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.