Confusion

Last night, I was thinking about where we were a year ago, that Saturday evening that Sandy set off on a mission to figure out where you could see the Space Needle from Virginia Mason Hospital. She'd had brain radiation that morning, but had recovered enough by the late afternoon to practice walking up and down the stairs a few times with me, anticipating her return home soon. And she was motivated that evening to find a view.

Sandy and Laura played tourist at the Space Needle several
years ago. The background image really doesn't do justice
to the height of the Needle. It's quite a bit taller than Sandy!

We'd just gotten confirmation that the Pride flag would fly from the Space Needle on Sunday, and Sandy wanted to see it. So, shortly before dusk, as I recall, she insisted on a field trip up to higher floors to see if it would be visible. I remember being in the elevator, her excitement at leaving the floor for a reason other than radiation or tests. I remember relaxing in a large waiting area on a different floor, Sandy putting her legs up, complaining for the first time that they ached.

She took us to a few different floors before she was willing to give up and admit that the hospital was at the wrong angle to see the Space Needle from public areas. In fact, before she gave up, she trotted us down a hallway of patient rooms and as I protested, even wandered into an empty room to see whether that window gave us the view she wanted.

I remember so much of that outing (though I think I may be merging a couple of treks), but I don't remember who was with us. I believe a friend had come to visit and got roped into the adventure. I can feel their presence, almost see their face. But I can't figure out who it was.

I was stuck on that last night, as I biked home from a lovely evening with friends. And in my sleepy, overly full state, I looked forward to asking Sandy who had joined us that evening. My focus had been narrowly on Sandy, but she was more likely to remember who else had been there.

And then I fumbled, mentally, when I realized I couldn't just ask Sandy what she remembered about that night, or, rather, I couldn't expect much in the way of a useful reply. The void opened up again, the disbelief, the confusion. It is, ultimately, confusing to me that I can't just come home and discuss the day's events with Sandy, talk over embarrassing or aggravating moments, share our interpretations of political issues, and just be together at the end of the day. Eleven-plus months later, at some subconscious level, I still expect her to be here, grinning at me, when I get home. Or yelling about something some politician did. Or stressing over some task undone or something scheduled for the next day. If I'm on my way home, by definition, I'm headed to Sandy. And it still just baffles me that she isn't physically here.