Belonging

As we move into summer, I continue to straddle 2011 and 2012. I know mentally and physically where we were and what we were doing a year ago, even as I navigate current projects and interactions. I don't know how interesting it is to anyone else, but I am fascinated — okay, obsessed — with the path to Sandy's death.

A year ago today, I returned home from a weekend in Portland, where I attended my college reunion and had a good visit with my dearest friend. Originally, Sandy was going to go with me, but she'd decided during our vacation that she was too exhausted to travel again so soon. I reluctantly agreed to go alone, but as the weekend grew closer, both of us were uneasy about my leaving town. Sandy was still fighting nausea and neck pain, and now she had severe constipation as well. (Severe doesn't even begin to describe the agony.) She found some relief, finally, on Thursday, and said she was okay with me going.

She'd planned ahead for the weekend alone, structuring social engagements and down time so that she'd have support and rest in my absence. Friday evening, she went to Vifians' for their regular social dinner; Saturday, she drove to her therapist's office for a special session in which they did baseline brain testing so we'd know if she suffered damage after radiation (Sandy's idea); she also had a phone date with Laura that day; Sunday, Colleen came over to do Reiki with her.

Still, I almost didn't leave the house Friday morning because she had a massive headache. But I did, and by the time the train arrived in Portland, Sandy had had a nap and reported feeling great. That was her rollercoaster all weekend: severe migraines and then great relief. We talked on the phone several times and exchanged many email messages in the 55 hours or so that I was gone. I was proud of her for taking good care of herself, and I remember feeling some relief and freedom that Saturday, the first day in many months that I hadn't been focused on taking care of Sandy.

I was glad to be home, and she was glad to have me back. She seemed small and fragile when I embraced her upon my return, a difference I could recognize only after a few days away, apparently. Though I'd enjoyed my visit with Tonia and a few others, I came home appreciating Sandy and our life together.

Sandy put a lot of energy into creating and nurturing community,
and many competed for her attention and affection. But still, she,
too, often felt like she didn't belong. Shortly before she died, she
said she hadn't been feeling like she had many friends, but now
she felt very "friended." I'm so glad she had the time to hear
from so many people who loved her and to internalize it.

Reunion attendance is fairly random, with only a small percentage of people returning each year. The people who were there weren't people I knew well, and I felt like an outsider much of the time we were actually on campus. College was the first time in my life that I felt accepted, appreciated for who I was and am, and it's disappointing to return to campus and realize that that feeling was dependent on the specific people and the circumstances of the time.

Here's what I wrote a year ago today:

My time at Reed was all about the people I knew and loved and who loved me, about feeling like I belonged, like I was safe to express myself and to be myself fully. About pushing my own boundaries, opening my mind, learning how to be social. The classes were secondary. The jobs were secondary. It was about being at home in the world.

But I was no longer eligible for financial aid in 1990, and I didn't get to return to Reed, didn't get to find that home again, or to grow older with it, to shift and find new friendships, new passions at Reed. Didn't get to go through Junior Quals or to write a thesis and defend it. It's possible I would have failed, flamed out, no longer have felt that sense of belonging. It's possible that I'd have come to hate Reed, as so many do. But I'll never know.

And reunions is salt in that wound, because the people who were there from my era were not, for the most part, people I knew and liked. And I felt, yesterday, that they'd all shared in something I hadn't been a part of, that I wasn't "real."

. . . I think the feeling of not being known was more poignant than it ordinarily would have been because it's my greatest fear about Sandy dying. I fear I'll never be known again. I don't want to spend fifty years — or however long I have left — aching to be known, understood, embraced, and adored.

And I think realizing how not-in-control my not returning to Reed was also leaves me feeling helpless, because I wanted Reed, needed Reed, loved Reed very powerfully in 1990, and I was powerless to return. It leaves me feeling ineffective, not sure I have the strength or the skill to save Sandy, or even to help her have a high quality of life.

The entry goes on to document the plan toward Sandy's health: successful and uneventful radiation to her brain, a recovery period, Taxotere, and then a break from chemo because the cancer was in check. Always, there was a plan, a path to find our way to good times, a way to talk myself back from any despair I felt at the idea of losing Sandy. Always, that is, until July 5.

The night of June 11 was the last night I spent away from Sandy until she died. And I've spent every night in our bed since her death. Gradually, I can feel my restlessness for travel — even just to one of the islands for a weekend — is competing with my unwillingness to spend a night elsewhere. Many things that seemed impossible at first later became doable, and I know this will, too, in time. But feeling so known and loved again? It's harder to see that happening.