Bubbles pop

I had an amazing visitation dream this morning. In fact, it feels weird to say that I had the dream, because it seems to be more Sandy's act than mine. The dream was unexpected and lovely, and she was so clearly here with me. Once again, it occurred after I'd considered getting up for the day, knowing I didn't really need any more sleep, but letting myself drift off again because I didn't need to get up right away.

Visitation dreams always seem sudden. One moment I'm looking at the clock and debating whether to go back to sleep, and the next moment, Sandy is with me.

February 14, 2004, at a marriage equality rally at
Westlake Center in Seattle.

When I woke again, I felt very loved and very not-alone. I knew that she died, knew that I was the only living human in the house. But I also knew that she remained present in the world, present in my world, and that is a gift I treasure.

I worked well, ate lunch, read local blogs, and caught up on the day's events. I felt centered and competent and capable. And then information I'd expected for a work project didn't come as scheduled at 2:00, and I decided to get a few things cleared off my seemingly endless to-do list while I waited. Mainly, I made a bunch of appointments for the end of May, when my work calendar is light. I was relieved to finally get the heat pump maintenance scheduled, for example.

Then came the medical appointments. I need an echo, mainly just to confirm that my replacement valve is behaving itself. I used to be nonchalant about echos, having had them every couple of years since 1980. But ever since the one in 2008 led to open-heart surgery, I'm a little nervous about them. I was expecting that slight feeling of anxiety. But I'd forgotten about the questions.

Almost every time I make an appointment, the folks at Group Health verify all my information again. Yes, I live at the same address and have the same phone number I've had for seventeen years. Yes, I'm still self-employed and have no other insurance. And then, "Is your emergency contact still Sandra Hereld?"

I suppose I could have just said yes and left their records inaccurate, but I'm an emergency-planning enthusiast and I believe in accurate emergency-contact information. I don't care all that much whether something happens to me, but if they're going to contact anyone, I want to be in control of who they try first. So I said, "No, she died in July." The woman said the sympathetic things that people say, and I gave her new emergency contact information. But that lovely bubble of comfort and confidence that I awoke with this morning was gone. Instead, I was suddenly irritable and self-pitying, snapping at people later in the afternoon and throwing the cats off my desk a little more forcefully than was really necessary.

I didn't make the connection at first. Eventually, I recognized that telling someone that Sandy died always feels like a punch in the gut. It's hard enough when I prepare myself to tell someone; when it comes up unexpectedly, it's like the universe is rubbing it in, forcing me to admit that she's gone. And any illusions or delusions that had cushioned my psyche that day disappear.

She was here this morning. I wish so intensely that I could just pull her back through to this plane, or else stay with her in whatever in-between world we inhabited together just a few hours ago.