Life, interrupted

It's been a year now since we had a plan we felt confident in and believed that we'd get to another "new normal" with Sandy recovering from brain radiation and embarking on a new chemo regimen.

I've been dreading this day and all the days that follow through July 19. But the sun was shining brightly this morning, and I had encouraging, supportive dreams lingering in my head when I woke. I was surprised to find myself in a good mood. And then I realized that today is a kind of release in a way.

Our lives were interrupted one year ago today. We were thrown off course, just as we'd been in November 2008 and in May 2010. Each time, we set aside plans and goals as we dealt with the current crisis. And we never quite got to return to them again.

Now, with no apparent crisis looming, I can pick up the threads where we dropped them and resume the life we wanted to have. It's not the same, of course, as the plan was to do things together. But the things themselves? I can do them on my own, for both of us.

A year ago today, as we walked home from radiation, Sandy was in a great mood. She felt strong, energetic, relieved to be through the first radiation session and on the path to her next chemo. After feeling miserable all day the 14th, she had no neck pain and she was having a good hip day. In fact, she felt ambitious and talked about going to a movie or gardening that evening.

We decided against walking to the movie theater once we'd gotten home, just in case she'd be tired later. And we never got outside to garden. She lay down to read email on her computer and soon had a raging headache, the start of the fast slide down.

Ten years ago, she was bringing order to the area under the
sumac tree (which is much larger now, as are the birches on
the right side of this picture). The yard looks much different
now, but it's just as chaotic after years of neglect. I'm enjoying
the progress I'm able to make on it now, as would Sandy.

That's the moment of interruption, as I've internalized it. And that's the point from which I must gather up the pieces and proceed. I considered going to a movie this evening at Central Cinema, the theater we'd planned to go to last year. I may still go (they're showing Doris Day's "Pillow Talk"), but more likely I'll garden, making progress in the areas we'd hoped to work on last year.

Meanwhile, I realized I've already taken my life off pause. I'm re-engaging with community groups in a way that I haven't really since Sandy's first breast cancer treatment in 2006. I'm joining the RSVP group ride (Seattle to Vancouver, B.C.) in August; before we learned that her cancer had returned, Sandy and I had hoped to do the RSVP in 2010. I'm starting a new book project, because I'm able to work through the summer this year, as I haven't been in the past few years.

As hard as the next five weeks are likely to be, Sandy's not in pain, and she's not dying. I can process all the feelings I couldn't face while we went through it all last year, remember every detail necessary for healing, and still be moving forward in 2012.

She's been around a lot this week. Three mornings in a row, I had visitation dreams, and the last two days I've had non-visitation dreams that were all about being with Sandy. (In the visitation dreams, she'd died and come back. In the non-visitation dreams, it kept coming up that we knew she was dying, even as she was active and vibrant and involved in the world, certainly a sign that my subconscious has been watching the dates.)

It's a sunny day. I know it's much easier for me to be optimistic on a sunny day, and I know that while the 15th was the day that everything changed, most of the day was actually quite good. So I don't know how hard the 17th, in particular, or the 28th or the 30th, or any of the days in July might be. But I felt a shift this morning, a sense that the calendar had come back into position and I have another chance to have the summer we wanted to have: a summer without crisis, while I celebrate and remember Sandy and the life that we shared.