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.