Solo cat care

This weekend, Nada had an abscess on his face. The emergency vet identified a bite mark there, so it was almost certainly a gift from his brother, who tends to lead with his teeth. A generous friend spent his Saturday evening at the emergency vet with Nada and me, but since then, I've been back to taking care of Nada by myself.

Nada on Sandy's back when he was just a kitten. Pretty much
any time Sandy would lower herself to the floor to do stretches,
anywhere in the house, one of the cats would climb on.

He needs antibiotics twice a day. I opted for liquid medicine rather than pills, mainly because he has a wound on his head and I don't think my usual grasp-and-poke pilling method works if I'm scared to grab the cat's face. Nevertheless, squirting the medication has been an adventure each time. I manage to wrangle him into position, but then I need a third hand to keep him from turning his head away from me. After several stressful minutes, I get most of the bubble-gum flavored liquid into his mouth. The rest lands on his face or paws, and he grooms himself immediately, so it gets into his system one way or another. But neither of us enjoy the process. I quickly gave up on the advice to apply a warm compress twice a day; there was no way he was going to put up with that.

Every time I give Nada medication, I remember how much easier it was to do this kind of thing when Sandy was here. One of us would hold the cat and the other one would push a pill or insert a needle or squirt something or inspect a wound. I find that I not only miss her, but feel betrayed. We took on these responsibilities together, and we developed routines and strategies to meet them. And now I'm left to figure out how to complete the same tasks with fewer resources and greater challenges.

Nada's healing, though he still looks goofy with his clipped fur and the remnants of the wound. He only needs medication for another couple of days. Once again, both cats will be healthy and relatively easy to care for, and we'll all have come through one more hurdle of life without Sandy. But just for the record, I'm not happy about missing a member of the team.

We're getting married!

Sandy will get her wish posthumously, after all. In July, after we learned she had only a few weeks left, she asked me if I thought that we'd be married whenever the legislature finally managed to pass a marriage equality bill. I told her I didn't think it worked that way: You can't consent to a marriage posthumously, and I didn't think it would be retroactive. Turns out, I was wrong!

Unable to sleep last night, my mind stumbled back over a reference I'd read to the marriage bill our governor signed a few weeks ago. Domestic partnerships would convert to marriages in 2014 if the parties hadn't already married. I'd noted it for political reasons (there are many activists who believe the state should offer both options to all people), but not thought it would affect us. After all, Sandy's dead. I didn't think the state would recognize our partnership anymore.

I grew curious as I lay there, any hope of sleep fading quickly. How did they know she was dead? Is our registered domestic partnership still valid? It didn't end at the moment of death; many of the rights that go with it, just as with marriage, come into play when one of the parties dies.

Look at that happy couple! In 2014, we can look at this photo
and say we'd already been married nearly three years then.

I grabbed the iPad, which I keep next to the bed for just such emergencies, and looked us up on the secretary of state's website. We're still there, listed with an active registered domestic partnership. Further poking around revealed that to change that, I'd need to send in a termination form with a death certificate; I'm not going to do that. So there's no reason to think that our partnership would be inactive on June 30, 2014, when the conversions take place. Boom! We'll be married.

And it's even better than that. At that point, the state will consider the date of our marriage to be the date we registered as domestic partners. That was July 25, 2007, the day after the domestic partnership law went into effect. As of June 30, 2014, we will officially already have been legally married almost four years before Sandy died.

I'd rather have her here with me, married or not married, ill or healthy. But at least this bucket-list item can still happen for her. She's here enough that I know she's both aware of my revelation (and my related glee) and will be able to be present on June 30, 2014, for whatever reception or party we hold to celebrate the recognition of our legal marriage in our home state. And yes, you're all invited!

Escapade weekend

I keep thinking Sandy's coming home tonight. I feel the same anticipation I always felt when she'd been out of town. I'm expecting a phone call from LAX, letting me know that she's arrived there and her flight looks like it will be on time, and she'll call me when she gets to Sea-Tac.

Sandy rarely missed Escapade, the fannish slumber party in the Santa Barbara area that serves as a reunion spot for many of her closest friends every year. In 2009, she didn't go because I was preparing for open-heart surgery and she stayed here to accompany me for a harrowing day of angiogram attempts (I have small arteries, so there were some challenges), and for all the other stressful events that led to the big day. In 2007, she missed it because she was in the middle of chemo and radiation and grad school. But as far as I can recall, every other year we were together, she headed south for a weekend in the late winter to immerse herself in fandom.

She took this rather frightening photo of herself while she
was at Escapade in 2008. I have no idea why she took it,
but I'm sharing it.

I'm sure she's there this weekend. She always started counting down the days to Escapade months in advance. Over the past several weeks, I've had dreams in which she talked about going to Escapade, and others have, too.  There were plans for another fannish wake of sorts. Certainly, there have been many people talking and thinking about her down there this weekend. So I haven't been all that surprised not to feel her presence here much the last few days. I had a brief visitation dream Saturday morning, but I suspect she just popped home for a visit while the con attendees were sleeping.

In August, Vividcon weekend was very hard. After I'd felt her presence so strongly for weeks, her absence shattered me, even though I knew why she was gone. I expected this weekend to be hard, too, but instead, I've believed she's actually in California, and I've been excited about her return. I honestly wouldn't be surprised to get a phone call from the airport tonight, or to hear her come in the front door without an advance call. (After all, I have her cell phone.) In fact, I keep thinking that I should just go to the airport tonight and be there when her plane arrives, that I should surprise her.

If she were really at Escapade, she'd have called or emailed me multiple times this weekend. And I might even have been with her; when she returned last year, she urged me to consider joining her next time. If she were flying back tonight, I'd have her flight information. I point all of this out to myself repeatedly, but am unable to dissuade the part of my mind that believes the body memory is a reaction to the present situation.

Oddly enough, the only actual basis I have for this belief that she's coming back is that I don't feel her presence here now. Therefore she's out of town. Therefore she'll return. The mind -- or at least my mind -- is a pretty freaky thing.

In truth, I'll curb my impulse to run to the airport tonight. I'll be disappointed when she doesn't arrive home, but I'll remember enough of reality to not actually be surprised. And most likely, she will return, in the same form that she's been here so much of the past seven months. She won't come walking through the door, but at some point, I'll just know she's in the house again and I'll welcome her as warmly as if she'd just stepped off a plane.

First impressions

I arrived in Seattle in January 1990. Fresh off a Greyhound bus from Connecticut, I moved into a condo with a friend and set about trying to find a job and build a life for myself here, even though I fully intended to return to school in Portland in the fall.

I got a brochure for Seattle Rape Relief in early February, and started training for a volunteer role as a counselor/advocate a couple of weeks later. SRR had a well-respected 80-hour training program, Tuesday and Thursday evenings and every other Saturday for several weeks.

I lived in Northgate. The SRR office was on Jackson, in the International District. Getting to the 6:00 training sessions by bus was relatively easy, because buses ran frequently in the early evening. I could catch a bus downtown and transfer there. Getting home was going to be trickier; by 9:00, buses ran less frequently and the transfer time would be much longer.

The first night of training, one of the trainers announced that I'd bussed there from Northgate and could use a ride home. One person volunteered immediately. She had bright orange hair, a huge grin, and a fanny pack. I have the sense that she was bouncing. And she may have been; I think she might have jumped up to offer the ride.

Twenty-two years ago this month, I carpooled home from Seattle Rape Relief trainings with Sandy. I quickly learned that Sandy was separated from her husband, had been born in Seattle but had only just returned in January, and was living temporarily with friends. As I continued to ride home with her the next eight weeks, we talked about politics, about the training we were going through, about relationships, about life. I remember sitting in the cab of John's truck (her car must have been in the shop) in the parking lot of my condo building. She wanted to play a song for me before I got out of the truck: it was Bonnie Raitt's Nobody's Girl. Tears came to her eyes as she listened, and I enjoyed hearing her voice when she began to sing along.

This is what Sandy looked like when I first met her,
though I'm not sure when this picture was taken.

I was 21; she was 29. I was still learning my way around leftist politics, and had only just joined the Red & Black Books Collective. I remember the time she mentioned that Mother Jones magazine was too conservative. I was in awe of her.

One night, someone else in the training had invited Sandy to stop at a bar afterwards to hang out. Sandy told the other person that she was my ride, and she had to check with me; we all went together. I remember thinking at the time that Sandy hadn't made a commitment to me; I was responsible for finding my own way home, and if she wanted to make plans with other people, she had every right to do so. But I appreciated her loyalty. Many years later, I found out it was more than that.

We kept in touch after training ended, but we didn't see each other nearly as frequently. I know that she called to check in with me the night I had my first hotline shift. We drove to Portland together in May; I was heading to campus to visit friends and she was headed to Vancouver to attend counseling with Greg.

I believe this photos was taken at Pride
in 1990, the day I saw her in the parade.

I talked to Sandy on the phone a few times, and at Pride in 1990, I saw her on the back of the truck singing with the Seattle Lesbian and Gay Chorus. She urged me to join them, but I've always been self-conscious singing, so I just waved them on.

I was very involved with Seattle Rape Relief for a year and a half or so, but Sandy's involvement tapered off pretty quickly. The politics were right for her, but she wasn't cut out for counseling. So I didn't see her at the various committee meetings and volunteer meetings I attended. She invited me to dinner at an Iraqi restaurant with a group of friends shortly before we began bombing Iraq. She was already dating Rachel then. I don't know who else was there, quite possibly people I know well now.

And then we just weren't in touch. I ran into her and Rachel at an Alice B. theater production in early 1993, and they gave my housemate and me a ride home. During that short car ride, I told her I'd just started working at Aldus and I learned that she knew one of my co-workers, Tina, quite well. As she dropped us off, she asked for my phone number. I gave it to her and said, are you going to call? She said, sure. I said, Really? She laughed and said no. We were both context-dependent friends, and knew it was unlikely we'd talk randomly. Honestly, though, there were many times that I'd have called her if I'd known how to get in touch. She had emphasized that she was living with friends temporarily, so I didn't even think to try the number I had from 1990. I had no idea that she'd still be living with those friends until the day she moved in with me in 1997.

We got to know each other again in 1995, and the rest is common knowledge. After we got together, I learned that she'd been interested in me back in 1990, and I'd been clueless about it. I never did understand it. I was so young and unsophisticated; I have no idea what she was attracted to. But I like to go back through my memories and search for clues of her interest.

In late 1995, she told me about something that had happened a few years before, and I asked why she hadn't called me. She said very matter-of-factly, "You were dead to me then." I don't remember the context, what it was I thought she ought to have shared with me. But I latched onto the phrase "dead to me" and never let her forget that.

I may have been dead to her for a few years there, but she was never dead to me. I always knew that Sandy Hereld was in the world, somewhere, and that it was a better world because of her. And now, when she actually is dead, she still isn't dead to me!

Happy birthday, Grandma

My grandmother would have been 99 years old today. She died ten years ago, shortly before her 89th birthday. She was ready to go. The last time Sandy and I had visited her in Nebraska, she'd been talking about who she wanted have for her pall bearers. She'd been seeing my grandfather in her dreams; she said he was a young man in them and she was clearly happy to see him. I wonder now if they were visitation dreams. As she approached death, she may have been more receptive to communication from the other side. I don't know.

Grandma, Mom, and me. September 1994 in front of Mom's
house in Portland, Oregon. It was during that visit that I decided
I wanted to be fully myself with my family, and I wrote
the letter to Grandma shortly after she returned to Nebraska.

I came out to Grandma in late 1994. I wrote her a long letter, and then I called my mom and warned her. "She'll call you, not me, if she's freaked out," I said. "Be ready." And Grandma did call Mom, but she was fine. She also wrote me, and she told me that she loved me, that I was her granddaughter and would always be her granddaughter. She didn't know much about lesbians, but she'd seen a show on PBS recently that had talked about it. I still tear up when I think about how much that letter meant to me.

Grandma liked Sandy. She met her several times, and they always got along well. The first time Sandy and I visited her in Nebraska, Grandma told Mom how impressed she was that Sandy just made herself at home. Grandma hadn't traveled much and she didn't always know what to make of Sandy. For example, one time we were there, Grandma and I were up late at night watching the news for the latest on the tornado watch. It was a familiar scene to me; I grew up in tornado country. Grandma wandered to the kitchen window from time to time and reported on which of her neighbors had lights on because they were also up monitoring the weather reports. Sandy was excited; she wandered into the living room, looking for me after she'd realized I wasn't with her in the bedroom. She sat with us for a few minutes, asked some questions, and then got bored and went back to bed. Tornado watches weren't the momentous events she'd imagined them to be, and she knew I'd drag her to the basement if anything changed. Grandma couldn't quite understand why she didn't sit there and stare at the TV screen with us.

Sandy was the one who persuaded Grandma that it was okay to buy corn on the cob at the grocery store for our dinner. Grandma had only ever grown her own or gotten it from local farmers. Her sisters came to dinner that night, and she told them that she'd purchased the corn. She was sort of proud of it; it was an adventure. Her sisters told her they'd done that plenty of times, which took the wind out of her sails a bit. But I was still proud of her for doing something a little outside of her comfort zone. I know how hard that can be.

Grandma crocheted afghans for each grandchild's high school graduation, college graduation, and wedding. I'd gotten my high school graduation afghan, but I never graduated college, so I didn't have that one. And I wasn't legally married. But a couple of years before her death, Grandma asked me what color I wanted my afghan to be; she'd be making one for Sandy and me. That was huge. In 2000, she was 87 years old, living in a town of 1000 people in the middle of Nebraska, and I'm certain that Sandy and I were the only openly LGBT people she knew. She recognized our marriage long before the state of Washington got around to it, and before some younger family members came to understand the depth of our commitment and love.

We didn't get the afghan until after Grandma died. My aunt had helped her finish putting the fringe on it shortly before her death, and she'd been very clear that it was meant for Sandy and me. We both sobbed when we received it, and we treasured it, as I still do.

Now that I have had these post-death experiences with Sandy, I'm more hopeful that Grandma and Grandpa did find each other again. They were married happily for more than 50 years before his Alzheimer's stole so much from them; perhaps in death they can be fully themselves for each other again.

And now with extra hoops!

Gradually, I've closed Sandy's individual accounts and had her name removed from most of our joint accounts. I've found that there's no rush, and so I've made each change when it no longer feels so emotionally fraught.

I wasn't quite to that place with the money market account yet. But my hand was forced. I received a letter earlier this week informing me that they were switching to a different bank for checkwriting processes, so they'd need new signature cards for all checkwriting accounts. I wasn't going to forge Sandy's signature seven months after her death, and the handy thing about the money market account is the ability to write checks from it. So it was clearly time to tell them that she'd died.

I called today and a very pleasant man told me he could send me the packet I'd need to make the switch. I asked him how complicated the process was, and he proceeded to explain it to me. There'd be a basic form for me to fill out for the new account, as essentially they'd be closing the joint account and moving the money to a new account in just my name. Then there'd be what he called an affidavit of residency, which he explained they use instead of a death certificate: that would require me to provide the details of Sandy's death and I'd have to have it notarized.

Sandy in late 2001, just about the time we opened the money
market account. We started it to save money to give our
nieces and nephews as they started college, but we also
used it for emergency funding for unexpected expenses. I
pretty much cleaned it out in September, dispensing it
to nieces and nephews in lieu of the complicated trust
we'd included in Sandy's old will. (She didn't get a chance
to sign her new, simpler will in the weeks before she died.)

I interrupted him at that point. Notarized? Really? Couldn't I just send him a death certificate? No, he said again, this is what we use instead of a death certificate. I told him that seemed like an unnecessary hassle when I already have an official death certificate. He warned me that it gets worse. The third thing I'd need to send them was some official letter with a bank certification of some sort on it. Frankly, I'd stopped paying attention. This was ludicrous. I've transferred several financial accounts to my name, and I haven't had to jump through nearly this many hoops. This was one that I thought would be easy because it had been in both of our names, and when we opened it, we specified that it was joint tenancy with right of survivorship. That's right there in the name of the account: JTWROS. It should be simple just to send in a death certificate and have her name removed. But no, they needed me to do triple back flips.

It'd be simpler for me to close the account and start a new one, I said. Maybe, he said. Okay, what if I just close the account right now? Well, he could transfer the funds electronically early next week to the checking account on record. Perfect. Done. And they lost a customer. I'm unlikely to bother to open a new money market account with them; instead, I'll probably just open one at my credit union or do a little research and see if I can find one with a slightly higher yield.

So to recap: Sandy and I had an account in both of our names. Sandy died. In order to claim that account - our joint money that became mine by right of survivorship - I had to file all kinds of papers with notaries and other official documentation. But to get the money itself, I simply had to tell him to close the account and send the funds to the checking account. At that point, it doesn't matter whether Sandy's dead or standing next to me, urging me to do it. If that's the case, how could all that extra bureaucracy to simply change the name on the account possibly be useful?

Interpreting synchronicity

I've had a long history with synchronicity. In fact, it's often made me feel the universe is looking after me, in small ways and larger ways. I fondly remember the day in 1988 that I had a craving for a pudding pop, and on the walk to the grocery store, I was wishing they'd sell them individually. As I walked into the store, a woman literally came up to me and said, "Would you like a pudding pop?" She was giving away samples, individual pudding pops, exactly what I'd been craving. Thank you, universe!

In 1994, I was trying to buy a house. The mortgage broker I was working with had run all the numbers and told me that the price range I wanted wasn't going to be possible at my current salary, even with my mother co-signing. (My mother had very little money, but she also had very little debt, so her willingness to cosign bumped my price range a little bit.) I was making $26,500 at the time, I think. The broker told me to call her back when I was making $30,000 a year. I was frustrated, but remained optimistic and determined. A few hours later, my manager (who knew nothing of this conversation or my efforts to buy a house) called me into his office and told me I was being promoted. Ordinarily the pay raise would take me to $28K, but due to the company merger, the pay scales were going up. I would be the first one in my pay scale to be making $30K. I called my mortgage broker a few minutes later, and bought a house a few months later. That was the happiest kind of synchronicity.

Since Sandy died, I've experienced synchronicity frequently. Some of that has to be Sandy's intervention, and I assume some is more global. But perhaps because I so desperately want Sandy to return, I'm not sure how to interpret some of the messages I'm receiving.

A few months ago, in a visitation dream, a server emphasized the numbers on the bill I was about to pay. $5.49. For months, I've watched to see where those numbers appear, wondering why they'd been so important in the dream. Earlier this week, I finally just Googled 549. One of the things that came up was an XKCD comic. Sandy loved XKCD. It was strip 549 that came up - in it, a woman says, "Why did you let me think you were dead?" Then, I watched Captain America, which has been on my library hold list for months; in it, we find out at the end that he didn't die, after all. Yesterday, I picked up the New Yorker I've been reading (from November 2010; I'm way behind) - and in the story, a dog is hit by a car and dies, except it turns out he'd only been knocked unconscious and is apparently fine, after all.

Ceanothus will be in bloom soon. Maybe
she'll return for that. I'll be paying close
attention to the ceanothus plants she
particularly loved around town.

So, okay, I can recognize a pattern. But what does it mean? Is Sandy not actually dead? I know that she isn't lying dormant in a crashed plane, wasn't just knocked unconscious by a car, isn't on a desert island. I was with her as she was dying - there was no way anyone could have substituted a different body or something wild like that. So the obvious interpretation isn't it.

What, then, was I supposed to do with this information? I've been feeling like maybe I'm missing some instruction, that if I could just learn enough physics or meditate intently enough, I could get her back. But this morning, I realized that one thing all three of these messages had in common was that no one had to do anything, really, to get each of them back. They just had to pay attention when they returned. I can do that.

I've concluded that there are at least three possible messages here:
1) She's coming back, physically. (That's the one I want, of course, and rather improbable.)
2) She's already here, as I've known, and that's what being not dead means in this context. I just need to continue to pay attention to know that she's still sentient and present and Sandy.
3) She doesn't know she's dead. (There have been plenty of occasions on which she's said things in visitation dreams or during other communication that has led me to wonder whether she really understands that she died. She didn't have the same beliefs I did about what happens to our energy when we die; as far as I know, she believed we just cease to exist. Clearly, she hasn't ceased to exist, so it may not seem possible to her that she actually died.)

I don't know exactly what these messages mean, but I felt a huge burden lift when I recognized the pattern that implied I'm not responsible for making anything happen; I just need to be ready to notice it when it does.

Feeling better

I was in a pretty dark place yesterday. I felt defeated, despairing; it all felt pointless. And then I hopped on the bike to spin eleven miles while watching Captain America, a feel-good, empowering movie. And surprise! I felt much better. Much better. I was inspired to organize the cabinet in the dining room, refolding and stacking tablecloths and napkins so there was room for garden seeds; moving them from the top shelf of the bookcase provided more space for cookbooks that had been shoved in sideways. And I discarded packaged food with expiration dates reaching back to 2004. I even tucked in to some work I'd been dreading and realized it won't be so bad.

I don't think Sandy ever dressed up as Captain America, but
she was a lieutenant in the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet.

I know that spending time on the bike improves my mood, along with eating regularly, getting sleep, taking a hot bath with my favorite bath salts, and doing yoga. But knowing that certain activities will make me feel better and actually doing them are completely different things. In fact, days like yesterday, I resist because I don't want to feel better. My despair feels truer, somehow, than not-despair. I feel like I've earned the right to wallow, to hurt, to sob, to feel sorry for myself.

Once I feel better, I wonder why I clung to despair. I don't forget Sandy when I'm feeling better; on the contrary, I have more vivid memories, feel her presence more strongly, and am able to communicate my love with words other than "Come back" and "You weren't supposed to die" and "Why did you leave me?" Those agonizing sentiments have to be rather tiresome to hear for months on end.

I am once again amused, however, to realize that my feeling better precedes the completely unwarranted belief that Sandy will return. When I'm despairing, I know that she's gone forever. When I feel good, I know that it isn't possible that she won't come back. Feeling better makes me crazier. Interesting, huh?

SPOILER ALERT: If you've not seen Captain America but plan to, you might want to skip this next bit.

I was already feeling better, had dried off the sweat from my bike ride, and was watching the final scenes of the movie as I changed into cozy clothes. And then the kicker, the bonus: everyone had thought Captain America dead, but he survived, and is among us 70 years later. Once again, I know that the universe is winking at me.

Minimize suffering; maximize joy

Underlying everything I experience now is a sense of futility, given that we're all just going to die anyway. I find myself unable to relate to people who are making plans for the future, whether they're adopting a child or starting a new career or moving to a different country. They see the potential for great joy and growth; I see the near-certainty of pain and worry and powerlessness, no matter which road we travel. Yeah, I think it's safe to say I'm a little depressed.

Sandy was active, vibrant, healthy when she was 43. Here, in
the summer of 2004, she's singing at a Microsoft party (above)
and (below) laying bricks for our new patio (with Allison).

When Sandy was my age, she was a couple of months into the 20/20 program, developing new habits, feeling great about the changes she was making. These were diet, exercise, and other lifestyle changes that promised a long and healthy life, remember. It was 2004. She was two years away from breast cancer and all that it stole from her; she hadn't even discovered that she enjoyed running yet, let alone lost it. 

Some days I feel good, strong, healthy, even young. But I don't trust it; I no longer expect that people can be healthy for long. At my age, Sandy was getting healthier, growing fitter. And she had only seven years of life left, two of them hindered by cancer and its treatment. Instead of thinking that I'd better get busy if I might only have seven years (or two or ten or twenty) left -- which is how my brain would have worked a few years ago, I think only how long and lonely those years are likely to be.

I was chasing these thoughts around last night, wondering once again why we live at all, if we're just bound to die. I've always believed that I'm here to make the world a better place, however I can. The incentive slips just a bit, though, when my vision changes from a world of vital, engaged beings and ecosystems to a place that is just a temporary stop for all creatures on their way to death.

So, why bother? And yet, what else would we do with this time we have? I came to the conclusion that my guiding principles ultimately should be (and really, always have been) to do whatever I can to minimize suffering and maximize joy. Just because life is fleeting doesn't mean it should be torturous, and joy is inherently beneficial. Working for the dignity of all people and creatures, tending to emotional and physical wounds, educating and enlightening people eager to learn, treating the planet and its resources with the respect they deserve and require, doing no harm. These are worthwhile endeavors for all of us, whether we live a few days or a century.

Despite my apparent depression (deepened by my current PMS, I'm sure), I think I can hold onto the idea of minimizing suffering and maximizing joy. It's simple, first-principles type of language that I can refer to as I contemplate my actions and my goals. And it may just give me the purpose I need to get through the time it takes to rediscover a sense of possibility.

Keeping busy

There are certain phrases I hear frequently now that I'm a widow. One of the things people often say to me is that it's good that I'm "keeping busy." It always makes me twitch. Today, it finally occurred to me why. There are actually several reasons.

First, it's a cliche. That's always enough for a twitch.

Second, it implies that my activity is busy work, intended as a distraction, instead of meaningful in its own right. I'd love to be doing less; I feel burdened by my obligations. And if anything on my list isn't essential, I cut it.

Third, it implies that I want to be distracted from my grief or from thoughts of Sandy. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I have learned that any feelings I don't process and integrate when they're fresh will fester and are sure to sabotage me later down the road. Much better to own them, feel them, and let them take their place in my emotional landscape now.

Sandy always wanted to have the next vacation or weekend
away scheduled, so that I'd be commited to some time away
from my to-do list. I was much more likely to be spontaneous
when we were away from home - and that made Sandy happy.
Here she is at Golden Gate Park in San Fransciso in 2003.

Fourth, it just seems silly. Has anyone ever seen me without a to-do list longer than my arm? Keeping busy has never been my problem. Keeping my schedule open for spontaneous reflection, grief, or even play? That's much more challenging. (And that drove Sandy crazy.)

Lastly, it feels like a way for the speaker to tactfully say that she or he really doesn't want to hear about my grief. It's an oddly upbeat thing to say, and it dismisses the pain.

Like everything else that's made me twitch the past seven months, I'm sure that this phrase is said with good intentions, and that people either truly believe that keeping busy is a good goal for the bereaved, or are struggling to know what to say and so they land on something they've heard many times. I don't hold it against anyone. And I try not to visibly twitch. But it's definitely a phrase that signals the end of a conversation for me.

For now, I'm very busy. And I'm definitely looking forward to muddling through this batch of work and other commitments so that I'll have a chance to rest, relax, garden, and actively grieve when I need to. 

Love doesn't stop

By love, bitter things become sweet; by love, pieces of copper turn into gold;
     By love, sediment becomes clear; by love, pains become healing
By love, prisons become a garden; without love, the garden becomes desolate;
     By love, stone turns into liquid; devoid of it wax gets hard as metal;
By love, illness contributes health; and pain becomes a blessing;
     By love, the dead are made living; by love, the king is made a slave.

 - Rumi

Thanksgiving 2008

Sandy with her sibs, 2010

Seven months ago, she was a few hours from death. I still can't comprehend it. I know, though, that she remains very loved, by so many people. I also know that the love flows both ways. And that's powerful.

Surrounded by friends at a bash in Seattle

In her last few days, I told her many times Love doesn't stop. I knew my love for her would continue strongly; I didn't realize how much love she'd continue to share. Nor did I realize that she was accurate when she said "We're going to miss each other so much."

At the time, I thought I'd be the one doing all the missing. But I think it's evident that she's still very invested in the lives of those she loves. I'm so grateful for that.

On not lingering

The heat pump started tripping the circuit breaker last week. The third time, I decided it wasn't a fluke and left the breaker off, fearing a fire otherwise. I had the flu this week, so didn't get someone in to look at it until today. I fetched the 6-foot wooden ladder for the tech, and he climbed up it in our living room to start troubleshooting the heater itself, which is mounted near the ceiling. He traipsed outside multiple times to check the wiring on the outdoor unit. He went down and fiddled with the circuit box. Finally, we were talking about how they'd pulled the wiring for the heater, and he realized there must be an outside junction box: then it was clear why the circuit breaker kept tripping; those wires were pretty crispy. He called in the problem and departed. The electrician arrived about an hour later. I went out and showed him the box, and he rewired that section, explained the cause to me and the way he'd ensured it's safe now, and then he checked the circuit box as well.

As these guys wandered through the first floor, carrying tools and paperwork, talking on cellphones, I kept flashing on Sandy's hospital bed in the middle of the living room. It was challenging enough to care for her there while the delivery person set up her bed and oxygen. I can't even imagine how stressful it would have been for her to have these service people clanking and stomping and theorizing all over the place.

On May 18, 2011, we visited Mesa Verde, and marveled
together at the amazing homes of people long since gone.
Sandy was learning and thinking and having adventures
until a few weeks before her death. That's definitely
something to be grateful for.

Maybe it's selfish of me, but I'm glad she didn't linger for months in a hospital bed in the living room. I wanted more time with her, but the her I wanted more time with was fading fast. I'd always love and care for Sandy, in any physical or mental condition, but it's hard to imagine that it would have been any kind of life for her unless she'd had the chance to recover some of her strength.

It was hard on both of us to have everything change so quickly. She, especially, didn't have a chance to keep up, to reset her expectations for what she'd be able to accomplish. But even as my mind still fights reality, I've come to recognize that a fast demise is a gift, in many ways. Better to live as well as possible, as long as possible, and then go quickly. That's what I hope to do, as well.

Evolving on marriage

Sandy married Greg in 1986, several years into their relationship. I didn't know her then, and I have plenty of evidence that she's an unreliable narrator, but she always told me that she hadn't really wanted to get married. She thought they were fine the way they were, but Greg wanted to marry and it pleased her family, and so, okay, she went along. In December of 1989, Greg asked for a divorce.

When we got together in December 1995, Sandy didn't even want to live with a lover, let alone marry one. And I'd never wanted to marry. I was well-versed in the history of marriage laws that regarded women as chattel, and I'd witnessed marriages in my own close family that were abusive and controlling. I also worried that marriage would bring assimilation, and we'd lose the wonderful LGBT community I enjoyed.

But talk of marriage was rumbling in our community. In 1996, the Hawaii Supreme Court found it was unconstitutional to prohibit same-sex marriage. We celebrated the political victory, but affirmed with each other that we had no intention of marrying.

Just before she moved in, we had hardwood
floors put in and painted the bedroom. She's
posing here in front of our paint job (the
baseboard, installed later, covered the crappy
paint job at the bottom of the wall).

And then we started to evolve. In the summer of 1998, Sandy had been living with me for six months when we went to add her name to the deed of the house, just before refinancing together. We were shocked to have to pay $1100 in excise tax simply to add her name. There would have been no excise tax if we were related or married. That's when we started taking a harder look at what we were missing. We knew we were committed to each other (heck, I was risking my credit rating!), and we didn't feel the need for a ceremony, but it irked us that the state didn't recognize our relationship. And it irked us that we wanted the state's recognition.

A few months later, around the time of her 38th birthday in August, I asked Sandy if she wanted to start making any plans for her 40th birthday. We kept hearing about people who climbed mountains, dove out of airplanes, or did other remarkable things for the momentous milestone. She thought about it for only a minute, looked at me earnestly, and said, "I want to go to Hawaii and marry you."

The Hawaiian Supreme Court had stayed the 1996 decision, allowing the state to come up with more compelling reasons to deny same-sex couples the right to marry. So weddings weren't happening yet, but everyone assumed that Hawaii would soon be the destination spot for same-sex couples who wanted to tie the knot. The federal Defense of Marriage Act had passed quickly in 1996, in reaction to the Hawaii decision, so we knew the federal government wouldn't recognize our marriage, regardless. Our own state had passed a DOMA in 1998, so we knew a Hawaiian wedding wouldn't be recognized in Seattle. But flying to Hawaii to get married had a romantic, powerful feeling about it. I immediately agreed to go along with the plan.

That fall, Hawaiian voters passed a constitutional amendment that gave their legislature the right to define marriage however it liked. It was the first of the amendments in the country, and it's the only one that won't need to be overturned for marriages to start taking place in the state. All the Hawaiian legislature needs to do is to decide that marriage is legal between two adults, regardless of sex. But it hasn't happened yet, and it certainly hadn't happened by Sandy's 40th birthday.

That conversation in 1998 was the turning point, though. That was the day that we recognized that we would eventually marry. And, like many other same-sex couples, we've been riding the waves since then. Vermont's Supreme Court found it unconstitutional to deny same-sex couples the same rights, but didn't require they be called marriage: civil unions were born in 2000. In 2003, the highest Massachusetts court came to a similar conclusion, but declared that it must be full marriage. States have won marriage rights through legislatures and courts, only to lose them again through public votes.

Here in Seattle, Sandy and I were very confident that our state Supreme Court would find the state's DOMA unconstitutional, and we were heartbroken in 2006 when the court ruled against us. It didn't help that it was the same day we learned that Sandy's first surgery for breast cancer didn't have clean margins, and they'd need to go in again.

We could see that public opinion was changing, and we knew that someday we'd be able to marry here, at home, legally. So, regardless of the various advances and setbacks, we discussed plans. Not specific details, but general plans for how we'd do it.

We knew the ceremony would be outside, someplace pretty. Perhaps at the park that overlooks the lake at the end of our road, we thought. And then we learned about Kubota Garden, and that seemed the likeliest spot.

I wanted only the people who'd been supportive of us the entire time to attend, no one who'd ever uttered anything homophobic. Ideally, I wanted just our moms and our best friends. Sandy didn't think that sounded like much of a party, so over the years, she worked me up to a guest list of about 25 or 30. Still small, still intimate, but more of an audience for a Leo.

She had a beautiful piece of blue raw silk that she set aside for her wedding dress. My mother is a talented seamstress who used to make custom bridal gowns for a living, so the plan (which Mom agreed to) was to fly her up a month or so before the wedding to take measurements, figure out the pattern, and fetch the fabric. Then she'd come a few days before the wedding to make any necessary adjustments. We never figured out what I would wear. Left to my own devices, I would probably wear jeans and a silk shirt, but Sandy seemed to lean towards wanting me in a tux. I'd long since realized that the ceremony itself was hers, and I'd wear whatever she determined I should wear, as long as it didn't itch.

Sandy with her ring, and her babies, in 2005

Back when it became evident we wouldn't be flying to Hawaii to marry or getting married in our home state any time soon, we bought rings that we called our wedding rings. It was a great day, our anniversary; we walked down to Pike Place Market and found a vendor with some rings we really liked. They were identical, $15 each. It was important to us that they be locally made, hand-crafted, and inexpensive. Sandy told me that she'd lost her wedding ring from her first marriage when they were digging a ditch, and she was always paranoid about losing this one.

In fact, I was the one who lost mine. On a bike ride a few years later, at some point I took my bike glove off and the ring must have come with it. We searched the park for half an hour or more; I felt awful about losing it. But, again, we went to Pike Place Market, and we quickly found the same vendor. He didn't have exactly the same ring. My new one is the same shape but a bit thinner than the original. But it worked.

When Sandy started chemo in 2006, she moved her ring to her right hand, fearing swelling in her left. And then, a few years later, when she fell down some stairs and bent her finger at a right angle (I'll spare you the photo, as it makes me gag), they had to cut the ring off her. She put it in her box of odds and ends on the dresser, and there it remained until she died. I was always going to get it repaired for her, as a surprise, but I didn't get to it. Now it's on my right hand, still with its cut, but it fits my middle finger fine.

We'd planned to buy new rings when we married, additional rings, perhaps a little more expensive. More important was that we'd spend more time choosing them, making sure the design was meaningful to us. But Sandy remained nervous that she'd lose that one. So in the last couple of years, she'd started talking about having a ring tattoo instead. Even Sandy would have trouble losing a tattoo.

We were married in every way that counted, and our friends and family recognized that. She didn't get her wish, and that hurts. But if anyone had told her in 1995 that marriage would be her top priority as she was dying, she'd have snorted. Sandy had gone from insisting that she'd never marry again to making our legal marriage the only real item on her bucket list. That's a pretty impressive evolution.

Getting the science right

This is a quick post, mainly to link to a great blog post about Komen's real problem: they haven't been considering the science of tumor biology in their approach. It echoes much of what I've written here, but with a little more information and an important context.

The blog post is on Discover Magazine's website; it's titled Komen for the Cure's biggest mistake is about science, not politics. 

We took this picture shortly after she started pulling huge
chunks of hair out in 2006. She wanted to document
the process, so there are many pictures of Sandy-going-bald
on my computers.

The blog post does a good job of explaining why it's not only incorrect but detrimental to continually tell women that early detection is the key to saving lives from breast cancer.

As much as I rail against the emphasis on screening mammography, I want to be clear about a couple of things:

• Diagnostic mammography is very different from screening mammography, and it's important. Anyone with concerns about something she (or he) feels in a breast or armpit should have a mammogram. Mammography, ultrasound, MRIs, and biopsies are the best diagnostic tools we have right now.

• Any woman who wants regular mammography for peace of mind should have access to it, and it should be covered by insurance. However, she should also have accurate information about the benefits and the risks of routine mammography. 

• Routine mammography makes much more sense for high-risk women.You have a higher risk of developing breast cancer if a close family member had it (especially if it struck early, before the age of 50), if you test positive for one of the BRCA mutations, or if you've had breast cancer in the past. There are other risk factors, too. Women should be discussing their individual situations with their doctors and determining what makes the most sense for them.

• Statistically, routine mammography between 40 and 50 results in the most harm with the least benefit. Between 50 and 75, it provides the least harm with the most benefit. After 75, it may not provide significant benefit; the jury's still out on that one.

Pico

It was three years ago today, Valentine's Day of 2009, that we lost Pico. He had a very little brain and the body of a moose, but in fact, he was all heart. Moreso than any other animal or human I've ever known, Pico embodied pure, unmitigated love.

That's Pico, pressed against Sandy. Belly is further down her
lap; Nada is on the other side of her leg, not visible in this photo.

The three boys came to us as feral kittens in August 2005, and Pico was by far the healthiest. I cried myself to sleep the first few nights, unsure Nada would make it to the next day. Belly's healthy growth stalled for a while, and he became the smallest of the three. But Pico consistently ate, slept, played, and grew, looking like a little bear as he galloped toward us. Fairly early in his life, he perfected the art of something we called Face Love. All the boys are interested in lips and mouths (Nada used to stick his entire head in Sandy's mouth when he was tiny), and they all rubbed their heads against our faces. But for Pico, there was an unusual urgency and persistence. He spent quality time pressing his cheek against yours, and then moving to the other side of your face to do the same thing; in bed at night, he'd stand on my chest, giving me Face Love for a good long while, and then he'd look over at Sandy, give my face a quick goodbye swipe, and stand on her chest to give her a long face-love session. Then a swipe goodbye to her and back to me. It was our bedtime ritual. Sandy and I both cherished it.

He was a total goof, and he had no idea that his body was so big. He was first called a moose by a friend who heard him clattering down the stairs. I always thought he somehow had too many legs, though he appeared to have the standard set of four. We'd hear crashing sounds from the kitchen and go in to discover that Pico was throwing his awkward body around as he chased moths, running into cabinets and drawers in the process. Once, he was chasing a butterfly across the back yard, paying absolutely no attention to anything on the ground, and he dragged Reemay, its stakes, and possibly a few plants along with him for several feet, never knowing he'd nearly destroyed my garden bed.

Sandy with Pico in March 2006; he was about 7 months old.

He loved all creatures, but especially his brothers and his people. He and Grumpus had an okay relationship, friendlier than the one Grumps had with the other kittens. (Belly sat and swiped at Grumps as he walked by.)

Pico couldn't resist his name; strangers received instant affection if they uttered it. He befriended feral and stray cats in the neighborhood, and he liked to touch noses with dogs. We used to speculate about what would happen if a coyote approached Pico; he'd probably have the friendliest (and heartiest) lunch he'd ever eaten. 

While Belly's always been a little sniffly, and Nada has a predilection for eating plastic and rubberbands, Pico was completely healthy and untroubled except when he suddenly faced dramatic life-threatening situations. Over his short life, we spent more than $10,000 in emergency vet expenses. (Sandy used to say, "This cat should have had a note tied around his neck that said Buy insurance for this one.")

We visited him daily at the emergency vet hospital. They fell
in love with our boy, and decorated his bandages! (He had
a port in his chest to drain the fluid, IVs on his legs, and a
few other things.) The boys are smoke-colored, meaning each
hair starts out white and becomes black; everywhere Pico
had been shaved, he had bright white patches.

It started with a seizure when he was about five months old; that, combined with some other symptoms, led to a diagnosis of food allergies that we were able to rectify with a change of diet. At 11 months, he had a chest infection (pyothorax), with a substance the consistency of peanut butter filling his chest cavity; he wasn't expected to survive that, but he did. The only long-term effect we knew he'd suffered was his fear of abandonment, after he'd had to spend a week at the emergency hospital. A year and a half later, he had a urethra blockage. But all the cats switched to a canned-food only diet and all was well again. And then came leukemia, a rare form, and that's what ended his short life. We don't know the cause of the cancer but our assumption was that all of the Xrays he had for his pyothorax damaged his cells; he was still growing at 11 months, and he almost doubled in size in the months after all that radiation.

A few weeks before Pico died, during the time that steroids
were temporarily reversing the effects of leukemia and he
was very much himself, our friend Tina came over with her
fancy lights and high-end camera and professional skills,
and she took amazing photos of all the boys for us.

When Pico died, we put his body in his burial box, without a lid, and kept him in the house for close to 24 hours. That was our habit with cats' deaths; I wanted to make sure that their energy had a chance to be freed in their home, and mainly, I just couldn't bear to bury them when they were still recognizably themselves.

I put Pico in his box next to me on the sofa. Grumpus, not related to the boys, sniffed the body and wandered away, disinterested. Pico's brothers had a very different reaction. Belly crawled up onto the sofa, pressed his body against the edge of the box, and placed his paw across Pico's torso. He stayed that way for a long time. Nada, too, said his goodbyes, sleeping near the box, keeping an eye on it, and returning to it over and over again throughout the evening.

By morning, neither Nada nor Belly were interested in Pico's body anymore, and I'd stopped feeling a connection to it as well. Sandy dug the hole (I couldn't help because I wasn't supposed to exert myself in advance of heart surgery), and we buried our beautiful boy where we'd buried Prudence and Roo a few years before.

It was intense to see Belly and Nada mourn. They spent the day visiting all the places Pico had hung out in his last week, as the energy drained from his body. He'd been denning, finding safe hideaways where he could still keep an eye on things, places he didn't usually hang out. Now, Belly and Nada went to each of those places, repeatedly, and yowled. Painful, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking yowls.

The next day they were both pretty quiet. They seemed sad, resigned to their brother's death, though I know that could just have been our projection.

The following day, they were back to normal, having put their grief behind them. In some ways, I'm jealous that they can love intensely and then move on. But since my biggest fear is that my memories of Sandy will fade, I don't actually wish I mourned like a cat.

I say Pico's name every now and then, just to keep it alive for his brothers. But I don't know that it means anything to them. They each know their own names, but they don't seem to understand each others'. The truth is, I say Pico's name more for me than for them. He's still our goofy moose of a boy, and we knew how blessed we were to have him with us even for such a short time.

Summoning Sandy

I post here for my own benefit, and to communicate with those who read the blog, of course. But I also post here to connect with Sandy. Almost without exception, she checks in with me while I'm writing an entry.

As I write here, my other laptop switches to its screensaver, which is a random slideshow of photos on the computer. There are thousands of photos in the mix, and since Sandy was usually the photographer, she's not in most of them. But as I start writing, I notice photos of her come up regularly, initially every other picture, and then one after the other, sometimes 7 or 8 in a row. That doesn't happen with any other person or subject matter in the photo collection. I take it to mean she's here.

When I'm specifically writing about us and our relationship, I start to see photos of us together come up, one right after the other.

Sandy with her mom in front of our house in 2005. Several
photos came up of her with her mom while I was writing this.
Could be she's planning a visit to Moses Lake - watch for her!

And sometimes, the photos of her seem to be reacting to what I'm writing or thinking (or saying out loud). A look of shock; a show of strength; tongue out; laughing; whatever. (It helps that she was a ham, so there are such photos to communicate with.)

I always read the post to her, and ask her if she'd have me change anything. Occasionally, I hear a suggestion or a protest, and I make the change. Sometimes she points me to the photo she wants me to use.

She's been here today. I felt her presence when I watched the video of Gregoire signing the marriage bill. I cried, of course. Jamie Pedersen, the House sponsor of the bill, is a personal friend of ours, and as he stood there talking about the achievement, I remembered a conversation we had when he was running for office. "Vote for me," he said," because I'm going to get you married." And he would have been right, had cancer not intercepted.

But I felt her even more strongly as I wrote the last post, about Komen. It was one of those days that her photos reacted to what I wrote. Images of Sandy being emphatic or quizzical, and then, as I wrote the bit about being bitter that she's not alive today, several images of us together.

This is the photo that came up when I mentioned "applause."
Yep, she bad.

I've heard from others that the dead are more likely to come to us when we're thinking of them. I suspect that's even more true of a Leo. So, if anyone is craving a little Sandy attention, I encourage you to think about her in the context of your life. And if she still hasn't shown up, throw in a little applause.

Thinking critically about Komen

I just heard a story about the Komen Foundation meeting with supporters this weekend, trying to reassure folks that they would be able to raise the necessary funds to participate in the 3-day walk -- and that Komen was still an organization they wanted to be involved with. Several things in the story frustrated me, and, well, why not share?

First, I want to address the "progress" they cited. Once again, I heard that early detection saves lives, and that's just not true. Their proof? The five-year survival statistics have improved. I can't find the basis for the stats they gave, which implied dramatic progress in recent years, but I know that progress hasn't actually happened. If the survival rate (the percentage of people still alive five years after diagnosis) has improved, it's because so many more people are being diagnosed with cancers that would never have killed them. In this article, Dr. Susan Love said, “At least 30 percent of tumors found on mammograms would go away even if we did nothing." The article used the quote to demonstrate the power of the immune system; I also see it as an indictment of our emphasis on screening everyone and treating even tumors that would cause no harm.

Additionally, unfortunately, five-year survival statistics don't tell you anything about quality of life. And they're rarely broken down for the breast cancer subtype. Most sobering, consider that Sandy would be included in the five-year survival statistics. She was originally diagnosed on July 5, 2006; on July 5, 2011, we learned she had only a couple of weeks left. But she made it to that all-important five-year mark!

Sandy in August 2006, a month after her diagnosis.
We'd have been able to marry if there'd
been a cure when her aggressive cancer was
initially diagnosed, or when it returned a few
years later. Or if the Washington Supreme
Court had delivered a different opinion that
month. If I ran the zoo, we'd have had a cure
and a good court decision that August, and
she'd be healthy for our sixth wedding
anniversary this year.

I also got angry listening to people say they weren't interested in the politics; they were walking with Komen because they wanted to cure cancer. But the truth is that the political game that Komen has been playing for many years is inhibiting progress toward a cure. I would love for Komen to focus more of their money on useful research and to appropriate services for women in need. But even their back-pedaling on Planned Parenthood hasn't been clear; they haven't actually said they'd fund the organization again, just that they'd allow them to apply for funding.

I'm not buying it. I want real prevention (there is no known way to prevent breast cancer now; mammograms are diagnostic, not preventative). I want a real cure, and until we have one, I want effective, non-toxic treatment for people who genuinely need it, no matter their financial resources. I want us to develop better tools so that we understand who needs treatment and who doesn't. We deserve better than mammograms. We deserve better than chemotherapy. We deserve better than Tamoxifen. And frankly, we deserve better than Komen.

I'm feeling bitter today. I can't help thinking of all the money Komen has raked in over the years, and wondering whether Sandy might be alive to celebrate Governor Gregoire signing our marriage bill today had Komen not been playing politics, courting corporate sponsors, and cultivating their pink-ribbon machine at the cost of genuine breakthroughs in research.

A season of love and loss

Everywhere I turn, someone is talking about relationships, love, romance. Several people in the Washington Senate and House spoke movingly about loving bonds as they voted to support same-sex marriage. Radio and television shows have love and relationships as their themes as Valentine's Day approaches. Advertisers, of course, play it heavily.

I'm a sucker for a good love story, but right now, each one feels like someone is stabbing me in the chest. I can't even find respite in sleep. Early this morning, my subconscious pulled me into multiple scenes of people celebrating marriage equality in our state, and over and over again, I was the wet blanket. All I wanted to do was to get away from the joyful throngs and sob in a corner.

Every day I spent with Sandy -- even hard and scary days --
involved laughter. I miss laughing with her.

When I was young and single, I thought of Valentine's Day as a way of making single people feel bad about themselves. Once I was part of a couple, Valentine's Day was a pretty anticlimactic holiday. How many times a day did one of us say "I love you" to the other: 20 times? 30? It was our default phrase, but we always meant it. We went out of our way to make each other's lives easier, bought small gifts for each other frequently, spent time together doing activities we enjoyed. I remember answering some survey questions online about relationships; one of the questions was how often you kissed: once a day, a few times a week, once a week, etc. I was flabbergasted. When we were alone, Sandy and I kissed as punctuation. If one of us left the room, we'd kiss; when one of us entered the room, we'd kiss. When one of us said something amusing, or we solved a puzzle, or the cat did something cute, we'd kiss. In some ways, every day was Valentine's Day.

At first, I thought we'd never celebrated it, but then I began to remember some things that made me smile.

Our first February together, Sandy left a white rose on my front porch for Valentine's Day. I remember finding the rose when I left to go to work that morning. But more than that, I remember the story she told about leaving it there. She was worried that I'd notice the porchlight come on; it has a motion sensor and she always considered me a Gladys Kravitz, far too concerned about everything that goes on in the neighborhood. So she left it and scurried back to her car to watch the porch until the light went off. She was actually hoping I'd find it then, so she could witness it. But I wasn't quite as vigilant as she imagined. If she'd rung the doorbell, I'd have found it, but the porchlight goes on every time someone walks down the sidewalk or a cat runs across the yard. I don't tend to notice it.

This was the picture she had
framed for me that year. It's not
as easy as it looks, you know!

That same year, I took her out to a fancy Italian restaurant; as I recall, neither of us were thrilled with the food. (That was the night she gave me a key to her car, a meaningful gesture; I think she already had a key to my house, but half of Seattle has a key to our house!)

A few years later, she was at Escapade on Valentine's Day. I was incredibly surprised to find a basket full of goodies from her: a book, bath salts, a framed picture of me balancing a spoon on my nose, a sexy card, and a few other things.

And I've always kept above my desk the message she had printed in The Stranger's annual Valentine's Day issue more than a decade ago.*

BRIE - Your love is "more precious than all the gifts of Fortune," and these past five years, I've been luckier than I ever thought possible. I love you. S-

One of us — I don't remember who — cut letters from newspapers to create a ransom note that said "I love you." That may have been a Valentine's Day gesture, but we passed it back and forth for years, leaving it in unexpected places for the other one to find. 

What seems odd to me is that I don't remember much that I did for her, if anything, on all the various Valentine's Days of our relationship. I'm sure there were little things, but I'm always much more likely to remember what she gave me than what I gave her.

*I searched "more precious than all the gifts of Fortune" because I didn't remember what it's from. It's apparently from The Alhambra, but the second link Google shows is to the Stranger archive with those valentines from 2001. I didn't even realize they were online. What a treat!

Remembering joy

I'm doing okay. I'm functioning pretty well, meeting deadlines, feeding myself well, taking care of the cats and the garden. Several times each day, tears come suddenly; sometimes they stick around for a while. I laugh, too, though, and smile. Occasionally, I even spontaneously say, "I have a great life."

But I have a constant heaviness, a weariness that comes from more than sleep deficiencies. There's a wrong that I am powerless to right; I feel defeated and punished. And I'm still, subconsciously, trying to keep Sandy alive. Multiple times in the last week, I've felt my brain crack as the reality of her absence hits me again. Here/ not here. How is that possible?

I love this photo. I think I was aiming for Sandy,
but Roo stuck her head in the camera's path.

Conscious this afternoon of the weight, I was trying to remember the last time I felt no despair or fear. It was late last April, an evening that Sandy and I biked down the road to our neighborhood Thai restaurant. We'd enjoyed our meal and our conversation, and we were laughing about the rain, which was just beginning. As we unlocked our bikes, Sandy said, "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Dr. Reddy emailed me that my MRI was clean."

Clean in a scan means no tumors, no cancer. The MRI was of Sandy's brain, which was the area I was most concerned about. I was ecstatic. "Clean?" I asked her. "Yeah," she said, "Isn't that great?" We laughed and talked about it on the short ride home. I remember the feeling in my chest — a weightlessness, an absence of fear, replaced by joy and gratitude. I told her again how much I loved her brain, and how it should make pretty pictures.

Somewhere along the way home, Sandy admitted she wasn't sure Dr. Reddy had used the word clean. The weight started to return. We looked at the email when we got home. The word she used was stable. Good news, but not the exciting development I thought it was.

And a few weeks later, we learned that stable wasn't even accurate, as the scan showed a new lesion that had been noted further down in the report; Dr. Reddy hadn't seen it when she sent the initial email. As I feared, it was Sandy's brain that was most at risk; the cancer spread there rapidly and through her central nervous system. There would be no more moments of true relief for me. But even though that brief respite turned out to be a false relief, I remember that 15-minute misunderstanding fondly. Sometimes, when I'm in a relatively good space, I can remember that feeling and I can almost imagine having it again.

Parsing reality

The definitions of the word real from dictionary.com seem pretty straightforward:

Real: 

1. true; not merely ostensible, nominal, or apparent

2. existing or occurring as fact; actual rather than imaginary, ideal, or fictitious

3. being an actual thing; having objective existence; not imaginary

4. being actually such; not merely so-called

5. genuine; not counterfeit, artificial, or imitation; authentic

For more than four decades, I'd have told you that I knew what was real and what was not.

But now? Not so much. Each of those definitions has become subjective for me. Quantum physics demonstrates that time isn't linear, as we like to pretend it is. So is it real that time is passing? Is it real that the past is the past and the future is the future and the present is that fleeting moment between the two? Or do all times exist at once?

When my body knows one thing, my mind another, and my heart yet something else, which is real? Which one wins? Or can they co-exist, each with their own truth, seemingly contradictory and yet somehow combining to create a more acceptable whole?

In A Widow's Story, Joyce Carol Oates shared many notes she received from friends. I find sense in what Derek Parfit told her:

When someone I loved died I found it helpful to remind myself that the person was not less real because she wasn’t real now, just as people in New Zealand aren’t less real because they aren’t real here.

I'd love to know more about what Sandy thinks of all of
this. Is she experiencing all of time at once? Can she see
forward and backward and off to the side? And if she has
the omniscience some claim the dead have, why doesn't
she know how to come back with a body? Surely if she
doesn't want to return because her new existence is so
wonderful, she wouldn't be so insistent that I stay here.

Sandy died. I've told hundreds of people, and I've said it matter-of-factly. I understand what the words mean. I experienced her dying process, the moment of her death, and the aftermath. But those memories seem no more real to me than the time we've spent together in visitation dreams, or my sense of her being with me when I kayaked on her birthday. She died; we've created new memories together since then. Are those new memories any less real than the ones we shared together when she was alive?

And did she really die? Her heart stopped, and so did her breath. Her body became a subject for science and then was reduced to less than five pounds of ashes. But what she's experiencing now is surely some form of life. She has presence; she has will, apparently; she has knowledge. It seems more likely that she metamorphosized than that she died. When I'm awake, I can no longer hold her or see her smile or hear her laugh, but perhaps those are my limitations, not hers.

The more I learn about what she's experiencing, and the further I walk on this road of widowhood, the less I'm certain of. The thing I doubt the most is that any of us actually have a handle on reality.