. I'd rather ease into it. I especially hope that the person I get to talk with so happily in my hospice room, the person no one else can see, is Sandy.

Munchausen by Internet

New technology brings with it new ways to hurt, scam, and lie to other people. I know more than I'd like to about trolls, phishing, and other common abuses of the Internet. But I hadn't realized that there are apparently a disturbingly large number of people masquerading as terminally ill.

I read "The Lying Disease," an article by Cienna Madrid in The Stranger, our local alternative paper. I found the article deeply affecting, and the abusive behavior described in it enraged me. Here's the gist: some people pretend to be ill in online correspondence, seeking attention in forums that exist for people with illnesses to find community and support, or by communicating directly with others who they expect to be sympathetic. It's like Munchausen's Syndrome, the infamous mental illness whose sufferers fake physical illnesses to the point of having unnecessary surgeries. (Munchausen's by Proxy is the disease in which you cause illness in someone in your care in order to bring sympathy and attention to yourself; if you saw the movie "Sixth Sense," you saw Munchausen's by Proxy.) But with Munchausen's by Internet, no one has to actually suffer physically for you to benefit from the sympathy and attention of strangers. Therefore, it's much easier to achieve and it seems to be becoming an epidemic.

Why would someone feign illness? Is it in part because the media portrays chronic, serious, and terminal illness as romantic? For example, people with cancer are portrayed as noble and courageous; dying from a terminal illness (as opposed to a car accident or gunshot wound) is shown as tender and touching. And of course, there's plenty of drama involved in TV and movie renditions.

When she lost her hair during the first chemo treatments in
2006, Sandy had me take photos every few days to document
it. As her hair became wispier, she ended up with a little
pointed bit on the top, like Tin-Tin. I was surprised that she
didn't know who that was, but after doing a little online
research, she embraced the nickname.

In real life, at least as I witnessed it, terminal cancer was a bother. It and its treatment got in the way of Sandy being able to do the things she wanted to do, but it wasn't dramatic except for the initial diagnosis period and the roller coaster we were on the last five weeks of her life. Even her severe headaches and nerve pain in the spring weren't dramatic; they were frustrating and agonizing, but if anything, Sandy wanted to pretend they weren't there. She wanted to find relief and forget about them.

Sandy never wanted cancer to become her identity. She downplayed her metastatic cancer, afraid of whining and of changing how people thought of her.  In fact, she was surprised to learn that she'd been so casual about it that most of the fans at Escapade in early 2011 didn't even know she had cancer.

I understand the desire to have people shower affection upon you, and I was certainly gratified by the outpouring of love that Sandy received. But I can't imagine enjoying affection and caring that was based on a lie. My overriding need throughout my life has been to be known, and to be loved by those who know me best. How hollow must the joy be when you're shown love based on a fraud?

Sandy's biggest frustration in the months before she died was that her energy each day lasted just long enough for her to do the basics (dress, eat, check email) and go to whatever appointment she had that day. Her to-do list wasn't getting any shorter. Her days felt pointless because she felt she was just treading water.

Now, imagine one of these cancer fakers had pulled her into a correspondence, sucking the tiny bits of energy she had into their manufactured dramas. That's exactly what these folks do, demanding the attention and focus of people who need to be prioritizing their own care, their own lives, and making a difference in whatever meaningful way they can, whether they're dying or suffering through treatment for an earlier stage of cancer. It's appalling enough to drain some energy from a healthy person, but far more damaging to further exhaust someone who has no reserves.

It's clear to me that Munchausen Syndrome by Internet does need to be added to the DSM-V, due out this coming May. But I'm wondering if that's enough. I don't know how you'd create criminal or civil law to cover this, exactly, and it's territory that seems a little problematic to approach through the law. But the damage this behavior does is real, and it's perpetrated upon people when it's likely to do the most harm.

Entanglement

For as long as I can remember, I've believed in and been fascinated by psychic phenomena. There were many examples of psychic connections in my immediate family, especially between me and my sister, and while it wasn't always convenient, it was far from spooky. It just made sense to me that people who shared a strong bond would also share a wavelength of sorts.

Most of my psychic experiences have been incredibly minor things, and not all that useful. But they're real, and they're challenging to make sense of. So I'm always delighted to learn about others' experiences, and about any possible explanations.

I'm not having as many visitation dreams lately, but in a few
of the more recent ones, Sandy's been with Grumpus. I hope
their entanglement stretched beyond death. She just adored
him, and he adored her right back. When I have those dreams,
I'm delighted to see him as well as her. (Pico, too, though
he shows up less frequently. Prudence and Roo are sometimes
in what may be visitation dreams, but never with Sandy.)

I just read Entangled Minds, by Dean Radin. The book explores the relationship between psi (psychic phenomena) and quantum physics. Very simply put, the theory of entanglement is that particles that have been close will forever be entangled, no matter how far apart they get. This has, in effect, been proven at the level of atomic particles. Scientific experiments have also shown an entanglement effect with humans. (A simple example: Poke one person and another person's fMRI shows brain behavior indicating a reaction to being poked, though that person couldn't see what happened and hadn't been told.)

Entangled Minds goes into detail on numerous scientific experiments that have shown that presentiment (sensing a future event), clairvoyance, and similar phenomena are not that extraordinary. In fact, the studies on presentiment imply that, subconsciously, we are constantly scanning our futures, preparing to respond to events. This was shown by measuring skin reactions to violent, erotic, or neutral scenes - the skin reactions occurred a few seconds before the scenes, which were displayed randomly. The studies are incredibly cool, and I find it encouraging to think about what this means for our potential.

Of course, not everyone is clairvoyant or senses the future. Radin describes surveys that asked people about their experiences and then compared those results to other data about the group, including demographics, personality qualities, and other individual characteristics.

First, who believes in this stuff? Skeptics like to say that belief in psi is due to ignorance, similar to superstition. But in fact, the surveys tell a different story. Religious belief and belief in superstition both decline with education, but belief in psi becomes more common with more education.

Who experiences it? People like me! Women more than men. Sensitive people (people sensitive to sound, odor, touch, the environment, etc.). Empathetic people. Creative people. Intuitive people (that one seems tautological to me, as intuition is likely just a form of psi, I think).

Here's the basic theory, as I understand it: We're all entangled. We're all capable of psychic connections. But we have latent inhibitions that help us focus on the present world and its dangers and opportunities. Without these latent inhibitions, we'd be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information we receive. How much psi you experience has to do with the level of your latent inhibitions. Some people naturally have lower levels; others have trained themselves to be more open through meditation, yoga, or prayer.

Radin doesn't talk about this in the context of communicating with the dead, but once you accept the theory of entanglement itself, and the legitimacy of psi,  it isn't much of a leap to recognize that entanglement would continue, and that those who are predisposed to psi would find it easier to receive communication from loved ones who have died.

The studies on psi are rigorous, redundant, and surprisingly mundane; the results are what are exciting. I haven't found anything yet, though, about scientific research that explores what happens to consciousness after death or how communication is possible. Honestly, I don't know how you'd set up the studies, but it seems like we ought to be getting closer.

Until then, I'm going to attempt to enhance my psychic openness through more regular meditation. Even if I don't receive more communication from Sandy, feeling more connected to the universe is a worthy goal in itself.

Theories of healing

Heal: To become sound or healthy again.

After open-heart surgery, I was very motivated to heal. I knew what healing looked like: it meant reclaiming my life, my energy, my independence. It meant freedom from pain and from painkillers. It meant achieving milestones, such as the ability to walk up the stairs without a spotter, to shower by myself, to walk longer distances and to walk them a little faster every week, to be able to lie on my side. I knew I'd healed when I could bike up long, steep hills, when I could turn my attention to the issues of everyday life, and especially when I could forget about having had surgery.

After Sandy's bike accident in 2005, we took
pictures every day so she could track her healing
progress. I guess this blog may be serving the
same purpose for me now.

It wasn't an easy process, and there were certainly times that it felt impossible. But I had a picture of what success would look like, and I felt no ambivalence about getting there. The stress and effort of the months between learning I needed surgery and actually having recovered from it (about seven months, all told) would be just a detour from my real life, the one I loved.

I think I've always approached healing the same way, whether from a physical injury or an emotional trauma: Start with the visualization of success, what life looks like after healing. Set up some milestones. Figure out how to get there, and then do it.

So how do I heal from Sandy's death? Certainly, pain and the sense of being lost would indicate the need for healing. But I've been flummoxed for sixteen months about how to envision success.

Reclaiming my life? But the life I want is with Sandy. Recovering my independence? I'm feeling a little too independent right now, desperate for Sandy to lean on and not trusting anyone else to fill her spot.

I can't picture a future in which it's okay that Sandy died, and I don't want to. It's not okay. It'll never be okay. But that's where I keep going when I try to come up with goals. I reject that vision, and therefore reject the concept of healing.

I was thinking about all of this yesterday, addressing the conversation in my head to Sandy, as I often do. I wondered if I would finally have to let the fact that she's not returning permeate my cells, give up my delusions, give up the last strands of hope I have in the impossible occurring. I was walking as I pondered this, and I turned a corner to see "We won't grow old together" on the Northwest Film Forum marquee. A movie, apparently, but it sure felt like a message to me: C'mon, Brie. Let go of it.

To become sound or healthy again. I have most of my energy back, though not all. I'm working, volunteering, making progress on various goals. I'm fairly social, though I haven't quite figured out how to weave my various friendships into a solid feeling of community. But that's been a problem I've always had, as it's easier for me to bond with people in the context of a project; I lose touch when we are no longer working together toward a common goal.

Physically, I'm fairly healthy. Mentally, though, I'm not so sure. My goal in healing from other wounds has been to be able to forget about them; this one is very different. I think my task is to see a future in which I am able to embrace my memories of Sandy and the comfort I find in her spiritual presence without resisting the fact that she died and is not returning physically. I can't quite picture that future yet, but I suspect that's where I'm headed. This is so much harder than open-heart surgery.

Election reactions

Marriage equality won big Tuesday night, securing the right for same-sex couples to marry in three states and defeating an attempt to amend the Minnesota constitution to ban same-sex marriage. Each of these wins was unprecedented. Any one of them would have been worth celebrating, but taken together, they affirmed that the American public is moving towards recognizing LGBT families as equal.

I was pretty sure we'd win in Washington, though I wasn't confident. As we grew closer to Election Day, I wondered how I'd react to the results. Obviously, defeat would have been devastating. But victory? It's all so bittersweet for me now. I decided not to plan to go to the campaign party downtown, or even to join the revelers in the streets of my neighborhood — at least not until we'd had the results and I could see my response. I didn't want to be the widow in the corner keening while everyone else was drinking champagne and cheering. But neither did I want to feel alone, despondent.

As it turned out, I wasn't keening, or at least not any more than usual. Neither was I excited. No tears of joy or sorrow came to my eyes when I read the results of our referendum or heard the good news from Maine, Maryland, and Minnesota. I felt numb, with a little relief around the edges. My reaction that night was familiar, actually. It was how I felt when I paid off the mortgage last year: what would have been a celebration with Sandy was, in her absence, just another task done. Mortgage paid off? Check. Same-sex marriages legal in Washington state? Check. No more a cause for rejoicing than getting the cats fed or library books returned. That in itself made me sad, and that sadness, the disappointment that I didn't feel like celebrating — that's what eventually led to keening.

December 1996 at the Adobe holiday party

If Sandy were alive, we'd be planning our wedding for December 16, our 17th anniversary. We'd be reserving a place (probably at the Arboretum, indoors because it's winter), arranging for an officiant, inviting people (arguing a little over how many to invite), figuring out what to wear. The plan had always been for my mom to make Sandy a dress from a lovely piece of blue raw silk that Sandy has, but because my mother was in a car accident a few weeks ago and is currently in rehab, I don't think she's up to making any dresses. In fact, she'd probably be attending our wedding by Skype. These are the things we'd be focused on, in among the tasks of daily life. Underlying everything, I know we'd both be elated.

But I don't have the distraction of wedding plans, or the background sense of elation. I still feel vulnerable, even more so after my state voted on whether to recognize my humanity — and worse, voted on Sandy's. How dare they? How dare anyone claim the authority to judge the value of our relationship? Even winning, the vote itself takes its toll on my psyche. When I think about that 46.85% of the state who voted no, it's hard not to take it personally. Honestly, I'm not even trying not to take it personally. It's deeply, deeply personal.

At the same time, I am profoundly grateful to the tens of thousands of people who gave money, volunteered, and made their support for equality visible here in Washington, matched by those in other states who did the same. I am grateful for the generations of lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, and transgendered folks who courageously spoke out about their lives and their love. Sandy rightfully said we needed to be out everywhere we could be to support those who can't be. With each step toward equality, the number of people who can live their lives fully and openly increases. That is a good thing.

Ultimately, on June 30, 2014, our registered domestic partnership will convert to a marriage, retroactive to July 2007, and Sandy will have her deathbed wish. No matter what else I feel, for that I am incredibly grateful.

Making new friends with Sandy

One of Sandy's favorite blogs was Smitten Kitchen, now in its seventh year. It's an incredibly personable blog, inviting readers into Deb Perelman's tiny New York kitchen and her creative thought process. Sandy followed Deb as she explored various cuisines and ingredients, read the posts that followed Deb through pregnancy, childbirth, and her son's earliest years. I didn't read the blog, but I enjoyed the bits Sandy read me and the recipes we tried together.

Why don't I have photos of Sandy cooking? This is her in the
kitchen, but I think it was meant to show off a new hair color.

One of the many things I've missed since Sandy died is the additional pair of eyes on the web. She had her set of blogs, and I had mine, and we shared the intriguing or important bits with each other. Now that I'm responsible for 100% of my own blog exposure, I always feel like I'm missing something, but not enough that I try to read everything Sandy read in addition to my own collection.

A couple of months ago. I finally set up an RSS feed so that I could access Nate Silver's blog on the New York Times website for free. I opened Google Reader and set up an account. I'd never used it before, but there were several sites already listed there, and each one of them was one that Sandy had frequented.

I was confused at first, thought maybe I'd mistakenly signed into Google as her. But no, I hadn't. Google Reader was just making suggestions that happened to correspond exactly with Sandy's reading tastes. She'd rarely, if ever, used that computer, and I'd not visited the sites on it; sites I visited frequently weren't among the suggestions. I took the list as a welcome communication from Sandy.

Smitten Kitchen was among the suggested sites. I subscribed to the blog, made a few of the recipes in recent posts, and learned almost immediately that Deb had a cookbook coming out and would come to our local cookbook store, the Book Larder, on her book tour. A friend agreed to go with me, and I was psyched to have the opportunity to meet someone whose writing had given Sandy so much pleasure.

Weeks later, I realized that the event required tickets, which had long since sold out. But another event was scheduled for the following morning at the University Bookstore. I emailed my friend, letting her know we were out of luck for the Book Larder reading, but there was a second one. As I wrote, I expected to say that I was thinking about going, but what came out was "Sandy wants to go." I was startled, laughing, and deleted the words. And then realized that the words were accurate, Sandy did want to go, and she wanted me to take her there.

I met Deb Perelman this Thursday morning. She's as delightful in person as she is on her blog. I thoroughly enjoyed her presentation, which was mostly a Q&A session. I also enjoyed talking to the woman sitting next to me; she was lovely and our conversation ranged from her recent retirement and my self-employment to death and grief and cooking and politics and volunteering and learning to let go of our need to make everything perfect in the world. I had another wonderful conversation with a couple of women in the long line to get the book signed. People who like books and cooking are people I'll happily spend hours with.

When you get a book signed at a reading at the University Bookstore, someone comes along ahead of time and writes out the name you want in the signature so that the author doesn't have to ask you how to spell it. So Deb opened the book, saw the sticky note with the name on it, and asked "Are you Sandy?" I explained that no, Sandy died, but she loved Deb's blog and wanted to meet her. (I didn't say that I knew this because she expressed it in an email I was typing; I'm still not completely sure I believe that myself.) I did apologize if it creeped her out to be signing a book to a dead person, but she took it pretty well. She wrote "To Sandy. I'm so sorry I didn't get to meet you," which was just about perfect, and then we talked about orzo, a topic that was clearly more comfortable for her.

I'm incredibly pleased with the outing. I enjoyed conversations and the presentation, and came home with a cookbook I'm looking forward to using. The book has the same narrative style as the blog. I feel like I'm getting each recipe from a friend, after she's told me what she had for dinner last night and how much everyone liked it. Most important, though, I feel like I had the opportunity to give Sandy a gift, something I don't get to do much anymore. I'm thinking maybe we'll do a little cooking together.

Force of nature

The hurricane that hit the Eastern seaboard yesterday has left a trail of damage in its wake, disrupting and sometimes claiming lives. As with others throughout the country and the world, my thoughts are with those who are suffering and who face long clean-up efforts ahead. But I am three thousand miles away, not personally affected by the storm,

I told her I needed an appropriate photo, and several pictures
of her or us with serene water appeared in the screensaver
slideshow on my laptop -- all okay, if the goal was to say that
she's nothing like a hurricane. But then this one came up:
Sandy yanking a dead tree out of the ground. Perfect!

Still, the whole thing has been a little surreal for me. It was Hurricane Sandy, so news reports just refer to the storm as "Sandy," in phrases like "preparing for Sandy," "when Sandy arrives," "damage Sandy left," and even "Sandy's angry."

Sandy was a force of nature, but not so much in the way that a hurricane is. I want nothing more than for her to return to earth, but not in a way that kills people and animals and destroys homes, livelihoods, and ecosystems. And while at first it was kind of a thrill to hear her name on the radio, when the storm was still days away and its effect uncertain, I'm looking forward now to having Sandy discussed in gentler, friendlier contexts again.

Memories as enrichment

I've been reading a book called Staying Connected: How to Continue Your Relationships with Those Who Have Died. It's a collection of speeches given by Rudolf Steiner just about a hundred years ago, most of them dated 1914 and 1915.

Rudolf Steiner was a big deal in the spiritualist movements at the time. He founded the (still-existing) General Anthroposophical Society, "an association of people whose will it is to nurture the life of the soul, both in the individual and in human society, on the basis of a true knowledge of the spiritual world." He was also the founder of Waldorf Schools. And he had a bit of an ego, judging from the tone of his writings.

I've read a lot of books about dying, death, and life after death in the fifteen months since Sandy died. I want to know what she's experiencing, and to understand my own experiences. Some of this is just that I want to not feel crazy. But more, I've realized just how little I know about the biggest questions in life, and I'm hungry for as much information as I can glean. So I read it all, embracing the bits that feel like they fit what I've personally seen so far, and always skeptical of anyone who claims to know exactly what happens and how the afterlife is organized.

I'm reading Steiner with several grains of salt. He's way too sure of himself, without offering any indication of how he came to his enlightenment. But there are some ideas that please me, whether they're true or not.

She wanted to be remembered. And I can't help thinking about
her, even if I wanted to. So how great would it be if my
memories and those of others who love her bring beauty, too?

In particular, he talks about the effect of our memories on the dead. He compares it to art and beauty in our own physical world. We don't need art and beauty to survive, but they enhance our lives and give them additional meaning. Likewise, he says that those who are between death and rebirth do not require our memories to survive, but when we remember them, we add beauty to their existence.

I have no way of knowing whether Steiner's assertion is accurate. But I love the idea that our memories of those we've loved and lost not only bring us joy and comfort, but also enrich the experience of those we're remembering. I'm a sucker for a win/win scenario, and this is a sweet one. 

Rain!

It's been dry here, unusually dry. We don't expect to get much rain in the Pacific Northwest between the 4th of July and the end of September, but this year was extreme. We had the driest August-September of the 65 years since they started tracking it, and the second-driest July-September. And it didn't end there. Our fall rains didn't begin until this last Friday, October 12.

It was such a relief to see darkened sidewalks when I got up Friday morning, even though no more rain fell that day until about 8:00 in the evening. It didn't matter that it wasn't raining at the moment; the air was warm and moist and welcoming, balmy.

Grief has made me irritable, but some of that was eased when the rains began, and especially as they've continued through the weekend. It feels like a homecoming, a reassurance that the world is still familiar.

Sandy was a Western Washington girl born and bred, and
she'd have been frustrated by the endless dry weather,
rejoicing at the rain's return with me this weekend.

I wasn't the only one irritable, either. Turns out there's a version of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) that occurs when there's too much sun. We know a lot about the winter SAD up here; many people have lights to help their moods when our days grow short and sometimes never get light. But we don't usually have to worry about too much sun and dryness.

It's even more reassuring that it's Seattle rain that has returned. It rained much of the afternoon today, and it sounded quite heavy within the house. But when I went outside to feed Cubbie, I wandered the yard for several minutes looking for him (never found him, unfortunately) and talked with Sadie, another stray, who was nesting in a dry corner of the compost bin. There were drops of water on my clothing, but I wasn't exactly wet, and within ten minutes of being inside, I was completely dry. That's just how our rain is supposed to be, a pleasant backdrop to our lives but not an impediment. (There was thunder this afternoon, which is unusual, but it just sounded like an enthusiastic celebration of the rain's return.)

Somehow, Sandy's absence hurts less now that the air is friendly and damp again. The shortening days are less lonely with the nourishing pitter-patter on the windows. It feels much more natural to have trees losing their leaves; when they were falling dry, it felt like they were dying, but now leaves on the ground are part of the seasonal cycles. Despair recedes; nestiness and the desire to cook and bake and read all rise to the surface. It's a very good thing.

Cold and flu season

All last week, I felt run down, exhausted. I had obligations away from home every day, which is unusual for me, and the nights have gotten chillier, and I was stressed about Nada's potential anemia and the work I'm doing for the campaign and the work I'm doing for pay and several other things. So I thought I really just didn't have the energy to do it all.

I was so tired that I lay down in the middle of the day, reading or napping, in order to have the energy to get back up and do a fraction of what I'd planned each day. That wasn't promising; I couldn't see how I'd possibly accomplish everything if that was my new normal. I feared that my lack of energy was permanent, a physical response to psychological pain.

On Thursday, a cold or flu -- I'm still not sure which -- swooped in and hit me hard. My first reaction was relief. Illness meant recovery, which in turn meant I would again have energy some day. Hallelujah.

Bet you anything I made that cup of tea for her. Roo would
sit quietly next to Sandy until her guard was down, and then
she'd stealthily work her way between Sandy and whatever
she was reading, wanting to be on her chest. In this photo,
she's clearly getting ready to make her move!

Misery quickly replaced relief, and self-pity crowded in there, too. I hadn't been planning to get sick, and wasn't set up for it. I had expected to buy groceries on Friday, but didn't feel up to leaving the house. I was out of kitty litter. I ran out of my slippery elm tablets on Thursday and nearly exhausted the single bag of Ricola's that was in the house. Every time I wanted a cup of tea, I had to wait for the water to boil, and then wait for the tea to steep, all the while shivering and sneezing and wishing I were back under a blanket.

I really wanted Sandy.

At the same time, I was glad that I wasn't disturbing her as I sputtered my way through Thursday night, achieving only a couple of hours of sleep. Friday night was better -- not great, but better -- but then by Saturday night, the coughing had set in and I slept only a few hours again.

I was glad that I didn't have to worry about passing my illness to Sandy. Typically, one of us would get sick and the other would go stock up on the necessary supplies, taking care of the first one until we were both ill. There'd be a short period of overlap, but then the first one would be well enough to take care of the second. A couple of times, we did that multiple times, passing the same germs back and forth.

We were very careful when she had metastatic breast cancer, alert to the risk of illness. And both of us were on supplements and diets to boost our immune systems. From the time we learned of the cancer to the moment she died, neither of us had a cold or flu. I've had a few in the fourteen and a half months since then. I have the same diet, same supplements, that I had before - but grief is hard on a body and I'm not nearly as motivated to stay well, apparently.

At the moment, I'm underslept, but my energy started to return in earnest today. I got some work done. I showered and dressed in fresh clothes for the first time since Thursday, and thus began to feel more human. Walked to the library to return books that were due, to the pet store for kitty litter and food, to the co-op for groceries and lozenges and healing teas. I carried cough drops and tissues and a water bottle with me on my outings, but managed to walk a few miles, converse with several people, and carry reasonably heavy loads without a single cough or sneeze or nose-blow. That's a good sign, I think.

I'm tired now. My head has felt heavy for the last hour, and I'm savoring that feeling, hoping it translates to good sleep tonight.

And I still really want Sandy.

Fourteen and a half months

Sandy has now been dead as long as she lived with the knowledge (or even the suspicion) that she had metastatic breast cancer.

At about 10:00 the evening of May 6, 2010, we listened to a phone message about the chest X-ray she'd had earlier that day, which showed areas of concern in her lungs. I remember that life-changing moment vividly. The fourteen and a half months that followed are much sharper in my memory than most of my life before them.

I strongly associate walking sticks with Sandy, and it's weird
to realize she used them less than a year. Less than the time
she's now been dead. (She never has them in my dreams.)

During that period, my senses were heightened: I was afraid much of the time. I was relieved whenever we received good news, distraught when we received bad. I was deeply grateful for every moment I spent with Sandy and especially for every moment that she felt good enough to embrace life. I was focused on her wellbeing, and on finding us a path to wellness. Though the time was much too short, my memories from that span are rich and the time seems long.

In contrast, the year-plus since she died is but a blurry blip. Each day stretches endlessly, yet I never seem to make any progress on my goals. Though the hours plod mercilessly, the weeks and months fly by, without much to mark them. My senses are dulled.

Time feels warped, as do my memories. Contributing to my odd state is the frequent sense that Sandy is here. Even when I don't have visitation dreams, she's often in my regular dreams, with us just being ourselves together. I need that; I feel more grounded by it. But it also makes her death even harder to reconcile.

Someone wrote in a tribute after Sandy died that she had had a "long battle" with cancer, and I thought at the time that it wasn't long, that it had been far too short. Now that she's been dead for as long as that battle took place, I'm even more certain that it wasn't long at all.

Nada update: This is day 6, and he's still energetic and obnoxious, so I think the emergency vet was right and he's going to be fine. Thank you to those who extended support!

Nada watch

Tuesday evening, I simmered sweet onions and tomatoes, as I always do at this point in the season, planning to freeze the concoction for winter eating. I had a good onion crop, and sweet onions don't store well, so this is a good way to preserve the harvest. (And it satisfies my sweet tooth on chilly winter evenings.)

I decided they'd cooked down enough and I left the pan on the stove to cool while I sat in the living room and played around online. Both Belly and Nada had been sleeping on the sofa next to me, but at some point Nada got up to wander. I heard noises in the kitchen, and I suspected he was trying to get into something on the counter. He's not supposed to get up there, but I knew I'd put everything problematic away. The second time I heard the noises, I realized I was hearing the tag from his collar hitting the pan. I got to the kitchen as he jumped off the stove. A sizable chunk of my tomato/onion mixture was missing. And onion is toxic to cats — potentially fatal.

So, at 11:30 p.m., I called the emergency vet. I explained what had happened and told them how much I thought he'd eaten (I've been second-guessing that amount ever since — how can you tell how much is missing from a mostly liquid mixture in a skillet?). The doctor on duty said she wasn't concerned because it was a small amount, cooked, and diluted. I was relieved but skeptical, and I asked the nurse on the phone what symptoms I should watch for and if there's anything else I should do. I confirmed that the risk is anemia, and she said basically if he's anything but his normal happy cat self to bring him in. So that was late Tuesday night.

Yesterday, I was relieved to see a bright pink tongue in his mouth when he yawned, and I rejoiced every time he jumped on top of the front door or chased his brother. But I read more on the Internet and learned that cooking doesn't reduce the toxicity of onion, that it takes a very small amount to create a toxic effect, and that symptoms may not appear for several days. My anxiety increased with each bit of information I read.

Nada was an active cat from kittenhood. If the top pantry
door is open, he jumps into it; it it's not open, he climbs on
top of the pantry, somehow not knocking off the vases we
store there, and then uses his paw to open the pantry door and
climb in. (A long time ago, we stored treats in that cabinet.

It's too late to induce vomiting, and pointless to take him to the emergency vet if he's not actually symptomatic and might not be. So I'm monitoring him constantly, reassured every time he does something normal and concerned every time I catch any hesitation in his movement. I've made a point of finishing the work that absolutely has to get done this week, so I won't mess up anyone else's schedule if I spend hours at the emergency vet. I've rehearsed what I'd do if he does exhibit symptoms: reserving a Zipcar, popping him in a box with his current favorite fleece, grabbing the things I'd need to take (and yes, I've made a list). I've charged the cellphone to take with me, put my Zipcard in my wallet.

 And then I tried to switch gears and think positively. He's a boy who eats all kinds of things that most cats don't: tomatoes, broccoli, spinach, bread. He has also eaten a large quantity of plastic and rubber bands in his seven years, and though he's sometimes been a bit constipated, he's always come through fine. There was a lot of tomato liquid in the stuff he ate; it's possible there really wasn't much onion in the mix. In an effort to be proactive, I've got a call into our regular naturopathic vet to see if she has any ideas how I might bolster his defenses. I'll feel better when there's something I can do.

He likes to jump on top of the wooden front door, using the
security screen door as a springboard. As long as he's doing
that, I'm pretty sure he's not anemic. And to get him to do that,
all I have to do is to try to shut the front door, or plan to leave
the house, or walk by in a way that makes it look like I might
want to do any of those things. Then he's up in a flash

The last year of Sandy's life, we straddled two worlds: Sandy survives / Sandy dies. We tried to prepare for both, without focusing on the latter. Now I have a taste of that again, though only for a few days, I hope. Nada could be completely fine, or his red blood cells could be under attack even as I write this. I'm ready to jump into action, but trying to go about normal life while we wait to see if any action is necessary. I won't feel confident that he's actually just fine until a week has passed; we're just past 36 hours right now. I think it's going to be a long few days.

Meanwhile, I find it amusing every time he carries around the stuffed red blood cell a friend gave Sandy when she was anemic in the summer of 2010. Both cats move it from room to room. I can always tell that's what they've got because we never removed the heavy cardboard tag that was attached to it. There's a clunking sound that accompanies them, especially when they drag it up the stairs. It pleases me to see Nada with it now; keeping red blood cells handy seems like a good idea.

Marking a year here

It was on September 26 last year that I posted my first entry here. I wasn't sure why I was writing, or if I'd even share the URL with anyone. But I felt compelled to express my pain and what passed for insights. And photos of Sandy.

This was the photo I included in my first post last year. It seemed appropriate
to share it again now. My hat's off to all of you who've been with me this year.

I'd just attended an editors conference, where I'd seen old friends who offered their comfort and support. But I'd also talked with people I didn't know. I startled the woman sitting next to me when she pulled out a book titled something like "How to do the impossible" and I told her that sounded like what I needed. "I'm trying to raise the dead," I said, eagerly. My phrasing was unfortunate; I'm sure she pictured zombies. I explained that Sandy had died and that I was desperate for her return; my neighbor's response was much more understanding then and her eyes resumed their normal size. Unfortunately, her book was about marketing, not at all the kind of impossible I cared about. But I went on to tell her stories about my experiences of widowhood, and she said, "You should be blogging."

Besides, I had this cache of hundreds and hundreds of photos of Sandy that I had to share with those who love her. I thought of the blog as performing two functions: providing an outlet for my angst and offering a picture-a-day calendar. I still sort of think of it that way, though my photo choices have become more strained as the selection dwindles. I try not to duplicate them, but I'm getting to the point that most of the photos I haven't used are just random shots of Sandy posing in the house.

After a year of posting, I don't write here as often. Lest you think it's a sign that I'm healing, I should let you know that it's actually because I know how redundant my entries would be if I posted every day. How many times can I write of wanting her to return, of begging her to come back to me? How many visitation dreams do I need to document publicly? (I had one this morning, the first in many many weeks.) How much can anyone stand to hear about my insecurities or even my gratitude? So I don't write as much, coming to the page when I have something at least moderately new to contribute and leaving it alone when I don't.

I'd thought I might end the blog after a year, put the final touch on this part of the journey, but my frustration at the dearth of resources for widows past the first anniversary has convinced me to see where this goes. It's been 14 months since Sandy died, two months past the point where most of the tales of widowhood end, and I'm still aching for her. Maybe someday it will help some other widow to know that. Or someone who's trying to support her.

The blog has helped me survive the past year, and I appreciate all of you who have been with me so far on this unwanted journey. Thank you for the support you've offered in the comments, and in private email, phone calls, and embraces. Let's see what the coming months bring, shall we?

Counting

Two years ago, Sandy wasn't working because she had metastatic breast cancer, but she felt pretty good after a few months of chemo, so she felt guilty about not working. In fact, she talked a lot about needing to start looking for a job in a few months. I tried to dissuade her at every opportunity, encouraging her instead to pursue other interests. She took a woodworking class that she enjoyed, spent time with friends, started a few home projects.

None of that was enough. It was important to her to contribute to the world, so she sought out volunteer opportunities. ("I'm not working; the least I can do is x," she'd say.) So she was driving over to the East side to phone bank for Suzan DelBene's campaign every week. She beta read stories for friends. And in early September, she called me over to look over her shoulder at her laptop and said, "We should do this." It was the annual cyclist and pedestrian count. We signed up to count people at the corner of Broadway & John (less than a mile from our house) from 4:00 to 6:00 one evening.

We biked there because Sandy's osteoarthritis made walking difficult. We locked up our bikes to the trash bins, pulled out our clipboards, and got our thoughts together. And then Sandy said, "Okay, I'm sitting down." And she eased herself down onto the curb, one leg sticking out into the road. There she stayed for the next two hours, as we traded off, one of us calling out the numbers and the other one entering the tally marks.

I don't have any photos of Sandy that say "counting people,"
so here's a random photo from 2004.

A few times, people stopped to ask if she was okay, if we needed their help. That was sweet, but it took us a few tries to figure out how to graciously thank someone without interrupting our counting flow. Other people just stopped by to ask what we were doing - gathering signatures? Working on the details of some new construction project? (And what a few people didn't say but seemed to be thinking: were we terrorists, somehow staking out the corner for future attacks?) We quickly learned how to say we were counting pedestrians and cyclists for the city. It wasn't strictly accurate, but it was close enough, and it satisfied passersby without causing us to mess up on our numbers.

We were exhausted after two hours. Eyes crossed, mouths dry, limbs stiff (hers from sitting, mine from standing/shifting/leaning on the traffic light pole). We were very satisfied with ourselves, though, as we unlocked our bikes and climbed on for the short uphill ride home. We also agreed that we'd suggest they have three or even four people assigned to that corner next year, because it's far too busy for two people.

I don't even remember seeing the call for volunteers last year, though it must have come to my inbox. This year, I signed up. They had only one slot for the intersection this time, instead of two. The opposite of what we'd recommended. I went for the same corner, but I emailed the coordinator and let her know I planned to have a gang with me. She was thrilled, said I could recruit whomever I wanted. But then the people I asked were all unable to do it or never got back to me, and I tired of asking. So I just decided I'd do it alone, as best I could, and see if I couldn't summon what Sandy and I had brought to the task together.

I arrived a little early so I could mentally rehearse, analyze traffic patterns, figure out how to focus my energy efficiently. I saw one person I knew just before the official start time, so I was able to chat with her. But between 4:00 and 6:00, I was unfortunately pretty rude to the lost and lonely who saw me as a likely chatting partner. A woman with a clipboard on Broadway is usually begging people to stop and talk, trying to get signatures or, more likely, donations for some organization or another. Yet there I was, with my clipboard, actively avoiding conversation. For some people, you could tell it was just too much. One older guy approached and said, "What you doing there, honey?" When I turned my back, straining to count the number of people who'd just headed north on the other side of the intersection (was it 12? 14? and had two of them just peeled off to the west?), he assumed I'd taken offense. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you honey." He'd clearly been schooled before. I hadn't even noticed what he'd said, and now that there was a brief lull in pedestrian traffic, I could half turn toward him, and say, "No, I'm just counting. Can't talk." He wandered away.

I didn't sit on the curb, so no one asked if I was injured. In fact, except for the few people who seemed to be looking for someone to talk to, most people didn't seem to notice I was there at all. The city just went on around me, oblivious to my task, just as the world has gone on, oblivious to my pain. Everything's a metaphor.

The most amusing thing I saw was someone pushing a full-size mattress on its side on a small dolly. I have no idea how far he'd come, but I got the sense he'd been doing it for a while. I laughed and told him he won for the oddest thing I'd seen today; he smiled, shook his head, and said "you do what you've got to do" and off he went, pushing the mattress in front of him. I was glad for him that the rains haven't started yet, and then realized I was lucky, too.

I thought about Sandy a lot, in between frantic counting binges. And though I was both counting and tallying, I said the numbers out loud before I wrote them down. Two west, four south, one east, bike south, three north, four south - oh wait, no three south and one west, bike north, etc. My mouth was just as dry when I finished this year as it had been two years ago, but I didn't mind. Acting out both of our roles kept me from feeling alone or overwhelmed and also helped me focus.

I'm sure I didn't catch every pedestrian, or possibly even every bicycle, but I think I did as well as anyone could have without having more people assigned to watching different directions. And it pleased me to stand on that corner in 2012, half of my mind in 2010, doing exactly the same thing that we had done together two years ago.

Mail call

Three of the four items in the mailbox today were addressed to Sandy. It's unusual that there were so many, but most days, there's something meant for her or for both of us. In some cases, it's my doing; I've continued to make some donations in both of our names and I've intentionally not told some organizations that she died. But most of the mail that comes for her is just a reminder that we cast our nets widely in the world, and unless you're a celebrity, news of your death probably doesn't travel quickly. It's kind of like corrections in the media: far more people see the original story than ever see the revision.

An envelope from Citibank concerned me a little at first. I worried that there was some financial account I didn't know about, that I'd let something fall through the cracks. It looked very official. And it was, as it turned out, but it was just notification that a student loan she cosigned for our nephew, Kyle, was changing hands. No action required.

Sandy lifting Kyle back in April 2003, after hours of
working on clearing out bindweed, blackberries, and ivy.

I thought about calling them to tell them that she died, but decided against it. I don't expect our nephew to default, but if he does run into trouble with the loan, it's our obligation to pitch in. I'd originally intended to cosign with Sandy, but the bank preferred to have just one name. So I've always considered it our obligation, not hers, and any financial responsibilities she had when she died became mine automatically, whether legally required or not. So I'll just let it stay as-is, and that way I'll continue to get any information about the loan and be able to act accordingly if necessary someday.

She received a notice about a class-action suit that had been settled last week. Turns out we weren't the only people who suffered considerable damage from the faulty sunroof drain in a Volkswagen Golf. The notice came to Sandy because at the time we bought the car, I was pouty about owning one at all, so we put only her name on the product registration that we sent to VW. But I'd have claimed the settlement if it applied, anyway. As it turns out, there was nothing for me to claim. The settlement reimbursed owners for repairs done to the vehicle. I didn't repair it; I gave it away. So I had no expenses and have no receipt. Still, it was validating to know that we hadn't just been idiots, that the problem was with the car and not us, for once.

When she received yet another request for donations to the Puget Sound Blood Center last week, I sent a check in her honor and let them know she'd died. I'd long since informed them of her death when they called to ask her to give blood. I didn't understand why they continued to call, anyway, since we'd asked that they stop when she had metastatic cancer. She could no longer give and it was a punch in the gut to her every time they asked her to.

Perhaps the most entertaining bits of mail that come for her are from the Obama campaign. Somehow they've mangled our names. I'm Mr. Brie Gyncild, and she's Ms. Sandy Gyncild. I laugh every time those envelopes arrive. The Romney campaign, on the other hand, sends mail only to me; given my rather vocal political leanings, I find those just as amusing.

Fever

I was feeling fine yesterday morning, and then suddenly at 11:30, I wasn't. At first I thought I was just stiff from sitting and working, but then I realized that my entire body hurt. A minute later, it dawned on me that I had a mild fever, just as the chills started.

Sandy had fevers frequently in 2010 and 2011, but she didn't recognize them until they'd already been affecting her for a while. In fact, in early 2011, it was so common for her to have an unidentified fever that whenever she got cranky or irritable, restless or despairing, I'd ask if she had one. Nine times out of ten, the answer was yes. She'd take ibuprofen and pretty soon she'd feel fine.

The fevers and other cancer symptoms had abated in time for
us to attend festivities with the family in July 2010.

The fevers in spring 2010 were mysterious. They mostly occurred late in the evening, and we wondered whether she had some sort of infection. But because they were gone in the morning, we coaxed ourselves into not worrying too much about them. It was those fevers that made me hopeful that the metastases that showed up in scans in May 2010 were actually tuberculosis. I didn't know then that unexplained recurrent fever can be a cancer symptom. The fevers stopped once she was on treatment and the cancer's growth was halted.

So perhaps we should have been more alarmed when fevers became common for her in very early 2011. We were concerned, certainly, and weren't sure whether to treat them or to let them run their course and conquer whatever her immune system was battling. Her naturopath and oncologist both told us the fevers were probably a response to chemo, and she should go ahead and take ibuprofen to feel better.

Now I believe those fevers were actually her body's response to the stealthy spread of the cancer into her spinal column. That realization keeps me from thinking that we might have avoided her death if we'd gone with brain radiation in April instead of June, or if we hadn't stopped the chemo and Avastin at the end of March. The cancer was already spreading by January and February; we just didn't have an MRI of her spine to make that obvious.

So I look at fevers differently now. I used to think of them as friendly indicators of an alert immune system. Many times, I've had an unexplained fever for a few hours, and after a good night's sleep, all is fine. I've hesitated to take anything to reduce the fever because I've trusted my immune system to know when it needs to smoke out an intruder. But now unexplained fevers seem ominous.

I didn't think this meant cancer. Those fevers would be recurrent, and this was, so far, a single event. But not knowing what it was about - and having it arrive so suddenly when I'd been feeling fine - was disturbing. Also, chills and body aches tend to make me a little less rational anyway. So I noted that my sinuses had been problematic (but also that this didn't seem to be a sinus infection, and I'm very familiar with those), and noted some pain in my gut that could mean inflammation or something, and worried about internal wounds that could be killing me. I also knew that it was probably a transient virus that tried to take up residence and was being expelled by my body.

Just in case, I called a close local friend so that someone would know to check on me. I was acutely aware that my own personal nurse is no longer in the house. It occurred to me that I've never called 911 for my own medical emergencies, only for Sandy's, and only when she was incapacitated. I started to dwell on the idea that I could have a seizure or a stroke or something far worse, and no human would be here to get me help. I started feeling pretty darn alone in the world.

And then my friend brought me groceries I'd requested to help me treat my gut tenderly, in case it was the problem. And I did take a regular-strength Tylenol just before bed so that the body aches wouldn't keep me from sleeping. This morning, I woke up with a temperature of 98.6, no body aches, and a remarkably more positive outlook. The worst symptoms I've had today were fatigue and lightheadedness, both resolved with the introduction of calories, especially protein and electrolytes. Whatever this was appears to have passed. I'm still wary, but I'm feeling pretty good.

So this was apparently a benign, potentially beneficial fever. It's still hard not to second-guess such things, when I know that our assumptions were so wrong before.

Daily reminders

As I made my dinner last night, I realized how many reminders of Sandy populate the ordinary moments of my day. In the meal preparation, I used the cast-iron skillet I bought her for her 50th birthday in 2010, and then I drained pasta in the colander she bought me for my birthday a decade or so ago, and then I ate the meal from a bowl she bought me for my birthday a different year. I drank water from one of the case of glasses she bought at a restaurant-supply place to indulge my preference for American pint beer glasses.

Here she was on her 50th birthday, the day I gave her the cast-iron
skillet and a bunch of other things. That skillet was a big deal, both
because she wanted it and because I walked up a steep hill (Denny)
carrying the heavy thing in my backpack. Talk about love!

 

I took my dinner into the living room, where I curled up on the blue leather sofa that was the culmination of a search that consumed our energy for many months a very long time ago. I caught up on slog, the blog of our local alternative newspaper, The Stranger, a blog Sandy and I both read regularly. (Often, conversations would begin with one of us saying, "Hey did you read slog today? Did you see. . .") When I got chilly, I tucked my bare feet under the blanket Sandy's sister, Mindy, made for her in 2010, a huge comfort for Sandy as she miserably hung out on the sofa during the early days of cancer treatment.

I watched a couple of episodes of "The Office" on DVD on my laptop, and was all too aware that Sandy hadn't cared for the show. But, as I said aloud, if she came back, she could decide what got played; if she insisted on staying dead, I got to watch whatever I wanted.

When I finally crawled into bed, I pulled the quilt over me, a quilt that was yet another birthday present from her. (You'd think all we did was have birthdays!) As I read, Nada kneaded one of Sandy's fleecy jackets that I keep on the bed to keep Nada's claws off of my flesh. And pictures of us together looked down on me from the wall over the dresser. (Sometimes, I lie in bed and just name the places and times each of those photos were taken, spending a minute or so with each one, soaking up the memory of sitting on the base of the Campanile in Venice, getting trapped in a fort during a flash flood in Corfu, attending the Adobe holiday party, biking in West Seattle, etc. I can be there with her, and I'm younger and more hopeful, happy, for a few minutes.)

It's not just the objects that remind me of Sandy, of course. Songs, news stories, smells, places, people, even the very air bring her to mind. And that is such a blessing.

When she was dying, I knew that I'd be surrounded by reminders of her every day, and I thought that would be too painful to bear. And then it occurred to me what a gift it was, that I'd be able to remember her and us and our life together because of all those reminders. I told her that, a few days before she died, at a time that she was unresponsive. I said, "Your presence will make up for your absence."

I do believe she interpreted that to mean that she'd actually be present, and was expected to be. She certainly has been, anyway. But my intended meaning was accurate, too. Each memory of her keeps her closer and reassures me that I am loved.