Things done

I keep a comprehensive to-do list so that I know I've captured every goal somewhere and can free the brain space for something else. Nine years ago, I realized that I felt overwhelmed by my list because, as I took off the things I'd accomplished, I could see only what hadn't been done, and not what had.

To remedy that, I started a Things Done list. Originally I literally just copied and pasted items from  my to-do list when I finished them. But over time, I started getting chattier, adding information about conversations I had with people I ran into on the street, what flowers we noticed were blooming, how I felt, when I had migraines or other illnesses, what time we turned out the light at night, how we each slept, memorable dreams. It became part log and part diary, the thing I turn to when I want to know when something happened or what events provided context for another. 

Sandy liked that I kept the Things Done list. She'd often ask me to look something up for her, because I tended to keep notes on important and unimportant events in her life, too.

Just about the only time I haven't kept the Things Done list current was the five weeks that Sandy was dying. I also didn't write in my journal. Writing makes things real for me, and while I was able to cope as long as I stayed in the present moment, I wasn't quite able to handle the reality of documenting it all. After Sandy died, I filled in the broad strokes of those days, but especially given my altered state at the time, there are details that I've lost or memories that confuse me. I'll probably never untangle it all to record it accurately, and that may be for the best, because when I reread a day's entries in my Things Done list, I relive it. While there are moments of Sandy's dying that I want to relive -- moments of tenderness and connection, moments of clarity and love -- there are other moments that I don't need to experience again. So I'll trust my memory to sift through them for me and present the ones that nurture rather than the ones that cause pain.

This was actually her last chemo day in 2007. We didn't take
any photos of chemo in 2010/11, apparently. Again, we don't
tend to take photos of the routine, and chemo became very
routine: for ten months, three weeks out of four, we'd walk or
bike the six blocks there. Usually, Sandy had a bed so she
could nap comfortably when the Benadryl they gave her to
prevent allergic reactions took effect. After so long, the risk of
allergic reaction was slim, but protocol required the drug.

I knew Sandy had her last chemo infusion at the end of March last year, but I couldn't remember the date. Curious, I turned to my Things Done list. It was March 28. Nicole was with us that day. In fact, she got there before me. Sandy left early to bike a roundabout way to get to chemo, because she wanted the exercise. I was still making my sandwich, so I left a few minutes later and biked straight there. By the time I got up to the infusion center, Sandy was already in a bed and Nicole was seated next to her, visiting. None of us - Sandy, me, Nicole, or any of the nurses - had any idea it would be Sandy's last chemo. We just knew she had the next week off before she started the next monthly cycle.

Reading my notes about the day, many parts of it come back to me clearly, but I didn't remember that they were all on the same day. Sandy had a migraine aura as she walked to her bike after chemo, but it had faded before we started for home. She was incredibly thirsty; we resolved to bring our own water from home for her the next time she had chemo. I don't know why I didn't just get water for her, but I think she didn't care for their filtered water. She usually drank a combination of apple and cranberry juice that I fetched her as we settled in. The nurses had long since shown me where everything was, so I could get her whatever she wanted from the kitchen or fresh blankets from the warmer.

After we got home, I took my bike in for new brake pads and a new chain, bought groceries, meditated with Sandy, planted peas while Sandy napped, fussed with onion plants that neighborhood cats had disrupted. I cleaned my iPad screen that evening. I remember doing it, but I had no idea it was a year ago. In fact, I've marveled at how quickly it got smudged and filthy, thinking always that I cleaned it only a few weeks ago.  (My point of reference for how long it's been since something happened remains June 15, the last day that was real.)

The next day, Sandy had a therapeutic massage and got her hair cut on the way home. She called me on her cellphone about four blocks from the house and told me she was bored, she missed me, and she'd like me to talk her home. I remember her reporting landmarks as she passed them, laughing at things she saw on the street; I stood in the doorway talking to her on the phone as I watched her walking down the block to me. That night we walked to Central Cinema, a theater six blocks from us that serves food with the show; we saw RoboCop and ate bread pudding for dessert.

I can easily get lost in the stories of these days that were unremarkable at the time but that come back so vividly to me with the written cues. I find great solace in these records of daily routines, the little stuff of life that we don't tend to capture in photographs or greeting cards. The stuff that makes up most of life; the everyday things we've thought, experienced, and done.