New correspondence

One of the most difficult things about Sandy's absence is that I don't have the opportunity to get a reality check on our relationship, to know how she's feeling about me and us, and to let her know how I am. Over the course of 15 and a half years, there were plenty of times that we hurt each other. We resolved them, moved past them, forgave them. And in day-to-day life, we rarely revisited those moments, because we were living our lives. But now, when I remember one of those times, there's no ordinary dailiness to reassure me. I can get stuck in memories of regret or disappointment, which feel just as present to me as any other memory.

That was especially true in the weeks right after she died. I ached for every moment that she felt unheard or that she was angry with me for "taking the nurses' side" at the hospital, when she didn't yet comprehend her new condition and the very real risk of a fall. Further back, I regretted every time that I had to work into the evening last year, or didn't feel like going someplace she wanted to go, when she wanted to spend time together.

It's interesting to me that I don't hold any of the times she angered or disappointed me against her. I don't get stuck in those memories, because I know they're irrelevant in the context of our greater lives. But guilt runs strongly in me, and I can wallow in it.

I find relief in reading words she wrote me at times that she wasn't disappointed or angry, and in remembering the sweet things she said from her deathbed. That, after all, is the most current information I have about her feelings about our relationship while she was still alive. But what's been especially helpful are the unexpected notes and letters I've found in her papers.

I went through most of her work notebooks and other files early on, just in case there were things I needed to give other people. In some cases, I was hoping for contact information for people who didn't know she'd died. But several times I came across a page that started, "Dear Brie." She wrote these notes long ago, as I found them in notebooks from 2002, 2005, 2008, and other random times. I found each one at a time that I desperately needed to become unstuck from a wrenching memory. Each note was full of gratitude for my support as well as expressions of love. In one, she talked about how much she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me, and it pleased me that she had.

I don't know what caused her to write notes that she then didn't give me. Some of them may have been drafts of emails or letters I actually did get but have forgotten. Others seem almost like rehearsals for conversations we probably had later. In one, she ended by saying she really wanted to become more physically active, and since I didn't like to just throw a ball around with her, would I at least be willing to play basketball? That made me smile because I did shoot hoops with her many times. We took the basketball up a block to the neighborhood elementary school and played horse or just shot for fun. We even enlisted friends to join us at various times. At a time that I felt like a failure for not saving her, knowing that there were times I didn't let her down really helped.

I'm glad she didn't give me those notes while she was alive. They've been wonderful gifts, ways of receiving new, clear messages from her when I'm most desperate for that communication.