Memories of a day

Yesterday was January 29. That's a big day in my personal history.

In 1990, I arrived in Seattle on January 29, intending to live here six months before returning to college; I've been here 22 years and won't be surprised if I life the rest of my life in this city.

In 1995, I moved into this house, the first home I'd owned. I thought of it as a "starter" home, and expected to sell it within about five years. But then it became more home than starter — and when Sandy moved here in December 1997, I promised her we wouldn't move for at least five years. I've been here 17 years now; Sandy lived here longer than she'd lived at any other address in her life, and the same is true for me. Neither of us had talked about moving for many years, and now that so much of Sandy is in the walls and floors and gardens and space of this house, I fully expect to live the rest of my life here.

In 2011, January 29 wasn't quite as noteworthy, at least not at the time. But in hindsight, there were many important things about that day. We attended the memorial for Ed, a member of Sandy's extended family. We were there to remember Ed himself, of course, and to support those who were closer to him. But it also served as an opportunity for Sandy to talk about what she'd want at a memorial. Later, when I was planning her memorial, I wished we'd talked in greater detail about it, but I was grateful for the thoughts she shared that day.

The memorial was on Bainbridge Island. As we rode on the ferry back to Seattle, we'd just gotten our books out to read in the car when there was a knock on the window. Sandy's sister and her daughter had boarded the same ferry, and they'd come looking for us. They climbed into the back seat, and we enjoyed the spontaneous visit.

There was much merriment at Doña's birthday gathering.
Seated at the table are me (Brie), Mindy, Allison, Sandy, Viv,
and Delyn. Standing behnd us are Carolyn, Doña, and Julia.

That evening, we joined a bunch of female relatives for "girls' night out" in celebration of Doña's birthday. Sandy was tired, but she enjoyed catching up with everyone. I remember very clearly a conversation with Sandy's cousin, a nurse who was considering switching her focus to hospice care, as we talked about some of the exercises she'd experienced. Imagine that you'll never see another winter. That sort of thing. Sandy was talking and laughing with folks further down the table; I looked at her and tears came to my eyes. We thought we were doing okay, but I was all too aware that the ice was thin beneath us, and that Sandy may not get another January.

I believe that night was the last family gathering Sandy attended that wasn't focused on her illness and dying. Indeed, it was the last time we saw many of those people before Sandy was in the hospital in June. There was a big family barbecue planned in Seattle for June 19. But Sandy went into the hospital on the 17th, and so her family congregated at Virginia Mason the next few days, and then the next few weeks — and then at the hospice for the last ten days of Sandy's life.

I made plans, but couldn't anticipate the future on January 29 in 1990, 1995, or 2011. I suppose that's a good reminder that, while I can only see pain, darkness, and a feeling of being unmoored in the future, I really don't know what it holds. For now, I'm plodding through each day, clinging to my to-do list, waiting for the future to show itself.

Embracing all of Sandy's worlds

I have always been freaked out about mixing worlds. I know that who I am with one group of friends or family members may seem very different from who I am elsewhere. And I have never had a single core group that I hung with; I've always attached myself to multiple communities. But for the most part, they've all known about each other.

Sandy didn't put such an emphasis on keeping worlds separate; she just did it instinctively, on auto-pilot. And in her case, her worlds didn't know about each other. I could psychoanalyze why she kept each group isolated from the others, but ultimately, it doesn't matter. She lived her life that way for decades, and it gave her a sense of security.

We were a little nervous about mixing worlds the first time
my mom met her parents, in Port Angeles in 2003.
But everyone got along just fine.

As she was dying, many of those worlds came together. People who knew little or nothing about each other's existence - and importance - in Sandy's life spent many hours together, based at the hospice, experiencing the trauma and tedium that was her dying process. Sandy was a little alarmed to realize so many people were talking across the boundaries she'd carefully maintained, but I assured her, and others assured her, that it was a positive thing. And, really, she no longer had anything to lose. She wanted the people she loved around her, and there was only so much space and so much time, so they were going to be there together.

It was a good lesson for me, too, to have a little faith in the people I love and their ability to see what I see in them when they get to know each other.

The experience at the hospice and later at her memorial also showed me clearly how integrated our lives were. With the exception of a couple of friends from Sandy's life before we got together, I had an existing relationship with each of the people who were getting to know each other. I knew her family very well, and her closest friends, local and distant fans, work friends, caregivers, grad school buddies, and the other people who populated her life. It was important to her that I know them, as a way of knowing her.

We'd officially been together nine days when Sandy wanted me to join her in Port Angeles for a large family Christmas gathering. I thought I'd rather meet people in smaller groups, especially her mom. And we'd been together nine days. . .  though we'd known each other for nearly six years, we didn't know how we were together as a couple yet. But that enthusiasm for bringing me into the center of her life touched me deeply then, and continued to mean a great deal to me throughout our relationship.

Now, because she integrated me so fully in her life, I have my own relationships with the people who were important to her. They're my family, too, whether they were her blood relatives or chosen family. And it's a little startling to me whenever anyone seems surprised that I'm in touch with people from other areas of Sandy's life. From my vantage point, I could see all the facets of Sandy's world, and I strived to support her in all of them. In going through her things, I've yet to find any surprises, any signs of a part of herself that she didn't share with me.

Sandy pulled me into just about every corner of her world for nearly sixteen years. I'm grateful for the relationships I have with all these people who I've come to love, especially now that they also help me keep Sandy's memory alive.

Minutes only

A few years ago, Sandy and I were visiting my Great-Aunt Betty in Nebraska. Hanging on the bedroom wall was this quote (I believe it was in needlework, but my memory is fuzzy):

Bewahret einander vor Herzeleid, 
kurz ist die Zeit die Ihr zusammen seid.
Denn ob auch viele Jahre Euch vereinen,
einst werden wie Minuten sie Euch scheinen

If I recall correctly, it was given to my great-grandparents when they married. We asked about it, and Betty showed us the translation someone had written for the English-speakers in the family:

Preserve each other from heart sorrow.
Short is the time you are together.
And even if many years will unite you,
Once they will seem to you as minutes only.

Sandy with Betty in November 2005

We thought it was beautiful, if clumsily translated, and I scribbled both the original and the translation into my notebook. It ended up in one of the countless piles of paper in the house, and eventually found its way into a box of items to be filed. (Often, that box is actually a catch-all for things I don't want to lose but haven't a clue what to do with.) Today, I was sifting through that box and came across it.

Sandy didn't have metastatic cancer when we first saw the quote, and I believe I'd already come through heart surgery. We thought our future would be smoother, but we'd known the fear of losing each other. The words "short is the time you are together" felt very poignant then. This morning I was caught on the thought that we had only 15 and a half years together, and that I could well have to live another 50 without her. When I came across the quote today, I felt its truth, even as I was taken back in time, standing in that bedroom with Sandy and Betty, feeling Sandy's arm tighten around my waist.

**I've looked up the original German online and discovered that it's apparently an old quote, one that has more recently found its way into a rock song. I found some more graceful translations (heartache instead of "heart sorrow," though I find the latter charming), but haven't learned the origin of the quote itself.

Challenges of advocacy

Many people shy away from talking about end-of-life issues or creating wills or putting together plans for awful eventualities, but Sandy and I talked about those things throughout our relationship. In part, we were motivated by the lack of protections we had because we weren't able to marry. For example, until we got registered domestic partnerships in the state of Washington in 2007, Sandy had no legal status in relationship to me. Her mother and father were her legal next-of-kin, followed by her siblings, and then their children, and so on. There was no place in that line-up for me. That changed in 2007, when our registered domestic partnership finally gave us next-of-kin status for each other. But that protection was limited to states that honored domestic partnerships; most states don't. Our legal documents remained vital to us whenever one or both of us traveled.

We probably would have talked about the end-of-life stuff anyway, because I love to plan for emergencies; it's sort of a hobby for me. I also wanted to make sure my father would have no say in my care and would receive nothing from my estate. I last spoke to him in 1986, and would have ceased communication with him earlier if I could have. Sandy, too, didn't want her father popping up at the last minute and trying to exert some authority over any important decisions.

So we covered the standard things: living wills, actual wills, powers of attorney - both medical and financial. We carried cards in our wallets that declared our relationship and asked that we be treated as spouses in medical emergencies. And after we registered as domestic partners, we carried the wallet cards that proved we had legal rights.

But there was a conversation we had repeatedly that was a little off the beaten track, even for an emergency planning enthusiast. Very early in our relationship, Sandy solicited a promise from me that I would never let her continue living -- that I would end her life -- if she wasn't present for her life. She didn't want to live if she didn't know whether she was happy or not, or whether she'd been happy half an hour ago, or whether people she loved had come to see her. Her brain, and all that it meant for who she was, was vitally important to her, and without cognizance, she didn't want to live.

The first time she brought this up, I was hesitant to make the promise. Could I, in fact, kill her, even if I knew it was what she would want? Over the years, as we had the conversation repeatedly, I grew to understand the nuances better and gained a better sense of what was and was not acceptable to her. And because I respected her vehemence and her priorities, I was willing to accept the responsibility of ending her life for her if she was unable to live what would be for her a meaningful life.

After the metastatic cancer diagnosis in May 2010, we began to have another type of conversation. She was afraid of being in terrible pain and not being able to do anything about it. We talked about the death with dignity pills, and agreed that if she qualified, she'd want them. And I agreed to help her end her life if those pills were not available to her and the pain was unbearable, with no relief possible.

In the last few months of her life, she did have unbearable pain. One night in early June, she said at 3 a.m. that she'd use the death with dignity pills right then if she had them; in the morning, she felt better and said it was a good thing she didn't have the pills. In fact, she said, she would impose a rule that she couldn't take them in the middle of the night. I said, how about I take custody of them - you're in control but I can enforce whatever guidelines you come up with. We agreed to that plan.

I'm sure some nurses and maybe even some family members or friends thought me cruel in the last five weeks of her life, when I tried to limit the pain medications she was receiving at various times. Especially in hospice care, pain relief is just about all they can offer a patient. But the pain meds they had to offer weren't helping with her nerve pain, and repeatedly, she went into narcotic fogs, losing entire days due to the effect of the meds. I was desperately trying to help her be present and free of pain; it was a nearly impossible balance to achieve with cancer in her nervous system.

I had been taking care of her the last year of her life, but we were a team. I did the research and came up with the options; she chose the path she wanted to take. She weighed the costs and benefits of everything she did. Even though she complained about the pills daily, as if I were a horrible pill taskmaster, she'd agreed to take each of the pills in her case (and declined others). There was a huge emotional toll on me, helping to manage her medical care while also dealing with my own stress and fear, and while helping her process hers, too. But we worked through it together. When I was afraid, I told her; when she was afraid, she told me. When one of us had doubts about the medical plan, we evaluated everything together and figured out a new approach.

Mindy was a huge help when Sandy wasn't lucid, but also in
helping to make sure things went as smoothly as possible
when she was. She also has the kind of calm, positive
presence that's very useful in a hospital setting.

Suddenly, then, in June, when she was confused and no longer lucid, I was the one making all the decisions. Alone. Having to determine what she'd want and what I'd advise and what we'd eventually conclude together. Sometimes with very little time to think through it. Her sister was with me for the scariest conversations with doctors, and that was a huge help. But I really wanted Sandy there, saying yes or no or voicing her concerns.

I was so relieved when she was coherent again, able to understand what was going on, able to participate in the process. I knew it didn't change her prognosis, but I was no longer solely responsible for her care. She could chime in; she could have the final say. Nurses had gotten so used to asking me things that I constantly had to tell them to ask her when she was capable of handling their questions. And it felt good to step back and let her speak for herself.

She was very angry with me for what she perceived as my taking the nurses' side or putting limits on her when she was unaware of her own physical limitations. And I'd have been angry, too. But she approved of the decisions I'd made when I was the one in charge, when she was unable to approve medical procedures. As soon as she could handle it cognitively, I'd tell her what had happened (approving radiation; keeping the information about the cancer in her spine from her until she was fully back; requesting treatment on the day we transferred to Bailey-Boushay). The times I had to speak for her, she agreed with what I'd done. It was only in the gray times, when it wasn't clear how well she could make decisions for herself, that she got angry.

When she was in pain and coherent, she could advocate for pain meds herself, and she did. But when she wasn't lucid, I had to advocate for her. And since I'd heard for years (over and over and over) just how important it was to her to be present for her life, I prioritized lucidity over pain relief most of the time. On bad days, I revisit each decision I made, and wonder if it was the right one. I wonder whether we should have stopped radiation sooner, why I didn't research nerve pain medications earlier, how much better her quality of life would have been if I'd pushed back on recommended narcotics or given in to doctors' advice at other times.

We'd talked about the importance of her knowing what's going on in her world; we'd talked about her fear of pain. We hadn't talked about what happened if the two were pitted against each other. And as well as I knew her, as much as we'd talked about all of this, and as competent as I felt interacting with her doctors and nurses, I still wasn't ready to make the decisions for her medical care. It was both a privilege and an overwhelming responsibility, and one I'd never actually thought I'd have to experience. And clearly, one I haven't recovered from yet.

Death and taxes

I'll be filing Sandy's final tax return this year. I've done her taxes for fourteen years, so it's not a new task for me. But last year, the IRS changed the rules for couples with registered domestic partnerships in states that have community property laws. These new rules applied to couples in California, Washington, and Nevada -- and they only apply to those of us who are denied federal recognition of our relationship.

Some in the LGBT community claimed this was a big win, because our community property laws should apply to our relationships.  But the implementation is discriminatory, oppressive, and downright confusing.

We're supposed to do something called income-splitting. That is, we're each supposed to report half of our joint incomes, claim half of our joint deductions, and pay half of our joint taxes. For example, if Sandy made $70,000 in 2010 and I made $10,000, we'd each claim $40,000 and pay taxes on that amount. Anyone who's paid attention to the so-called "marriage penalty" debate knows that couples filing together fare better on their tax bill if one partner makes significantly more than the other, so for registered domestic partners where one is a stay-at-home parent, the tax benefit of income-splitting can be substantial. I personally know couples who have gained $6000 or more a year in tax breaks through this new ruling.

But it's pisses me off. The IRS ruled that they need to honor the state's community property laws, but because of the federal DOMA, they can't change the forms to acknowledge our relationships. I'm supposed to file half of Sandy's income as mine, but there's literally no field on my form for her name. If we use the Spouse field, we're committing fraud. There's also no box to check that says we're in a registered domestic partnership; we're supposed to put a note at the top of the form that says "Filed pursuant to IRS memo xxxxx -- xxxxx blah blah blah."

We've wanted marriage with both state and federal recognition, and I'd love to be able to file jointly. Instead, Sandy and I both considered this half-measure offensive. And when they first rolled this out for the 2010 tax year, they weren't giving much guidance on what to do if one of the partners is self-employed, as I am. It all became very messy. Not all IRS agents knew about the ruling, either, so plenty of people who complied were getting their returns sent back to them as invalid. Additionally, most CPAs and tax preparers knew little or nothing about how to do the returns, and none of the electronic tax applications are set up to handle it. So while the IRS is pushing taxpayers to e-file, couples in registered domestic partnerships in these states have been told we have to file on paper.

I think it was Ben Franklin who said that nothing was certain
but death and taxes. But I'd say there are three things that
are certain: death, taxes, and Sandy laughing. Oh, and rain
in Seattle. I suppose the list could get rather long, really.

I'd already sent in Sandy's return last year when we learned that the IRS had declared income-splitting mandatory for 2010. They hadn't notified anyone, and there was little in the way of instruction on how to do it. I decided to ignore the ruling, leave Sandy's tax return as it was (she was expecting a refund and was anxious to get it, as she was feeling mighty poor on disability), and file my return the way I always had. I figured I'd use income-splitting for our 2011 returns.

And then Sandy died. In the middle of the year. Income-splitting gets very messy when you include self-employment and a death halfway through the year. It's ludicrous. It would cost me a few hundred dollars to hire a CPA to do this (when I've always done our taxes myself), I'd get maybe a few dollars extra back, and it would be incredibly stressful. After learning that the IRS has never actually articulated a penalty for not complying with this income-splitting business, and knowing that I might even relish the opportunity to sue over the undue burden this ruling places on same-sex couples, I decided to just file our taxes the way I always have.

It's possible I'd have done the same thing even if Sandy had lived, just because the requirement is so onerous and I'm so contrarian. And Sandy would have been fine with that. When I discussed it all with her last year, after I'd learned that we were supposed to have done this for 2010, she said she didn't care what we did. Taxes were my department and she trusted my judgment. And then she went back to reading her book.

Pain and anger

I have to keep repeating that this is not a linear process. But that doesn't help so much when the pain becomes intense again, as it did yesterday, and has been much of the last 24 hours.

I'd been feeling better, confident that I could integrate Sandy into my life as I craft some sort of future, starting slowly, with plans for weeks rather than months, and then months rather than years. Crawling before walking, but crawling forward.

And then we got good news yesterday, news I'd been expecting, news I wanted. We got the last vote we needed in the Washington state legislature for marriage equality. It's really going to happen this year. The House and Senate will pass it; the Governor will sign it. The bigots will try to put it on the ballot, but they may not even get the signatures they need; if it does go to a referendum, we're positioned to win. Sandy and I had anticipated that moment, the moment that the last vote clicked into place, since the day the state Supreme Court let us down in 2006.

Sandy as a bride for Halloween. Some other photos made her
family and me think maybe she was the Bride of Death or
something equally morbid, but no one seems to know for sure,
and I first saw this photo after she died

I'd expected to celebrate, but instead I started keening uncontrollably. Sounded like a whale in heat (or how I'd imagine a whale in heat would sound). The pain in my chest was almost violent in its sudden intensity. I've had trouble catching my breath again. I've been despairing, irritable, angry. Of course I'm angry at the two big foes, cancer and homophobia, that kept us from marrying. But my anger is scattershot, and last night I found myself angry at Sandy. "If you really loved me, you wouldn't have left me!" I yelled. She responded. Not with words, for once, but just this sense that washed through me that she was calling me on my irrationality. And she's right. She didn't want to leave; she wanted to stay with me; and her primary goal was to marry me before she died. It's not fair to either of us for me to be angry with her right now. But I am angry.

Not only was she stolen from me, but the joy I should be feeling right now was also taken. The celebration at paying off the mortgage was ripped away from me, too. So many moments that I've looked forward to are now sources of renewed pain.

Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful that Senator Mary Margaret Haugen came to the decision she did, and that she announced it publicly yesterday, on the heels of the Senate hearings. It's the right thing to do; it's long overdue; and there are thousands of Washington families who will directly benefit.

I'm just bitter that it came too late for us, and worried that a referendum will cause a five-month delay in the law's enactment that may just be too long for some couples who are running out of time. But honestly, my anger isn't even about the delay in equality. I'm angry that she died. I'm angry that I wasn't powerful enough to keep her here. I'm angry that I'm supposed to move forward and build a life without her. And, irrational as it may be, I'm angry that she left without me.

Thoughts about this blog

I started this blog nearly four months ago, shortly after Sandy's memorial. I wanted a way to put my feelings into words and send them out into the world. I write morning pages for myself every day, but those are stream-of-consciousness ramblings meant to free my brain from tumbling thoughts and unarticulated fears. They're meant for no eyes but mine, and when I reread them, I often find them boring, incoherent, or inane. They've served their purpose, but that purpose is transitory. I envisioned this blog as an opportunity for more thoughtful reflection, and for a chance to share the grief process with others who love Sandy, especially those whose daily lives are distant from others who knew Sandy well.

The caption of this photo says it well - in
this blog, I've been trying to make some
sense of this mess, though it's not quite as
tangible or as easy to untangle as kite string.

In truth, I write the posts for myself, first and foremost. As I write, I know the words are public. But this is also a very safe place to be vulnerable. I'm aware that strangers may come across these posts and find them useful or silly or self-indulgent or overly sentimental. I'm grateful if my honesty can help anyone going through something similar, but I have no investment in the reactions of people I don't know.

I care far more what friends and family think, yet I rarely worry about it much. If you read these posts, you probably knew and love Sandy or me or both of us. And you're not likely to be reading with a particularly critical mindset. I'm surprised, pleased, and a little flustered when people tell me they read these entries. I'm glad you do. Even though I write primarily for my own therapeutic purposes, I like knowing that I'm not alone.

Several people have commented that they feel like they're on a journey with me. While I initially saw this whole experience more as a deadend than a journey, I'm now more aware of the transitions and progress I'm making, and more willing to accept the metaphor. So thank you, everyone who's packed a bag and grabbed a water bottle and joined the trek. There's safety in numbers -- and greater potential for insight. You're very welcome here.

I do have a request for my fellow travelers*. If you leave a comment without having a Blogger login (that is, if your name appears as Anonymous), could you include your name in the comment itself? Or drop me an email and let me know that it was you? There have been several beautiful comments that mean a great deal to me, but I find myself playing guessing games, trying to figure out who wrote them. I'd love to know who's joined the conversation, especially if you're sharing personal experiences or memories.

Thank you all, lurkers and commenters alike, for indulging me on these pages. It's helped me to write here, to have a public place to remember Sandy, and to feel more connected to the communities of people who know just how special she is.

*I love using the term "fellow travelers" given the current political climate, but it actually fits here, I think.

Some hard things get easier

Sandy had a lot of clothing, despite her frequent complaints to the contrary. I gathered it all together from the dresser drawers, bedroom closet, the storage container under the bed, the suitcase that had seasonal clothes tucked into it, the closet in her room, boxes of clothes in the basement, and so on. Everywhere I wandered in the house, I found more of Sandy's clothing. (I'm still finding more, including two sweatshirts in the car when I cleaned it out before donating it.)

I evaluated it all, and was surprised to realize that I could wear much of it myself. In fact, more than half of her clothing fit me in style and size. (It helps that I tend to wear my clothing a little on the large side.) There were a few other things I kept for sentimental reasons. (For example, the dress she wore the night we got together is something I'll never wear, but I'll also never part with.)

When she sang with the Seattle Women's Chorus, they wore
these outfits. Later, she repurposed the shirt and the jacket
for Vividcon and a few other festive occasions. So even
though there were probably 50 women with that exact outfit,
the clothes have become uniquely Sandy's and need to go to
someone who will appreciate them.

Everything else I heaped in a pile and offered up to friends and family. Several people have taken things, but still the pile was huge. Today, I went through what remains and separated the special pieces from those that she either didn't wear all that much or didn't particularly care for. Four boxes are ready for Goodwill (in addition to three that have already gone), and I've hung the special things in her closet until they are claimed by people who love her.

Even three months ago, the idea of giving most of that pile to Goodwill physically hurt. I couldn't do it, both because I couldn't irretrievably let go of things that belonged to Sandy and because I feared that someone would want something of hers and I'd have nothing left that I was willing to give away.

But I've changed. It felt good today to box up a bunch of stuff for Goodwill, freeing up space in the house and in my brain. I enjoyed acknowledging that some of the clothing really wasn't meaningful to her, and she'd have been happy to donate it. And it pleased me that what remains are things that do have meaning, that deserve the space until I find the right people to give them to.

Shortly after Sandy died, I read some advice for grievers that said, basically, don't feel you have to do all the hard things at once. If it's hard, set it aside and come back to it later. At the time I thought that meant you should just space them out, but that the tasks would remain hard. I couldn't imagine anything getting any easier. But weirdly, many things have. In fact, the presence of that pile of clothing had become more of a burden than disposing of it was.

Now I'm wondering about the other things that are too hard today. When might they become doable? Will I someday be able to travel again? To spend weekends at our favorite places? I hope so.

Visions of us

I've been feeling overwhelmed by the number of half-done projects on my list, so I decided to complete an important one today. Last month, I spent much of our anniversary weekend finding photos of us through the years, printing them, and framing them. Since then, they've been stacked on the dresser, waiting to cover the wall.

Well, the photo makes it clear that some of the frames are
crooked. I'll have to fix that. The blue bottle on the
dresser contains Sandy's ashes. On the left end of the dresser is
my grandmother's high school graduation photo - definitely
a different era from the pictures of Sandy and me!

Today, I got them up. It took about three times as long as I expected, largely because I didn't really have the rights nails and screws, and because some of the frames didn't have hangers. But I got creative and made it all work. I had planned to arrange the pictures on the bed as a staging area first, but feline helpers were a little too involved for that to work. So I winged it. With a little more effort, I could have found a more attractive arrangement, I'm sure. However, I'm the only one who's going to be looking at them, so I need only please myself. And I have a writer's eye for errors, not a designer's, so I'll be seeing the photos rather than their context.

I'm very pleased, and I think Sandy would be, too. She frequently wanted more photos of us. We'd always meant to frame pictures and hang them around the house. And we'd never figured out what to do with the space over the dresser. This seems like an ideal solution.

At a glance, I can remember the breadth of our experiences together. I can see Sandy when I wake in the morning and I'll end the day looking at her, too. When she chooses to visit, I'll get to see her in my sleep as well.

Six months

On July 19, 2011, I woke up to a new world, a bleak, empty world. I'd cobbled together a to-do list for the tasks of death: contacting Social Security, providing the information for the death certificate, arranging for an attorney to deal with her estate, notifying friends and caregivers and anyone else who needed to know.

I'd been jotting down simple to-do lists at various points most days we were in the hospital, and then home, and then at the hospice. Those lists were very immediate, many of them just lists of things I needed to accomplish during a short visit home: feed the cats, take a shower, grab whatever Sandy had requested, take my pills, make a call, take out the trash. My life was completely removed from the greater life I'd had just a few weeks before. I lived in the present. Fully, completely, in the present. Not daring to look more than a day or two ahead.

After Sandy died, I still lived in the present. The future was bleak and dark, unreal and impossible to embrace. The past was painful. The present had tasks I could cross off, people I could cry with, books to read and Sandy's things to go through. I could feel her presence even before she'd started showing up in spirit. I dug out every card or note she'd ever given me and posted them all around my desk in my office. I went through old photos. I started wearing all her clothes. Each day was painful, physically and emotionally, but it was contained. I was in the present.

Now, six months later, I'm still very dependent on my to-do list, but it's expanded considerably to contain its usual range of short- and long-term tasks. I've felt great satisfaction whenever I've accomplished something that Sandy and I had both hoped to achieve. Big tasks (paying off the house) and small tasks (replacing the blender blade or cleaning out the pantry) both feel like something I'm doing for both of us. That's the benefit of having the kind of to-do list that items linger on for years, I guess.

I thought today would be painful, given my body's propensity for remembering dates. And there have been moments of intense grief and disbelief. But mostly it's been an opportunity for reflection. I've been evaluating my grief process, recognizing how it's changed from month to month, sometimes day to day or even hour to hour. And acknowledging that I really am doing much better. Discovering that I no longer feel so guilty about not feeling so much pain.

A week after Sandy died, my therapist said to me, "Your pain is not what binds you to Sandy; it's your love that does." I heard her. I tried to hold that thought. But truthfully, for a long time, not feeling pain felt like a betrayal. I feared fading memories, even fading love. And now, six months in, I'm relieved and comforted to recognize that my love for Sandy is as strong as ever, and that it's clear she's still present in the world, still herself, and still loving me. I'm more likely to feel her presence, more likely to have a visitation dream, more likely to get a message from her in any way, when I'm not in pain. Something about the pain and angst clouds my perceptions, I think (for I can't imagine that she punishes my pain by staying away); in effect, my lack of pain lets me feel a stronger connection. And that's what I call a win-win.

Seizures

I'd planned to black this site out today as part of the protest against SOPA and PIPA, offensive Internet censorship bills that the entertainment industry is pushing Congress to pass. But I couldn't make myself do it. I've been trying to keep Sandy visible, and the idea of hiding her -- even as part of a political protest she would support completely -- was just too hard. So instead I'll urge anyone who hasn't contacted your Senators and Representative to do so, urging them to oppose SOPA and PIPA. You can learn more about the legislation and efforts to stop it at demandprogress.org, freepress.org, and many other places. Please do.

Sandy and her sister making a snowman

Meanwhile, it's snowed again in Seattle. It's beautiful in a very different way than it was on Sunday. And despite it being a weekday, my neighborhood is much quieter than it was on Sunday, though we got about the same amount of snow. The difference is that the news hyped the upcoming storm for the past couple of days, so people planned ahead, canceled schools, planned to work from home, and generally changed their lives so that they didn't need to be out and about. And the second snow is never as exciting as the first snow was. Sandy would still have been psyched, and she'd have helped me shovel the walk, enjoying the conversations with the few neighbors who trekked past.

Eight years ago this morning, 48 hours after our cat died suddenly, I was awakened again by a disturbing noise. Sandy appeared to be choking in our bed. I called 911 and told them she seemed to be having a seizure or a stroke. EMTs came quickly, and five of them stomped up to our bedroom. They immediately went to work taking vitals, etc., while they asked me questions. She started to become more responsive, though she didn't know her name or mine, and she just wanted to go back to sleep. Within 30 minutes, she was awake enough to walk down the stairs to the gurney with assistance, though she never remembered doing that.

The ambulance took her to the hospital. I cleaned up the mess the EMTs had left, checked on Roo (our remaining cat), gathered things Sandy would want (her glasses, her PDA, clothes, shoes, a coat), and followed them. I arrived minutes after the ambulance, and I walked into the ER prepared to do battle. We had no legal rights in 2004, and not long before that a friend had been told he couldn't join his partner when he'd had a heart attack. The nurse asked me if I was a friend, and I firmly said, "I'm her partner." I was thrilled when a person at a desk yelled over that she needed me to come fill out some forms, please. Happy to.

Those moments that I didn't know what was going on were absolutely terrifying. And then, when the worst seemed to have passed but we didn't know yet whether she'd had a stroke, I was scared she'd lost her mental acuity and that I'd lost so much that we shared. She came back to herself while we were at the ER, and the tests all looked fine, so the conclusion was that Wellbutrin, her antidepressant, had caused a seizure, and she could go home and sleep. (At the ER she also told me that she'd been awake earlier than was apparent but she thought she was dreaming because there were five men in the bedroom and she knew Brie wouldn't allow that. But she looked at me and said, "They were attractive, weren't they?" I concurred. Yes, they're EMTs. Kind of goes with the territory.)

At home, I got her settled back into bed and then emailed family and friends to let them know what had happened. I crawled back into bed with her just in time to witness the beginning of another seizure. 911; EMTs; emergency room - and this time they kept her overnight, just in case.

After our cat had died unexpectedly and then seizures had disrupted our lives, I no longer had confidence in the universe. It took me a long time to regain my equilibrium -- and to let Sandy sleep unmolested. She'd done some weird things with her mouth just before her seizure, so any time she did anything weird with her mouth, I'd nudge her awake to make sure she was okay. Eventually, I realized that I could reassure myself just by pressing my body against hers and taking a deep breath; she'd take one too, without waking up, and I'd know that all was well.

She never thought the seizures were that big a deal. It was a bother that she couldn't drive for a while, and it was very annoying that I was so worried, but she didn't see herself and had no memory of just how scary it all was. She was pleased when I finally calmed down. Of course, I didn't get to stay calm for long, but we didn't know that then.

Prudence

Eight years ago this morning, around 4 or 5 a.m., we woke to the sound of barking, but we didn't have a dog. Our beautiful cat, Prudence, appeared to be choking to death. She dragged herself into the hallway; we got out of bed and followed. I hopped on the computer, seeking guidance for what to do for a choking cat. Prudence continued to suffer, and eventually flopped into a ridiculous position, up against the hallway wall. I didn't see it, but the position was ridiculous enough that Sandy laughed. I yelled out instructions to swing her by her back legs, and when that didn't help, Sandy laid the cat on the floor next to my desk while she ran to get dressed. I called the emergency vet, and they had me blow on her ears. Nothing. She was dead. Her death throes probably occurred when she ended up in the silly position. We morbidly joked a few days later about Sandy swinging a dead cat.

Prudence always hung out in the garden with us, even after she
wanted to go inside. She really loved the blue 8' ladder we had
in the garden as part garden art/part trellis.

The entire drama probably lasted under ten minutes, but it felt like my world had split open in that time. That was the first time I ever keened. I loved (and love) that cat; she was my constant companion. She was the ubercat. Everyone loved her. I couldn't believe that such a life could go so suddenly.

Later we realized she'd had congestive heart failure for some time. As I read about it, I could recognize the symptoms in hindsight. I was just as glad we hadn't known. She didn't suffer much from it, just slowed down. She was herself through her last day of life, and as far as we could tell, suffered only those last few minutes. But I was left to wonder how I'd do yoga without her help, play the piano without her company, garden without her always within reach.

Prudence appeared in my dreams frequently for the first several months after she died. Not just random dreams. I now know they were visitation dreams. In my dream, someone would compliment her as she crossed through the room, and I'd say, "Yes, it's too bad she's died." I rarely see her now, but I found great comfort in those dreams at the time.

Snow!

Yesterday we saw a light smattering of snow, which disappeared as quickly as it came. But today, the snow is real, prominent, beautiful. I was supposed to leave the house at 9 this morning to go to a watercolors class, but the streets were getting dicey by then and the class was cancelled. Still, I was up much earlier than I usually am lately (7:30), so I was able to watch the world go from gray and damp to white and fresh.

Sandy's on the left. She's with her dad,
her older sister, Viv, and their brother, Pete.

Sandy loved snow. Aside from a couple of childhood years in Alaska, she'd spent her entire life in Western Washington, where snow is rare and can seem practically miraculous. She had so few memories of Alaska that the time she spent there seemed magical, too.

I like snow, as well, but I grew up with enough of it in Missouri that it took me several years in Seattle to gain the same appreciation others here have. Now I thrill along with everyone else.

Seattle changes when the snows come. If the snow is heavy enough, Seattle closes. It's a city of steep hills and rain; we've struggled to build a fleet of snow plows and to come up with policies and practices that will keep the roads passable in the snow, but somehow, it never really happens. Unless you provide emergency services or need them, it's best just to tuck in and get cozy.

As a self-employed person, I don't get to take snow days anymore. The hallway to my office has so far never been icy, and we almost never lose electrical power for more than 20 minutes. But I find it hard to take work seriously when I know everyone else is playing. Sandy would always pull me away from my desk (pretty easily) and usher me into the back yard or out onto the sidewalks of our quieter-than-usual neighborhood. Sometimes we used snow as an excuse to go out to brunch at a nearby restaurant. Or we'd walk to Volunteer Park and enjoy the warmth of the conservatory while we could see the snow-covered park outside.

The bamboo bends under the weight of snow. The first time it happened,
we fretted and fussed, trying to shake the snow off it. And then we learned
that as the snow melts, the bamboo bounces back on its own.
It is, after all, known for its resilience. This picture was taken in 2007;
the birches and bamboo have both grown, but the effect is basically the same.

Today the snow has come quickly, with many stretches of big, fluffy flakes. The birches are stunning; the bamboo has bent in submission to the weight it bears; it's impossible to tell where the paths and patio end and the garden beds begin.

Soon, I'll go for a little walk through the neighborhood. I'm hoping Sandy comes with me. I know she'd enjoy it.

Why not dream big?

Over the years, I've bought a lot of megamillions lottery tickets, probably several hundred. I know, of course, that the odds of winning anything substantial are very very small. But every time I buy a ticket, I believe that this time, I'll win. This is the winning ticket. I fantasize about never having to work again, and I budget the money, anticipating taxes and the amount we'll need to put away for living expenses, and then figure out how to divvy the rest among our favorite causes. Spreadsheets are sometimes involved; other times, it's just the back of an envelope. I consider whether I should endow a staff position or some other recurring expense, or just give the organization a lump sum. I rehearse making the phone call to the executive director (especially for the organizations whose EDs I know), asking to meet to discuss a meaningful donation.

In short, I have a lot of fun. Originally Sandy mocked my lottery game, but eventually she came to realize that I reaped many hours of entertainment for my dollar. (No, I never buy more than one. No need to, if it's the right one!) And eventually she started dreaming with me. We'd figure out how much we each got to play with, after we'd set aside the funds that ensured our early retirement. And then we'd debate the merits of giving more, smaller gifts or just a few large gifts to the causes. When the pot was really large, we'd dream about creating our own foundation and giving money over time.

Still, Sandy remained realistic. She said that she didn't think we should base our future on any plan that begins with "first, we win the lottery."

I haven't bought any lottery tickets since she died. I haven't felt particularly lucky. And my usual optimism has been muted, at best. But I'm still dreaming unrealistically, as anyone who's been reading this blog knows.

Thursday afternoon I was biking and thinking about Sandy's return, and I startled myself with my own sudden loud laughter as I imagined her grinning and saying,"Any plan that begins with first, we bring Sandy back from the dead. . ."

I'll handle the bureaucracy

Most people don't come back from the dead. I get that. The world population is large enough, without all of us getting second chances. I also know that most people would write that first sentence as "People don't come back from the dead," without the qualifier. But I'm not most people; I'm a grieving widow. So you'll cut me some slack.

At first, I had to believe that Sandy was coming back, because my brain simply couldn't hold any other possibility. It's common for people who lose spouses to think they'll return. Over time, the pain is supposed to ease a bit, and reality is supposed to become starker. By about six months, I read, most widows have come to recognize their loss is permanent. It'll be six months next week.

So, where am I in this journey? Well, my path has not been typical because Sandy has continued to be such a strong force in the world and so present in my life. She and I have discussed her return several times, in visitation dreams, through what passes for conversation, and through other messages. At first, she clearly seemed to think she would return, as did I. Then, I wasn't sure she even wanted to, and it obviously wasn't an easy task. I'd just about resigned myself to her death being permanent, but then, on New Year's Day, in an incredible dream, she told me she'd be returning soon. I never overlook an opportunity for hope, so I latched right on, happily.

One thing I've said all along is that if she manages to return, we'll need to figure out how to get the death certificate voided. I haven't known how that would happen (can a death certificate be revoked?), but I told Sandy that if she could find herself a fresh body and return to us, I'd take care of the bureaucracy.

She looks a lot like this (without the waterfall) in her driver's
license photo, so this is what her new body needs to look like
when we show up to declare her alive!

Last night, I settled in to eat my dinner and read the current issue of Consumer Reports Money Advisor, a handy little financial newsletter I've received for years. Along with information about credit card fees, stock trends, and tips on saving money on household items, there was a column on what to do if Social Security records you as dead when you're still alive. While unusual, it apparently happens to several people a year, as their social security numbers are mistyped by one clerk or another. My heart did a little dance when I read that, if a death certificate was issued, you'll need to have it amended and then send it to people to prove you're alive and kicking.

Now I have my road map. And how can I not take this timely information as encouragement from the universe? All we need now is for Sandy to figure out how to slip into a body, or to convert some of that powerful energy of hers into a physical form.

Holding on to the self

In A Widow's Story, Joyce Carol Oates writes about how bizarre and frightening it was when her husband wasn't his usual coherent, intelligent self. The doctors told her his dementia was probably temporary, caused by his difficulty breathing, but that wasn't quite as reassuring as she wanted it to be.

She wrote:

Harrowing to think that our identities – the selves people believe they recognize in us: our “personalities” – are a matter of oxygen, water, and food and sleep – deprived of just one of these, our physical beings begin to alter almost immediately – soon, to others we are no longer “ourselves” – and yet, who else are we?

Is the self the physical body, or is the body but the repository of self?

Long before I knew her,
Sandy was a force.

I'd always said that my favorite part of Sandy was her brain, and by that I meant, of course, her intelligence and quick wit, but also all the personality traits that made her uniquely Sandy. The parts that let her understand and appreciate me as no one ever had before, and the parts that attracted crowds of friends and strangers alike.

In her last five weeks, her Sandyness shifted around, almost gone at times, and at other times, almost completely back. She lost so much of her self every time she had a sodium drop or a narcotic fog. The bright and shiny bits of her brain and personality were obscured by physical malfunction. I still loved her; I remained by her side and fought for her to regain as much of her self for as much time as she could. But my memories of those last five weeks are mostly about her confusion and her pain, her nausea and her impatience. We had moments of connection, and I cherish those, but those were somehow about reaching through the fog to the core part of her, the part that remained Sandy until the moment her heart stopped. 

We like to think that who we are is so real, so strong, that it will survive physical challenges. But while we're enclosed in these cages of flesh, we are dependent on myriad chemical interactions to keep us in sync. As a migraineur, I know how subtle changes in sleep, eating, or exercise habits can upset the balance. Add cancer into the mix, especially into the nervous system, and all bets are off. Really, in many ways, it's amazing how much of the time Sandy was herself in her last five weeks of life. And it's definitely a relief that the parts of her I related to most deeply are the parts that remain a force in the world now.

Parallel universes

Many times in the past several months, I've thought about how different the day would be if Sandy had lived. But the game gets harder as the weeks and months pass. I know how life would have looked in May and June if she'd not had the pain and nausea. I know how a Wednesday in October might have played out had the cancer not spread further in her brain at all, so we'd proceeded with a chemo break and then a new drug. But by now? By January?

She might have been off chemo again, but this time because the drug had been so effective that there was no active cancer in her body (that was our hope). Or she might have been off it again because the second-line therapy had run its course and we were preparing to try a third. Or she might have been involved in a cutting-edge clinical trial. She might be dying, slowly or quickly. She might be dead.

What was a soothing exercise in the weeks after her death has become a source of sadness now. The cancer and its treatment stole a great deal from her, and we had both grown so weary even a year ago. As much as I want her here with me, I also want her to have a rich and full life. I wouldn't want her to be hanging on just to mark more days off the calendar.

Not just marking time. She was thrilled to go
to the Adam Lambert concert with friends,
despite chemo fatigue, in July 2010.

In truth, Sandy's moods were far more varied than that, and her ambitions far exceeded her energy even when she was completely healthy. She wasn't just marking time,last spring, and if she'd lived, she wouldn't be just marking time now. But I can't quite get my mind around what she would be doing with her days right now.

So I change the game. I imagine instead what our lives would be like if the cure had come a year ago, and she was now fully healthy, and we were both energetic, looking toward the future. Or I imagine our lives if she had never had cancer, never developed osteoarthritis in her hip as a result of the chemo, never had the surgeries or the chemo or the radiation, if she'd continued running and we'd been able to bike across the country for her 50th birthday, as we'd originally planned.

But despite my resistance to it, I am very aware that the cancer attacked and she died. So the most satisfying fantasy is picturing her return. Everything that happened did in fact happen. She's been dead; I've been despondent; the world continued against all reason. But then, poof!, she returns, in a fresh new body, with whatever wisdom and compassion her post-death experience has given her, to spend the rest of my life with me. In that vision, I can suddenly see, embrace, and even become excited about the future. There's so much that I want to do with my life, and if she were back, I'd have the energy and the peace of mind to do it.

Since I also know that her return is (ahem) unlikely, imagining it gives me both more time with her and a much-needed vacation from the weight of grief.

Benches

Many years ago, Sandy said she wanted a bench to be donated in her honor if she died. She never said where, and when I asked, she couldn't decide. But it should be a bench she'd want to use, she said. A place she'd want to rest on a bike ride, or a spot for contemplation, overlooking water or a garden. Of course, the places either of us could think of were places that already had benches we enjoyed.

I was delighted when I realized there was one place we always rested that currently has no bench. Nearly every time Sandy biked across Lake Washington on the I-90 bridge, she'd stop at the top of the first hill on Mercer Island. I'm working on getting a bench for her there.

Sandy's bench probably won't be quite as unusual as this
eye bench at the Seattle Art Musuem Sculpture Garden,
but I want it to be something other than a standard bench.

Now a bonus bench opportunity has arisen. The little park a block from our house, McGilvra Park, is being re-envisioned. For a hundred years (literally), it's been a small grassy triangle of raised land, enclosed by a roughly 2-and-a-half-foot high wall. Eleven gorgeous London Plane trees surround it. It doesn't get much use because it's challenging to get up onto the grass, the tree canopy makes it shady most of the year, and there are no benches or any other infrastructure. But Sandy was one of the few people who did use the park. She'd stop and sit on the wall and read on her way home. We gathered many a lovely leaf there for our compost bins. And I pass it almost every day.

The plan now is to close that block of 15th to vehicular traffic and extend the park into that space, creating a plaza as well as several native plantings. The grassy space will actually be accessible, with part of the wall removed and some of the ground shifted to create a level entry. And there will be benches.

The bench on the bike trail will likely be a standard bench with a plaque in Sandy's honor. But I'm hoping to do something a little more creative for her bench at McGilvra Park. At the community meeting to talk about the plans last night, I let the parks department know that I wanted to donate a bench, and that I wanted to work with an artist to create something interesting. I don't know what it will look like yet, but I know what it will say, along with her name: So many books, so little time.

Congratulations?

On November 30, just before closing Sandy's estate, I signed the quitclaim deed that gave me sole ownership of the house. I thought of it as removing Sandy's name from the title, but in the eyes of bureaucracy, it is a property transfer like any other. 

Apparently, there are companies that track home sales, introducing themselves to people they hope to have as new customers. It's not an unethical practice. In fact, it's sort of the modern equivalent of the Welcome Wagon. Now, instead of a well-dressed suburban woman arriving at the door with a basket of goodies from local merchants, there are coupons, flyers, and catalogs in the mail. And if I really had just moved into a new home, I might be pleased every time something congratulates me on my move.

But I didn't just move into a new home. If anything, I lost part of my home, the feeling of security and comfort and routine. The belief that I was safe and things would be okay, no matter where we were, as long as we were together.

Many many years ago, when I was antsy to get back to the house from some event, Sandy said, "I'd like to think that you're always home when you're with me." It was incredibly corny, and very sweet, and became more and more true over time. In fact, sometimes now, when I'm sitting in the living room or lying in bed, I'll think, "I can't wait to get home." And then I despair when I realize that, technically, I'm already there.

It was 17 years ago this month that I moved into this house. Three years later, Sandy was living here, too, and we added her to the title. Neither time do I recall receiving things that congratulated me or us on our new home. But now, when the change is not a cause for celebration, now I receive ads from plumbers and catalogs from home-furnishings stores and who knows what else is on the way. All broadcasting this change in my life, wishing me well as I enter another chapter, and asking if I'll please keep them in mind should something go wrong/I want to redecorate/I have money to spend in this bad economy.

When the first one came, I thought it was a mistake. It took me a couple of days, and a few more "mistakes" to realize that the real estate transfer has made its way into some public record that advertisers access. And that it looks to them like any other.

The congratulatory tone hurts, of course, but what also hurts is the thought that, in fact, I have moved, in some ways. I'm in a new world, a new reality, and the transition is much harder than finding a local grocery store or finding a plumber. I'm fumbling my way to finding new paths and new purpose, and — someday, I hope — a new feeling of security and home.

Not forgetting

In the first day or so after we learned we were out of options, Sandy said, "You'll find someone else, be together for 20 years, forget about me."

Sandy regularly made sweeping statements, speaking in hyperbole. I'm sure she was reassuring herself that I would be okay, that my life would continue after she was gone, and that the pain would ease with time.

But I am much more precise with language (ridiculously so, in Sandy's estimation), and I was appalled, offended that she thought so little of my devotion that she assumed I'd forget about her. Those words that reassured her have haunted me for more than six months now.

I know there are times that I cling to my pain simply because I don't know how else to ensure that I remember Sandy clearly. This is one of the reasons I need to get more and better sleep; when I'm better-rested, I can see (or at least hope) that there is a way to carry Sandy with me without the anguish.

Last night, I attended a reading that was a mishmash of dozens of writers' snippets, many experimental in a way that didn't work for me. But one man read a poem about his father, still missing his mother ten years after her death. He said to his son that he'd be incredibly happy if she'd just walk through that door again. I felt a full-body sigh move through me. Here was more evidence that a person could remain vivid and welcome long after their death.

The event was at Town Hall, a venue that's just a block or two from Virginia Mason hospital, where we spent so much time this summer. But my walk home took me past Swedish hospital, too, and that was the one I thought about. I remembered Sandy's gall bladder surgery there in early 1996, shortly after we'd gotten together. It was routine surgery, and she was looking forward to it, as she'd been having incredibly painful gall bladder attacks for months but had to wait for her insurance coverage to kick in for the surgery. Still, surgery is surgery, and I know that even routine surgeries can go terribly wrong. I was anxious, as is my wont. I didn't stay at the hospital round the clock, but I was seated next to her several times when she woke up, and I wanted to be there more. Our relationship was young, and we were still feeling our way, and I didn't know yet just what I was entitled to. But I remember thinking that we'd only just found our way to each other and it would be too cruel to lose her now.

Crystal Gardens, Victoria, late 90's

I smiled as I walked, remembering my fear, which seemed melodramatic to me even at the time. And as I thought about those days, I welcomed feelings of gratitude. I didn't lose her then. We spent 15 years and 5 months together after that surgery, with several other medical and personal crises, and we held on throughout. The only thing that could part us was a particularly aggressive and vicious cancer.

Even it didn't fully win. I may not have everything I want (that is, a body to go with her spirit), but we're still together. And even if there is someone else in this world who could make me happy, and I find her, and we're together 20, 30, or 50 years, I will not forget Sandy. And I hope she never forgets me.

Digging in

Sandy always fretted if she'd let the front yard go too long without attention. I never thought it looked all that bad. Our gardens have a wild look about them, so it sometimes takes a discerning eye to know what's intentional and what's not. That happened organically, but it served us well.

Now the front yard nags at me, chastising me every time I return home. I fear my neglect is diminishing Sandy's legacy, yet I've been unsure quite how to begin. The front yard was Sandy's domain, and I don't even know the names of everything she planted, let alone what she did to keep it up. I focused on the vegetable beds in the back, and chopping compost, and tending to the trees.

When I bought the house, I'd not done much with the front yard. I immediately wrenched out some flowering cabbages (which I loathe) and added a narrow strip of pansies and petunias along the front walkway. I planted a Japanese Maple in the middle of the small yard to serve as a psychological barrier between the sidewalk and the house, as there wasn't much distance between the two. And the rest was grass.

When Sandy moved in, she emphatically stated that I could not expect her to garden. She resentfully referred to herself as a garden widow on spring mornings that I'd slip out of bed early to tend to seedlings or do some weeding. Yet within a year, she wanted a plot of land of her own.

Mowing the front yard became Sandy's chore when she moved in, so she already felt some ownership of the area when we negotiated her plot. She'd get a front triangle of the yard to do with as she pleased. Being Sandy, she consulted books and the Internet, did a bunch of thinking and planning, and headed to the garden store, where she bought everything that looked pretty. The triangle was filled almost immediately.

She claimed a second one, and then a third, and finally the last bit of the front yard became hers as well. The only thing that remained mine was the Japanese Maple, which encroached further into her territory every year. She groused about it, but she also loved that little tree.

Sandy had just begun to take over the planting strip when construction on the condos began next door, and we lost our planting strip and sidewalk for more than a year. We transplanted a bunch of things in haste, but the lithadora and several other plants didn't make it. When the planting strip came back, she dug in with a vengeance.

Removing a dead tree so that we could plant the smoke tree,
back in 2001. The front yard had long been fully planted.

I helped select and plant trees for the front yard, but that was the extent of my intellectual involvement.When I helped her in the front, I was her assistant, doing whatever tasks she asked me to do.

She outgrew the front yard within a couple of years and started in on flower beds in the back, sometimes threatening to encroach on my vegetable beds. Eventually, with the perennials needing less and less care each year, she also became an enthusiastic vegetable gardener. The woman who was adamant about not gardening added her touch to every inch of our property.

Our street is a busy pedestrian thoroughfare, and the front yard is what people see as they pass our house. Many stop to compliment the yard. In fact, our garden has become a sort of landmark for a lot of folks, the same way Sandy and I referred to certain areas by houses or gardens.

After we'd bagged leaves from a nearby park for compost in the fall of 2010, a passerby chatted with us as we carried them to the house. "Oh," he said, as we stopped at our walkway, "I should have known this was your yard. Of course you're composters; you have such a beautiful garden."

When I canceled Sandy's membership at the gym around the street, the condolences included comments about how the membership director had always loved walking by our garden and had been delighted to see Sandy's address when she joined the gym.

When I told one neighbor about her death, in late September, he said, "I thought something must be wrong, with your yard and all. . ."

So I know that people notice. And I know that Sandy cared. And, after all, I was a Master Gardener for seven years. I pulled on my gardening jeans this morning and headed out to start with the goals I could easily identify. As so often happens with gardening, each task revealed the next several, and I remembered that I do know what I'm doing. The list of specific things that need doing grew in direct proportion to my confidence in my ability to do them, so I'll have plenty to confidently do over the next several weeks.

Living as if there might not be a future

A year ago, we thought we'd need to replace the roof, due to the nearly comprehensive moss coverage on it. Friends gave us a great referral for a reputable, personable roofer. He came out and looked at it and told us we didn't need a new roof. We needed a moss cleaner. Soon. If we put it off, the cleaning itself would damage the roof. But if we did it now, our roof would probably serve us fine for another five years. We were already in the process of mattress-hunting, and we wanted to install a mini-split heat pump; it was shaping up to be an expensive year. So we were thrilled not to add a new roof to our budget.

I was also concerned. I didn't share this with Sandy, but I had the morbid thought that the roof might outlive her, and that I might have to deal with replacing it alone. I chased that thought out of my head, but I had those thoughts frequently.

Every time I passed the site of the new light rail station that will open in our neighborhood in 2016, I felt my gut clench — would she be at that opening? I shared that thought with her, and she assured me she would. (Now I think she was probably telling the truth, though she may not be there in quite the way I was originally talking about.)

Sandy used to decorate for Christmas. She was
content to have lights up for the dark season
(many years we put them up from Equinox to
Equinox), and she loved the garland last year.

Always, I knew that she might not have another winter, another spring, and I followed through on things she wanted in ways I wouldn't ordinarily have done. For example, we bought garland for the living room last December. I'm pretty Grinchy and Christmas decorations usually make me growl, but I made sure we did it last year because Sandy loved decorations and evergreen boughs.

Buying the garland was fun. Sandy received a tutorial from a very knowledgeable volunteer on the different types of evergreen trees and how you can tell them apart. She'd been obsessed on every hike with trying to identify the trees we saw (I was useless in this enterprise), so she was pleased to have the opportunity to see the differences up close.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the garland. There's not enough green in the house since the cats destroyed most of the houseplants, and it made the room feel cozier. This year, I tried to buy some, but I was too late. I was glad Sandy and I hadn't delayed the trek last year.

Life is weird now, as I continue to find her death surreal. But life was very strange for the 14 months preceding her death, too. I held tightly to the hope that she'd live for decades longer while also carrying the reasonable fear that she'd die soon. Despite the fact that death can come at any moment for any of us, most of us don't live that way. Healthy 50-year-olds don't hear about a date two years in the future and think, "if I'm still alive then."

My current emotional rollercoaster is mostly internal, with the ebb and flow of grief. During her illness, my outlook was influenced by subtle changes in her blood results, scan images, offhand comments by doctors or nurses, research abstracts I read, Sandy's mood and pain levels, as well as my own hormones and thought processes. That constantly shifting mental state was more exhausting than the caregiving, but I'd give anything for us still to be engaged in the struggle.