Casual references

Last August, I quickly learned to spend time only with people who knew me, and preferably Sandy, very well. My grief enveloped every aspect of my life, so I needed to be able to talk comfortably about Sandy, her life, her death, my bereavement, and our post-death communication. I could really only do that with people I already knew quite well.

Gradually, I began to feel safe spending time with people I didn't know, but I still felt compelled to talk about Sandy most of the time. I especially needed to tell people that she had died. It felt dishonest not to disclose the single most important piece of my current identity. The few times that I had a conversation with someone about any topic and didn't tell them that Sandy had died — even on a bus or in a grocery store checkout line — I squirmed, feeling deceitful and unknown.

Eventually, I found I could exchange chit-chat about politics, the weather, dogs, or other topics in passing without telling strangers that Sandy had died. But if I told an anecdote about her, I had to reference her death — and after so many years together, it's rare that I don't mention Sandy in any conversation of more than a few minutes.

A year ago today, we drove from Moab to Bryce Canyon. As
we drove out of Moab, we decided spontaneously to take one
more quick tour of Arches. Since we'd spent a full day there
earlier in the week, we knew where we wanted to return. We
hiked down a little way into Park Avenue, a canyon with
amazing formations on either side. We were excited about
the opportunity to see more of these structures up close,
knowing we may never get to see any of it again.

We discovered a little trail we hadn't seen the previous time
we were there, and were thrilled to see the Three Gossips
from different angles, much closer. There they are, and
there, of course, is Sandy's head, too. Sometimes I'm glad
I'm not a very careful photographer!

I was surprised yesterday to realize that another shift has occurred. I attended a community meeting about neighborhood improvements that are part of a state highway project. The meeting was actually an open house type of setting, with WSDOT employees staffing displays, answering questions, and listening to feedback. Several dozen community members attended, and the kinds of people who come to these things tend to be intelligent, thoughtful, and engaging. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, moving from one stimulating conversation to another. Those interactions were energizing. I was aware that I couldn't have been so present, able to think creatively and express myself articulately, last fall. (Indeed, I attended a similar meeting about the Seattle Transit Master Plan last fall and, while I had a few good conversations, I felt flustered and overwhelmed instead of energized and empowered. It wasn't the event that was the problem; it was my state of mind.)

Only today did it dawn on me that I talked about Sandy with multiple people yesterday morning and never mentioned that she died. Her death wasn't relevant to the stories I told. For example, when someone brought up the conflict between the South Lake Union Trolley tracks and bicycle tires, I mentioned that my partner had thought cyclists who complained about the tracks were whining about a minor nuisance until the day she came home a bit battered and reported that the tracks had gotten her. There was much nodding, and the conversation continued. It didn't matter that she died; her experiences, and my experiences with her, are still relevant.

I no longer need every conversation to be about me and my loss, and I don't have to follow every mention of Sandy with a parenthetical phrase about her death. When she was alive, I wouldn't have felt compelled to say how long we'd been together, or how old she was, or where we lived, or what she ate for lunch, or where she worked, or any other aspect of her life unless it was relevant to the story. And I'm back there now. That's pretty cool.

My goal has been to integrate my memories of Sandy and my love for her into my life without sacrificing my own engagement in the world. I want to keep her with me as I grow and have new experiences. My new ability to talk about her casually, in ways that are appropriate to the current conversation, without making her identity all about her death — that's real progress. It gives me hope that I can continue to heal without leaving Sandy behind.