Laundry day

It was just about this time a year ago today that I drove Sandy to urgent care, and we began a harrowing afternoon there before she was admitted to the hospital that night. I didn't know then what was causing her confusion, what made her think it appropriate to get out a plate and fork to eat cereal or what led her to use the wrong words for things, to frequently shake her head like she was trying to put her brain back in place. I believed it was something temporary, another complicated migraine, like the one they'd (incorrectly) diagnosed the day before. I believed the CT scan from the previous day, which reassured us that she hadn't had a stroke and that the small lesions in her brain, while slightly larger, were the only cancer evident. I was troubled, deeply concerned about what was haunting her, but I did not think this was the final chapter.

June 17, 2012, is a very different day. The air is fresh outside, still more humid than we normally have in Seattle, but not the stifling weight we suffered through yesterday. It's wonderfully windy. I've opened windows all over the house, and the wind rushes through, cleansing the space of those awful memories.

Laundry was Sandy's chore, but I've slowly slipped it back into my routine after thirteen-plus years of absence. I find it satisfying now. Unlike most things in our lives, this is true multitasking: the machines do the bulk of the work while I do other things. And over the course of the day, the chaotic tower of dirty clothes piled in the corner of the bedroom is transformed into clean, fluffy laundry, stowed in drawers, hung on closets and hooks. I do laundry every four weeks now; I survey every room, gathering stray dishtowels, discarded socks, fleecy sweatshirts I've placed in strategic locations for the cats to nest in. I strip the bed, pull tissues from pockets, sort out the loads. It's systematic, tangible, even sensual. And it's symbolic for me. I'm taking care of myself, and getting a fresh start. Today, especially, that feels good.

This was taken sometime in the last year of Sandy's life, at Vifians'
house. Sandy went there regularly for dinner on Friday evenings,
one of the lovely routines that made up ordinary, non-crisis life.

My goals for the day are simple, nesty, necessary goals: laundry, cleaning the kitchen, returning some things to the library, gardening, reading. Nothing remarkable there, but that's exactly what's healing about the day. It's just a day. No one in this house is confused or in pain; June 17 will not, apparently, be a horrendous day forevermore. It's just another day of healing and of feeling gratitude for all the days we had together that bore no crisis, that were lovely, ordinary days.