I'd end up here, anyway

I've had a hard couple of weeks. I'm pretty sure perimenopausal hormonal swings are largely responsible for the despair I've felt, but they served to amplify feelings that were all mine. I repeatedly returned to the thought that I should have died with Sandy, that my heart should have stopped when hers did.

I've not been suicidal. It's more like regret. Frustration. Agony that she left me behind.

Over the past thirteen-plus months, I've had brief moments of wanting to die, and I know enough not to let myself fantasize about suicide. So I haven't. But this is different.

Last night, I put off going to bed as I have so many other nights. In fact, facing the empty bed is often the hardest thing I do all day. Earlier in the day, I'll think how nice it would be to go to bed early, but as the hour arrives, I just can't make myself do it. And last night, I surrendered to the allure of DVDs until 2 a.m., when I finally pried my body from the sofa and forced myself to go to bed.

As I waited for sleep, I thought again, I should have died with her. Because this is a wish for a past event, rather than the present, I let myself imagine what would have happened if my heart had actually stopped with hers. I could easily picture my life energy chasing hers, which had been slowly leaving her body for days and so would have been ahead of mine. Through some form of communication, I'd have essentially said, "Hey, wait up! I'm coming with you!" That part of the fantasy was easy to imagine.

This is how I picture her turning and
yelling at me to go back. The picture
was actually taken when she and Christine
went to Mt.  Rainier in May 2010.

What followed was just as easy to picture. She'd have turned around and said, "NO! Go back! You're not supposed to come with me. Not now." In fact, she'd have been annoyed. After we learned she had only a few weeks left, she'd specifically told me not to follow her. And as she'd been dying, I'd told her repeatedly that she didn't have to worry about everything; I'd take care of it all for her. I couldn't finish things for her if I died, too.

So, I can see it: her yelling at me, pushing me back to the world of the living. And at the same time, someone in the hospice room would doubtless be doing CPR to pull me back. Sandy had a do-not-resuscitate order, but I certainly didn't. So while her death wasn't an emergency, my heart stopping would have been.

And hard as it is for me to accept it, I do believe that it wasn't my time to go. So those administering CPR or defibrillators would have succeeded. I'd have come gasping back to consciousness, probably feeling even more betrayed by Sandy's death because she would have rejected my company.

Oddly enough, this fantasy made me feel better. Even if my heart had stopped with hers, the most likely scenario is that I'd be exactly where I am now, but with my body a little worse for wear. So it's just as well I remained conscious and calm as she died, able to handle the duties of death for her and take care of our home and kitties in the weeks and months that followed.

I don't know when my heart will stop. I could have an accident tomorrow, could die of cancer five years from now, could make it to my 110th birthday. But knowing that she'd be there pushing me back if my heart stopped prematurely makes it easier for me to attend to the business of living, trusting that when it's the right time for me to die, I will, and she'll welcome me then.

For some definition of well

I'd taken a few weeks off from therapy to go kayaking on Sandy's birthday and prepare for the RSVP bike ride. Those weeks were both good and bad from a grieving standpoint, but the despair I felt in Vancouver, B.C., continued to haunt me in the days that followed. I wondered if I'd stalled or slid backwards or otherwise wasn't quite where a widow ought to be at 13 months.

As I told my therapist, I'd recognized that I believed I could move on, past the pain, but that I was choosing not to. I suspected I could stop begging Sandy to return, stop scouring quantum physics books for as-yet-unrecognized options, stop willing there to be a change in the timeline. I could, that is, accept that the unthinkable had happened, buck up, and go forward. It's not that I can't do that. It's that I won't.

She had an unreadable look on her face. Though she doesn't often lecture me, I fully expected her to tell me it was time to pull myself together. I peered at her, and said, "You're thinking this woman is crazy and it's time to get the train back on the track, aren't you?"

She laughed and said, "No, I was actually thinking how well you're doing."

Well was not a word that particularly resonated for me at that moment. I'm highly functional, socially competent, even coherent again, but the pain continues day after day. The emptiness, the feeling of betrayal. The disappointment when my close friends react to things in ways that make perfect sense for who they are but that accentuate how different everyone else is from Sandy. (And let's be clear: it's her responses I crave, even the ones that would have confused or frustrated me.) Every day brings its own challenges and fresh moments of pain, even among opportunities for laughter and the lovely memories and Sandy-writings and the like that people are generous enough to share with me.

Seven years ago today, three kittens, young enough to have
blue eyes, arrived in our lives. You never know what life will
bring, so maybe it's worth sticking around to find out.

So I asked my therapist to explain why she thinks I'm doing well. She said she was impressed that I am able to be so "alive" in my pain. That I haven't run from it, denied it, or distracted myself from it. That I've been able to feel it now rather than letting it fester underneath a facade. That in feeling it, I haven't lost myself or my ability to function. In short, that I let myself grieve.

I mentioned the remark to a dear friend last night, and she enthusiastically seconded it, expounding on it with her own observations of my ability to be present in my grief from the moment of Sandy's death.

So maybe I am doing okay. Maybe I don't need to measure myself against some idea that by the time a year has passed, I should be "over it." And of course, I don't ever expect to be over it. The pain is much less now than it was a year ago, and my connection to Sandy feels stronger than it did then. So maybe that's what I can aim for: less pain and more connection as I stumble through the weeks, months, and years to come.

Tips for talking to grievers

I didn't think much about death before Sandy died. I saw it through the prism of emergency preparedness, and Sandy and I both talked many times about how we'd ensure that each other and the cats and our families were taken care of should one or both of us die. We also talked a great deal about what would happen with our bodies, and about the unwieldy costs of funeral homes. We nearly joined the People's Memorial Association, a nonprofit funeral home for folks wanting simpler burial and cremation options. (I may still join, but I'm tempted just to donate my body to science, as Sandy did.)

We tend to think about death just long enough to attend a
memorial, whether it's a traditional funeral or bowling in
Sandy's Uncle Gerald's memory. And then our thoughts of
death fade again until the next crisis strikes (pun intended).

But for the most part, death was the tragic punctuation in a movie or book; the sad statistics produced by a hurricane, tsunami, or mass shooting; or the absence of a relative I'd never been privileged to see that often. It wasn't an integrated part of life for me, and it isn't for many of us. It scares us. Like most people, I avoided it until it chased me down and stared me in the face. While Sandy was dying and after she died, death became my focus. Specifically Sandy's death, but death in general, too. The sharpness of it: here/not here. The injustice. The inevitability.

I've talked about death, dying, and grief frequently for thirteen months now. But I've been struck by just how abnormal that is. There is a loose, ill-defined movement of sorts to bring the topic of death back into the mainstream, to remove some of the fear and the mystery where possible, and to honor the fear and mystery where it remains. I've been encouraged every time I encounter someone willing to seriously engage in conversation about death, whether it be about the dying process, what comes after, or how the survivors cope.

One informative and entertaining resource is "Ask a Mortician," a series of episodes on YouTube in which an actual mortician answers people's questions factually and plainly. She's irreverent but respectful, and her answers are incredibly accessible.

In the episode I most recently saw, someone asked how to interact with a woman grieving after a miscarriage or a stillborn birth. Her answers are spot on, and they're appropriate, I think for interacting with any grievers. So I thought I'd share it here. (I've linked it because I had difficulty embedding it.)

Ask a Mortician - Grief

I encourage you to watch the video, but here's the main point I wanted to share from it. There are three things that are always appropriate to say:

I'm so sorry.  You are. It's true and genuine. It's a sincere connection and I can't think of any way it could offend.

I have no idea how you feel. Even if you've experienced something that seems to be the same, grief is intensely personal, and the truth is that no one can know how another is feeling.

How are you doing? If they don't want to talk, they can say something simple like "I'm holding up" and move on. If they want to talk, you've opened a door to let them express themselves. And if they need something, you've provided a way for them to ask for it.


---- Stray cat project update: We've had our first success. After a few failed attempts, I finally managed to get smelly food (a can that included tuna) within ten feet of the cat before it bolted, and when I then retreated about fifteen feet, the kitty approached the food dish and chowed down. Now to slowly decrease the distance between me and the eating cat, build trust, etc!

Stray kitty

I've been flirting with a stray kitty for several months now, hoping the cat actually had a home somewhere in the neighborhood. This cat has pawed at the cat door, driving the boys crazy. It's sat on the deck expectantly and made goo-goo eyes with me through the kitchen window. It sometimes sleeps for hours under the rosemary bush in front of the house, while Nada and Belly perch next to the window watching intently. Once the cat even got into the basement while I was harvesting; I'd left the door open briefly while I grabbed some chard and when I returned there was a panicky ruckus in the back of the room and then the cat shot out the door I held open.

Several cats hang out in our yard, both ferals and strays, as well as cats who actually do have homes. There aren't many yards on our block - just two, really, amidst the apartment buildings and condos and a couple of parking lots, so the garden beds and trees make this yard an obvious spot for cats to hang out. That's especially true now since we stopped letting our cats out much a few years ago, so they were no longer there to defend their territory. (Oh how they howl about the intruders from the windows, though!)

When I first started noticing this cutie, it seemed well-fed and young - maybe on the verge of adulthood. I've never fed it, but it's stayed close. Close, that is, when I'm not outside. There have been a few times that the cat has kept me company from a few feet away, once when I was chopping compost and another time when I was calmly weeding. But usually, if I get within about ten feet, it bolts out of the yard.

I've purposely not done anything to chase or intimidate the cat, waiting to see whether I'd eventually need to win it over. And now it looks like that time has come. The cat is starting to look kind of scraggly, and my neighbor said he saw it going through the trash at one of the apartment buildings. Not the behavior of a kitty with a home.

Even as I say that I'm determined to find this stray kitty a good
home somewhere else, I am fully aware that that was the plan
for Grumpus, too. We couldn't give him away right away
because he was FeLV+ and weak. And then, when he tested
negative and was healthy, well, we both realized we'd fallen
for him. I'd been advertising for a home for him, but I pulled
the notices after Sandy confessed, "I just love him."

This all feels a little like deja vu, as we went through much the same thing with Grumpus ten years ago. He was healthy-looking when we first met him, and we assumed he'd just moved into a unit nearby. He hung out near us consistently, and eventually became incredibly scraggly and scrawny and we couldn't put off taking him in any longer. The difference there was that he was stropping my leg even on our first encounter. The current kitty is playing hard to get.

I've been keenly aware that I'm short one cat-rescuer this time around, so was delighted when my close friend, Cynthia, offered to join in the project. It's much easier to deal with this sort of thing as a team.

The first challenge is to get some food into the critter. I can't just leave food out, because the raccoons have been hanging close ever since they destroyed much of the plum tree last month. So I'm trying to go out quietly and put food about ten feet away from the kitty when I see it. So far, the boys are getting surprise snacks, as the stray cat bolts for hours at a time and I bring the untouched food back inside. Nada and Belly are just fine with this arrangement.

We're hoping the cat has a chip, or at the very least is free of diseases. Honestly, I don't have the energy to try to integrate this cat into the household with two boys who have already expressed their displeasure with it. Belly, especially. He's chased it from the yard and fought it a time or two when he's been out for a little while. So assuming I can get the kitty to trust me enough to come in and go to the vet, there may well be a cat available for anyone who's on the market!

Bike locks

The smallest things can suddenly take on significance. I've been missing Sandy intensely since Saturday afternoon, but I've also found comfort in all kinds of ways since I returned home Sunday. One of those ways is how I've seen people carrying their bike locks.

I carry a U-lock on my bike, usually bungeed to the rack. When I use panniers, I carry the lock in them instead. Sandy didn't like to fuss with bungee cords or bags for her lock; she just slipped it over the handlebar and let it dangle as she rode. She did tie a bandana around the handlebar to keep it from sliding all over the place, but that was her only concession.

This picture was taken in May 2010, when she and Christine took the bikes down to Myrtle Edwards Park while I was in
Missouri. If the image is large enough, you can see that lock hanging from her handlebars, tucked in with its bandana. I
always thought she should take it off before putting the bike on a car or bus rack, but she didn't bother. I only recently
found this photo and others from that weekend. Christine must have had Sandy's helmet, because Sandy's wearing mine here. It's nice to see her in the blue bike shorts, which I now wear frequently, always when I want her along for the ride.

I thought it was a ridiculous way to carry a lock, mostly because the few times I needed to ride or even walk her bike short distances, I found the lock unwieldy and distracting. It just felt out of control somehow. (I'm ENFJ according to Myers-Briggs; Sandy was ENFP. The J and the P made all the difference. I went around shutting cabinets and drawers, locking exterior doors, removing flammable objects from the burners on the stove, and so on in her wake. She had no problem with things bouncing around. In contrast, though I'm far from tidy, I like things to feel a little more contained. On the other hand, many times I'd be looking for my current water glass and discover she'd already popped it into the dishwasher - so much for consistency.)

The thing is, I'd never seen anyone else carry their bike lock that way. I considered it odd enough that I would have noticed, I think, and she'd have felt a kinship with anyone she saw doing it, too. So yesterday morning, as I set off to walk to the grocery store, I was amused to see a cyclist biking in front of the house with a U-lock dangling off the handlebar. I'd been thinking about Sandy, yearning for her, and I welcomed the reminder of her quirks and possibly the indication of her presence.

Yesterday evening, on my way to the library, two cyclists passed me on 11th, as I walked by Hugo House. Again, I'd just been thinking about her. I think about her all the time, but more intently sometimes than others, and this had definitely been intent. And as I looked toward the street, I realized that both of these cyclists had their U-locks dangling from their handlebars.

Maybe it's become a thing. Maybe Sandy was a trendsetter and people who saw her commute to work every day more than two years ago noticed her habit and eventually adopted it. Out of curiosity, I looked online to see if people are reporting that they've starting carrying locks that way; the forums I found all discussed everything from holsters to racks to the frame-mounted holders that come with the locks, but nobody mentioned just slipping the thing over a handlebar. So maybe it's a fluke, a caress from the universe, letting me know that Sandy's energy remains in the world.

I'll be pretty entertained if I next see three cyclists carrying their locks that way, and then four, and so on. That would be a pretty sure sign of relevance, or at least a bit of fun.

Mixed results on my test

Friday and Saturday, I joined 1400 other cyclists in biking from Seattle to Vancouver, B.C., as part of Cascade Bicyle Club's annual RSVP event. I went with Colleen, one of Sandy's oldest friends, and we'd trained for months for the nearly 200-mile hilly ride. We were concerned about the heat that was forecast, and of course the ride would be challenging. But what was most daunting to me was that I'd be spending two nights away from home.

I used to travel alone comfortably, and I still don't have any fear of being in a strange place or getting lost or anything like that. I find that people are very helpful pretty much anywhere you go. My fear has been that I'd feel the weight of Sandy's absence more intensely away from our home. I haven't known whether it would be harder to go to our familiar spots, where I have many memories of our time together, or to new places that she never got to see, at least not with me. But I have been very aware that the yearnings I have to travel include images of us exploring the world together. And that those yearnings crumble when I remember I'd be alone.

So I've not spent a night away from home since she died. Home is the center of the life we created together; it's where the kitties are; it's where I feel her most often. I honestly wasn't sure I could stand to be away for two nights in a row, especially knowing that fatigue accentuates the pain of grief. But I'd committed to the ride, and that meant spending the first night in Bellingham and the second in Vancouver, B.C. (Now that it's over, I realize I probably could have gone directly to the train or bus station and come home Saturday night, but we didn't know when we'd arrive and it's hard to get a large pasta dinner on a bus.)

Friday was indeed hot, but we left very early to get in as many miles as we could before the heat became a problem. I got up at 4 a.m., and was on the road by 5:10, biking to meet Colleen in Woodinville. It was dark, but the roads were quiet and I enjoyed the early morning ride, especially because I saw deer along a stretch of the trail. That was very unusual, and I chose to consider it a good omen. We joined the official route before 7:00 and were over the most difficult climb of the day by 7:45. In fact, we made much better time than we expected, and the weather wasn't bad for most of the morning, as we rode through some nicely shaded areas. Around 1:00, the route became more tedious (chip seal is awful to ride on; we had hot head winds for a long stretch without shade), and our pace slowed. But we got to our motel in Bellingham just fine. I'd ridden 109 miles, the longest I've ever gone in a single day, and even with frequent and sometimes-long stops for the heat, I'd gotten through that distance in just over 12 hours. Not bad. Of course, as I saw it, the real challenge began when I checked into the room.

That's the part of the test I passed. I was surprised, first, that I had so much energy after the ride. I wasn't all that tired or sore, and I was quite animated. After showering, I joined Colleen and her husband Larry for dinner, and I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation and the food. After we returned to the motel, I set off on foot for a grocery store a few blocks away and bought the things I needed for breakfast as well as roasted potatoes from the deli. (Potatoes make wonderful bike food, and I'd gone through the ones I'd brought from home.) I puttered happily, preparing everything for the next day's ride and reluctantly turned out the light at 9:45, knowing my 5:00 alarm would come all too early. But I remained cheerful. Not in-denial cheerful. Not putting-on-a-show cheerful. Not cheerful around other people and then despondent on my own. I truly felt good. I started to think about all the places I might travel, given how successful this venture was. I even slept pretty well, and got up before the alarm.

The ride on the second day was just as enjoyable, except for a long hot slog in the afternoon on a stretch of highway. I channeled Sandy in the morning. We were 15 miles into the ride and I'd been desperate to pee for ten of those miles, but we'd been biking through farmland and some exurbs — no hope of a public toilet. I knew we were still five miles away from a rest stop, so I'd started considering where I might squat behind the occasional stands of trees. And then I saw a woman watering her flowers at 7:30 in the morning. Gardeners are generous people, and I was pretty sure her house had a bathroom. So I stopped and asked if I could use it. She was wonderful, and we had a nice chat that left me energized as well. It was the kind of thing I wouldn't ordinarily do, but I knew that Sandy would have. And since she wasn't there to ask for me, I just had to do it myself. I was glad I did, as much for the interaction as for the use of the bathroom.

We traveled through beautiful countryside and friendly towns. We crossed the border easily, as they'd set aside a kiosk just for cyclists. We rode over some majestic bridges with amazing views. There was much to love about the ride, especially on a day that was much less hot. And I did enjoy the ride very much. I didn't even mind the hot highway all that much, because I recovered quickly and, again, had the chance to chat with another cyclist who had sought out shade to rest in. (Yes, there's a real theme. I'm happiest when I'm chatting, especially with people I've never met before.) But the last 7 or 8 miles were more challenging as we navigated the outer areas of Vancouver, moving further into the city, through potentially dangerous intersections. By that time in a ride, the brain cells are either gone or asleep and it's easy to make stupid moves. So I had to concentrate way too much, particularly trying to understand the way traffic infrastructure worked in a foreign city. Even with the concentration, I did a few boneheaded things that could have ended poorly. And then we got to the finish line, and they ushered us directly down a ramp to the parking garage, which was not where I'd intended to go, as I wasn't staying at that hotel. I'm not much for finish line parties and I don't care much about badges or medals or any of those types of things that finishers receive, so I'd aimed to just grab my panniers from Larry and head to my hotel. Instead, there was chaos and frustration before I finally headed out to bike the final few miles of my journey for the day. As I said, I was tired enough to be stupid, so the fifteen-minute ride was more harrowing than it would ordinarily have been. And then I stood in line at the concierge, thinking it was registration (truly, no brain cells left). However, that gave me the chance to chat with some very nice people who later helped me negotiate my bike with its panniers into and off of the elevator. Ordinarily, I would have done fine without their help, but at that point, I was more than grateful for their assistance.

I took my iPad so that I could read email, but the iPad's web
browser was acting weird, so I had to reset settings. That
meant wallpaper, etc., went back to default. Instead of
restoring the image of a wave I'd used before (it was one
Sandy really liked), I set this photo to appear on the start
screen, and it cheered me greatly. Every time I turned my
iPad on to check email or play a game or whatever, there
was Sandy, smiling at me. Photos may be the best tools
a griever can have; I don't know how people coped before.

I got into my room, and the tears started. I felt a huge aching pain in my chest. I'd just biked about 85 miles total that day, including the trek from the finish line, after 109 miles the day before, and instead of feeling a sense of accomplishment, it all seemed utterly pointless. My hotel room was spacious and felt indulgent, and that just made it seem emptier. I had no idea what to do with myself. All I wanted was Sandy. I just sat and sobbed for a while, and then I found a pad of paper and a pen and started making a list. Always the fastest way to restore a sense of control in my life, a list gives me direction. This wasn't a difficult list: drink chocolate soymilk, shower, get ice, order room service, get connected to the hotel's wifi, check my email, cry. I worked my way through the list, and after eating (and enjoying my interactions with the very accommodating room service guy), felt much better.

But I didn't enjoy my stay. Rather, I just numbed the pain as best I could, counted the hours until I'd get home, and promised myself that I wouldn't travel again any time soon.

What I learned is that I can travel if I have to. While I had a mission, I felt okay. As soon as that mission was over, the pain was overwhelming. I know that fatigue accentuated my grief, but I didn't feel any more physically exhausted Saturday afternoon (I was in my hotel room by 4 p.m.) than I did on Friday evening. The difference was that Friday evening, I still had purpose. So it's pretty clear to me that a weekend on Whidbey Island, where we used to go to relax and specifically escape our to-do lists, is a bad idea. But that attending a convention, for example, might be doable. Right now, I'm just going to focus on being home, working on the book, volunteering for the campaign, spending quality time with the cats, and maybe making some headway on the garden. I'm in no rush for my next test.

Trails

I'm cleaning off Sandy's desktop computer, the one she had in the TV room. It was old and painfully slow long before she died. She planned to replace it, but money was tight. She increasingly used her laptop for web browsing, answering email, and creating documents, but the desktop computer remained her vidding machine.

Laura took this picture back in 2001. The basic setup remained
the same, but Sandy moved into the vidding corner more
completely, with shelves on the wall and in the windowsill,
and with more electronics surrounding her. The green chair,
given to me by a friend who was leaving town, has long
since lost its headrest and part of one of the arms, and was
the victim of many a kitten fight. But Sandy still sat in it
just about every evening as we watched TV and she read
email, blogs, and her LiveJournal feed. The corner of the
sofa that's in the picture was my nest, with Belly tucked
between me and the armrest. It was a comforting routine.

More than a year after she died, I'm still tentative about wading into her files. I consider my computers to be incredibly private and fragile spaces, and I'm nervous when anyone even checks their email on them. Sandy was much less fussy about hers. If her computer was the one handy when I wanted to look something up online, I always asked first. And she always reiterated that I could use them any time. Somehow, she didn't recognize that my unease using her computers was related to my concern about anyone using mine. I freaked out whenever I realized she'd popped into my office and started using my laptop. Of course, she never hurt anything, and she did eventually remember to announce that she was about to use one of my systems, if not to actually ask.

So I've been bracing myself, taking a deep breath, and starting to browse. I was delighted to find dozens, maybe hundreds, of photos that she'd downloaded from our camera but never shared with me. That's pretty exciting. Each time I've started to think I'm running out of new photos of Sandy, more appear.

Today, I delved a little deeper, deciding what I needed to copy off the machine, and realized just how much you can learn from a computer's file manager. There's a trail of interests, projects, travel (packing lists galore), problem-solving downloads. I keep running across file names that make me stop and remember where we were or what she was doing on the day the file was created or downloaded; I don't even need to open them to grow weepy and to be grateful for more solid evidence that she was here, she took up space, and she had a full, rewarding, and sometimes frustrating life.

Air conditioning

Sandy described herself as having a one-degree comfort zone — she was quickly either too cold or too warm. And if she was too warm, especially, she was quite vocal about it. Some of our most memorable arguments were inspired by heat, either because we were both irritable in our discomfort or because we disagreed about what measures to take.

Our apartment in Venice

One time in particular stands out in my memory. We traveled to Venice, Italy, in May 2003, and had a wonderful time. As was our habit, we rented an apartment so that we could cook our own meals and feel more a part of the place we were exploring. It was a great apartment in many ways, but Venice gets quite warm even early in the year, so we had the windows open. But the windows had no screens. For most of my life*, mosquitoes have seen me as a feasting ground, and the Venetian mosquitoes were excited by my presence. I insisted that we shut the windows unless we could cobble together some kind of screen. Back and forth we went. I don't remember who won, but I know we were both cranky and uncomfortable, and I have a vague memory of spending the night pinning sheets down around my body with my arms and head trying to avoid mosquitoes. As I recall, we searched the stores for portable window screens the next day, though I don't think we had much luck.

The temperatures cooled off nicely at night when we were
wandering around Venice. But by day, it was warm, and we
hadn't packed for that. I didn't even have sandals with me.
Venice is known for its shoes, and I couldn't find anything
affordable or practical, so we went to a big department store
and I ended up with some bamboo flip-flops that say "Maui"
of all things. Just another travel oddity.

When Sandy lived with John and Nicole, her bedroom was in the attic, which grew quite warm. They bought her a window air conditioner and it made her very happy. It came with her when she moved in with me, and John mounted it in her room. She'd intended to use her room as an office, parallel to mine, but mainly used it for storage and we used it as a guestroom, so it had a futon that could be sofa or bed. On hot nights, we'd sometimes sleep in there with the air conditioning, but I always resisted before giving in. Even with uncomfortable temperatures, I prefer to sleep in our bed. When the window air conditioner expired a few years ago, even that option was closed to us.

Then last year, we had a mini-split heat pump installed. It's close to miraculous, as the first floor is now warm enough to inhabit on even the coldest days but we're using less energy than our ineffective heaters used. Sandy, however, was most excited about the fact that it also includes air conditioning. In much of the country, air conditioning is a standard feature in homes, but in Seattle, it's rare. When we were discussing the installation with the company representative, he said they could install two interior units with a single outdoor pump, so we could have one, say, in the bedroom as well. I said we really didn't need that; it wasn't difficult to keep the upstairs warm. But Sandy got excited: "Air conditioning in the bedroom!" Had the cost not been prohibitive, I'd have gone along with the idea, but instead I said, "We can just sleep in the living room if we need to." She looked at me with that indescribable way she had of expressing frustration, disbelief, and resignation all at once, and said, "You'll never agree to that." She was right. I laughed, admitted my own stubbornness, and agreed to consider it. In the end, she was the one who gulped hard when she found out how much it would cost to put the second unit in, and we didn't do it.

As it turned out, Sandy never got to enjoy the air conditioning. The heat pump was installed in March of 2011, so she experienced the heat it provided on the first floor. But we turned it off in May, and June and July were both cool. In fact, I never tried it at all last year; we had only a couple of days that even got above 80 degrees and fans were enough for me.

This year, I've used it a few times. The first time I used it was our 94-degree day a few weeks ago. I had it on and set the temperature lower than I ordinarily would, hoping to cool off the upstairs rooms as well. It didn't work. The living room was cold; the bedroom was still uncomfortably warm, even with the window fan. I flashed back on our conversation, wondering whether I could sleep in the living room. And laughed. She was absolutely right. I turned off the air conditioning and went up to bed. I was fortunate that the air cooled rather quickly outside and the fan was enough to let me sleep well, but I'm just stubborn enough that I'd have stayed upstairs suffering regardless. The main reason I wouldn't sleep downstairs now is that I worried I'd sleep poorly, feeling vulnerable with the sounds from the street while I slept alone on the sofa. If Sandy had been here, it's entirely possible that I'd have been willing to sleep on the air mattress in the living room. We slept on our bed in the living room the first few nights she was home in July, after all. But it's likely there'd have been an argument before I finally gave in. The woman definitely knew me.

We loved the staircase in our apartment building in Venice, so I snapped this
photo from the top of it. If you look closely, you'll see Sandy and her cleavage
waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.

*Since my open-heart surgery in March 2009, mosquitoes are much less interested in me. I don't know why, but it makes it much less stressful for me to spend time outside, especially away from Seattle's relatively mosquito-free environment.

A good day

I'm in a great mood, and so far everything is falling into place today. Well, not everything. The day started with Belly biting me on the nose. He can go from cuddle to chomp without pausing, and always while I'm lying in bed half asleep. That's just not a great way to become fully awake.

But since then, all has gone well. I picked the first ripe tomato, finally, probably setting a record for the latest first tomato since I've been gardening here. But there are others on the vines starting to show a little color now, too, and plenty of large green ones coming up behind them. And the first tomato of the season is always cause for joy.

I had a meeting at campaign headquarters, which is awkwardly located in an industrial part of town. Google Maps, doubtlessly misled by the presence of meaningless sharrows on the street, tried to route me and my bicycle down 1st, a very busy and cranky street. I've ridden it before and have no desire to do it again without some actual supportive infrastructure. So I thought I might have to bus or take a zipcar. But then I realized I could approach the building from a different angle, riding up over Beacon Hill (for those who know Seattle), and that proved to be a very sane and enjoyable route. Only a little climbing to get there, and a fair amount of downhill to leave me exhilarated as I arrived early for my meeting. Long, sometimes steep climbs on the way home, but then, home is where the shower is! My meeting went well, but mainly I'm just feeling incredibly satisfied with my ride.

Not the most flattering photo of Sandy, but that was my fault,
as the photographer. This was taken on Whidbey Island in
summer 2009. A different vacation home than our usual
cabin, and an adventure because we left the car behind and
took only our bikes on the ferry to the island. That was
definitely a trip that involved a lot of lists!

And then I dipped into more logistical preparations for this weekend's long ride to Vancouver, B.C. I'm nervous about the weather forecast for our hottest weekend of the year so far, but I'm getting pretty psyched about the ride itself. I haven't been out of town since Sandy died, let alone had anything resembling an adventure. And this — this feels like an adventure. Besides, it's an excuse to make lots of lists and plans, and I'm always up for that.

I'm not feeling so alone in the world right now. I'm feeling connected to many friends and family members and colleagues, but mainly I feel connected to Sandy. Sometimes I feel like she's actually here with me; other times, I'm aware that I'm carrying all the memories and experiences we shared. And that makes it easier to move out into the world and create new ones.

Happy memories

I biked to the Mercer Slough blueberry farm in Bellevue with friends yesterday. The ride was good, as was the berry-picking, but the day's heat really got to me. My ride wasn't all that long but we were picking blueberries in the heat for a couple of hours. I felt exhausted and migrainal afterwards so I was content to order a pizza for dinner and enjoy it while watching Firefly episodes on DVD.

What was remarkable about the day to me was that my memories of time with Sandy made me smile, without any hint of pain. That was a lovely change. Usually, even memories that make me laugh come with a heavy feeling in my chest.

I biked an unusual route to get to the I-90 tunnel so I could drop off some library books that were due, and flashed on a time that Sandy and I had taken the same route for the same reason in 2010, before we knew why she had so much trouble breathing. We were frustrated by her health that day, but at that early point in the ride, we were feeling adventurous and optimistic.

Later yesterday, my friends and I took a branch of the bike trail we don't usually travel in order to bypass all the construction mess on Jackson. The only other time I'd been on that trail was when Sandy and I explored it several years ago. Then, we wandered in and out among the different branches of the trail, so I had troubleyesterday remembering where they all went (and the trail has expanded since then, too). Still, upon seeing the Korean pagoda at Daejeon Park, I experienced again the curiosity and wonder Sandy and I felt the first time we discovered it, as we stopped to read the signs and appreciate it up close. That day, we puzzled over the "Equality" sculpture in nearby Sturgus Park, speculating about the artist's intentions and describing our own reactions. And then we were surprised to find ourselves on 12th, just south of the Jose Rizal Bridge, and I clumsily rode on the sidewalk across the bridge while Sandy confidently zoomed across in the street. (Yesterday, I knew better, and went for the street, which has been marked with sharrows now, too.)

She modeled the hat for the camera right after receiving it,
around the time she started chemo. She's even wearing a
hospital ID bracelet in this photo, so it must have been the
day she had the port put in or some other procedure. It was
always nice to come home from an ordeal at the medical
center and find packages for Sandy waiting for us.

Hot and uncomfortable last night, aware that I'd not applied enough sunscreen during the outing and that I was moving into full migraine territory, I was delighted to see the episode of Firefly where Jayne receives a hat from his mother. When Sandy first had chemo back in 2006, a friend ordered her a "Jayne hat," made by an enterprising fan to closely resemble the rather unfortunate hat, complete with earflaps, that Jayne received from his mom. Sandy's hat included a handwritten note to Jayne, with the exact words from the episode. She was thrilled and she treasured that hat, wore it a lot. Belly likes to carry it around the house. I don't wear it because orange is really hard for a redhead to carry off, but when Belly hasn't deposited it in some inconvenient location, I keep it visible. Watching the episode, I remembered the first time Sandy and I saw it together, and the look of glee on her face when she opened the box in 2006, and how comforting that hat was for her at various times in the last five years of her life. Many people were generous enough to make or buy her hats for chemo, and she wore several of them even unrelated to cancer treatment, but the Jayne hat was her default. So this time when I watched the show, having so strongly come to associate that fuzzy orange thing with Sandy, it tickled me to see Jayne wearing Sandy's hat.

Today, my memories have been more mixed. The pain is closer to the surface again. But it's encouraging to know that I can, sometimes, have memories with only the happy and none of the pain.

Humming right along

I've been scattered this week, and though I've managed the most important tasks, it feels like I've been spinning my wheels. As my to-do list becomes more overwhelming, grief sneaks in and leaves me despairing. Last night, I felt pretty pathetic, drowning my sorrows in Firefly episodes and ravioli.

But today is all mine. No outside commitments. No outside distractions. Just me and my ambitious schedule, and so far it's all going according to plan.

In fact, it's going better than planned. For example, I let the cats out while I gardened this morning, and they disappeared pretty quickly, as usual. Nada has to patrol the block, while Belly mainly stays closer to home, ensuring no other felines find comfortable spots to nap. I was starting to think about going back in and wondering where the cats were when Nada came bounding through the yard straight for me, and Belly wandered in from a different direction a minute later. I opened the door and Nada strolled in and lay on the living room floor contentedly. Usually, I have to whistle for Nada and he shows up about 15 minutes later. A few times lately, I've had to go looking for him when he hasn't arrived within 30 minutes of the whistle. So this was sweet indeed.

I've got laundry going. I'm pretty much caught up on email. I'll clean the kitchen in a few minutes, and that will improve my quality of life tremendously. I'm even hoping to get my office whipped into shape. Throughout it all, I'm nattering at Sandy, especially when I feel her nearby.

Sandy and Col, Vividcon 2004. Col's there this year, and
next weekend, she and I are biking to Vancouver, B.C.!

I thought she'd be at Vividcon, and I suspect she has been some, but apparently it's not all about people missing her this year. (Last year, it was nicknamed Vividcry.) Last year, she disappeared; I didn't feel her, suddenly, after having sensed her presence thickly in the days before it. I felt lost, despairing, and then remembered where she probably was. Still, it was a particularly hard weekend for me. This year, not so much.

I don't know when despair and grief will creep in and take over again, so I'm going to take full advantage of the positive feelings and energy I have right now. If I can get reasonably caught up on my never-ending lists, I know my grief will be lighter when it returns. So, onward!

52

Fifty-two years ago today, Sandy was born at Seattle General Hospital. The hospital is no longer there, but was just half a block fom the landmark Seattle Central Library, which seems fitting

It was twenty-nine and a half years later that I met Sandy, just after she'd moved back to Seattle from Vancouver, Washington. She'd lived here occasionally as a child and as a young adult, and then except for six months in California was here for the last 21 years of her life. She was proud to be a Seattle native, especially considering how many in our circles originally came from some other part of the country. 

This city is my chosen home. For Sandy, it was a combination of native and chosen home. She talked of leaving sometimes, but only when she grew tired of working and wanted to convince me that we could live more cheaply in Mexico. I don't think she'd ever have made the pitch if she thought I might be willing to leave. She enjoyed the six months she lived in Santa Barbara, and we talked sometimes about retiring there, but we knew we'd never be able to afford it. Seattle was her home, and it remains mine.

More specifically, this house remains my home, and I've no intention of moving. Together, we transformed the back yard in to an oasis and the interior of the house into a comfortable, welcoming space. Both the house and the yard communicate our priorities, our interests, and our attachment to this place.

I received a call this morning from a real estate company wanting to know if I was interested in selling my property on 15th Avenue. I felt no need to be rude, but the answer was easy. No. Not as long as it continues to speak of Sandy.

Happy birthday, Sandy. I'm glad you grew up to be the
woman I loved and continue to love.

I've been frustrated this year, wanting to get her birthday presents. Big things she'd wanted and smaller things I come across that make me think of her. It's not just around her birthday that I have to remind myself that things I buy for her will actually just become mine. But it's more poignant somehow. So it's good that I can go kayaking — something for her, something for me, something we often did to commemorate birthdays.

I was at Gasworks Park a couple of days ago, a brief stop on a long bike ride, and remembered our kayaking adventure last summer. We paddled farther up the lake than we'd ever gone before. Eventually, I shook my head clear, realizing that I'd been the only person in the boat. She was there; my memory is clearly of us being together even as I remember the oddness of setting off in a single kayak instead of a double. And then today, as I thought about what I need to throw in the backpack, I recalled that we did sudoku last year on the way down — and once again, I had to focus to remember that I was the only one who paid the bus fare or wrote in the sudoku book. Her presence was so strong that I remember her being there.

Will she be with me today? Kayaking in Lake Union, enjoying her city and the feel of the wind? Will my memories of today be of kayaking alone, or will I build yet another memory of our time together? I don't know, and won't know until I get there and see whether she shows up. I suspect she will, at least for a little while. It's her birthday, after all, and she loves the water.

Competent, but tired

The anniversary of Sandy's death was difficult, as were the weeks before it. "Difficult" — such an understatement. Each day, I relived what we'd experienced the year before while also navigating 2012's challenges, and always I felt abandoned. My brain was pretty busy. I tried to remind myself of that every time I said or did something boneheaded, as I lost my ability to articulate my thoughts or manage social situations gracefully. (Actually, I don't know how well I did socially. My ability to gauge my behavior was also missing; instead, I just assumed I was botching every encounter.)

I asked what photo says "competence" and this is what flashed
on my laptop. Figures. Sandy had a hard time standing on one
leg, so managing it, even with a stick to lean on, made her
feel competent. I don't understand why it was so hard for her,
when she had great balance on ladders and bicycles.

About a week after she died a second time (for me), I was relieved to find my emotions evening out. I still felt grief, certainly, but not disabling despair. It's been two weeks since the fog lifted, and I've been enjoying a sense of competency again. I'm thinking more clearly, moving through the world more easily, and engaging in a variety of community activities. And I'm very, very tired. Not physically tired. Emotionally tired.

In addition to the marriage referendum campaign and my work with the National Breast Cancer Coalition, I've gotten involved with the Central Seattle Greenways group (identifying and creating a calm, safe route for people of all ages to walk and bike through our neighborhood), phonebanked for a state Supreme Court race, rode 92.5 miles in the Seattle Century (the 85-mile route plus 7.5 miles to the start line) and have been riding other long days to prepare for the upcoming RSVP (Seattle to Vancouver, B.C.), and I've been pretty social with family and friends. Oh, and I'm working on a book and trying to get the garden into shape. When I write it like that, it makes sense that I'm feeling a little overwhelmed.

But I don't think it's those activities that tire me. Most of them are energizing. Instead, it's this feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something else. I always feel like I'm neglecting something. At unexpected quiet moments, I actually hear myself say out loud, "So, how do I get her back? What is it that I need to do?"

I often leave problems to "compost" in my brain as I go about other tasks. I've overcome many a writing hurdle in the garden, while showering, or as I'm puttering in the kitchen. I have aha! moments about kitty or house issues while biking or reading unrelated things. I don't always realize I'm thinking through a problem, but I recognize the resolution when it comes.

And no matter what I'm doing, no matter what other issue grabs my attention, there's one problem that persists in my life. My brain is constantly trying to solve the puzzle, figure out what it is I need to do to right my world again. Sandy's death remains wrong. And I can't leave wrong unchallenged. But I am so far powerless to make the change. So my brain whirs along, expending precious energy, seeking the solution, certain that there will once again be an aha! moment. I don't try to stop it — what if it really can come up with something? — and I don't know that I could stop it, anyway. So, for now at least, I'll be grateful that I feel competent again and learn to live with the emotional fatigue.

Missing the link

I spent yesterday with family in Moses Lake. We gathered to celebrate Sandy's stepfather's 85th birthday, and it was great to see everyone. I had a chance to catch up with several people I haven't seen in a while.

It was my first time in Moses Lake without Sandy. The last time we were there was in July 2010, just a couple of months after we learned she had metastatic cancer. We'd planned to go back over the mountains to see Sandy's mom and the others later that year, but treatment and its challenges got in the way. While Sandy was dying and after she died, the Eastern Washington relatives have made the trek this direction several times. So it was definitely time for me to head east.

The hugs were welcome, and so was the love and laughter. But there were also moments of awkwardness, and moments of emptiness. I'm still part of the family, but the link in the chain between all of them and me is missing. There's a gap that is usually unnoticeable, but sometimes glaring. It was most obvious during introductions.

It was a birthday party, and a lot of folks from town attended. As each set of people arrived, there were new introductions. Most of those times, there was a pause as I was introduced, though the pauses were for different reasons.

Some of the pauses were the same ones we've experienced for years, the hesitation that comes from describing a relationship that isn't recognized as marriage. Sandy and I were spouses just like each of our siblings and their spouses, but because we don't have that word "married," even those who care about us and who embraced us fully as family have had to stop and think about who I am to Sandy's family of origin and who she is to mine. Yesterday, that hesitation was familiar, and especially poignant as marriage equality is on the horizon.

The harder pauses for me were the ones that came because Sandy died. I watched her mother start to introduce me as she has for a long time: "This is Brie, my daughter Sandy's partner," or something like that. But her daughter Sandy died. So what do you say then, if the person you're introducing to me didn't know Sandy either? How do you slip in a reference to her death in a way that doesn't stop the flow? You can't introduce me without referring to Sandy, because she's what connects me to the family. It's tricky. I'm Doña's daughter-in-law, and I'm her daughter's widow. So she could just offer either of those phrases by way of introduction, I suppose, but Sandy's absence weighs heavily no matter how you say it. And we're all still trying to figure out how to navigate these unwanted waters.

I enjoyed the party and the trip there and back, riding with Viv and Kevin and Lissa. But it was a long day, punctuated by moments of intense sadness and frustration that I couldn't slip off to the side with Sandy and check in with her as we used to. No matter how welcoming and supportive everyone is (and they're a very loving and supportive bunch), I'm still the odd one out in many ways, the one without her person. Just as in the rest of my life. Oddly enough, sometimes it's the moments that I'm surrounded by people who care about me that can leave me feeling Sandy's absence most acutely.

They're taunting me

Since Sandy died, I've seen show after show where the dead have returned to life. I'm not seeking them out. These are shows we've watched for years, and in previous seasons they didn't perform resurrections. Some of them are science fiction (Dr. Who, Eureka, Warehouse 13), but others aren't (House, Psych). In the science fiction shows, the characters have actually died; in the others, they've been faking it. But either way, grievers have been overjoyed to have the dearly departed return.

I really want her to come back and travel with me. There's
so much of the world we haven't seen yet. This picture was
in Pisa in 1998. We were delighted by the hodge-podge of
pieces from other structures that had been combined in
the facade of this building. It was one of the buildings
in the piazza with the tower, but I don't remember
which one. No idea why Sandy's holding a guidebook.

I want what they have.

I watch hungrily, searching for tips and tricks, seeing the episodes as a tutorial for getting Sandy back. The timing of so many is suspicious, serendipitous. Surely there's something I can glean.

In many ways, of course, I've learned how to welcome her back metaphysically (and she's rather insistent that she hasn't left). But oh, how I long to have her back here bodily, physically in the bed when I wake in the morning, working beside me in the garden, flying down a hill on her bicycle, cursing at Premiere as she crafts a vid, singing as she approaches the house, beaming at me over her laptop, scrubbing a cat's neck and cheek.

So I'll stay attentive to my fictional instruction manuals, alert to the possibility that they'll prompt me to discover new resources or find a path I've not noticed before. Even as I consciously make efforts to move forward and create new structures in my life, subconsciously I'm always trying to figure out just how to get her back and set the world right.

Birthday boys

Nada and Belly are seven years old today. Or yesterday. Or tomorrow. We weren't present at their birth. They arrived at our house on August 27, a Saturday, and on the following Monday, the vet said they were about four weeks old. So we assigned them August 1st as their birthday.

From the beginning, they found our mouths to
be absolutely fascinating. Nada once stuck his
entire head in Sandy's mouth as a baby.

I keep singing to them, greeting them with exuberant wishes for a happy birthday, calling them the birthday boys. They don't seem to see anything special about the day. They cuddled with me in bed (keeping me awake when I was trying to get back to sleep), urged me to get them breakfast faster as I opened their can in the kitchen, batted at their locked cat door to try to get outside. Now they're napping in their current favorite spots: Belly's on the guest bed, which is folded into a sofa; Nada's in the blanket basket in the living room.

They might not be excited about the day, but I'm mighty grateful that they were born and that Millie scooped them up and brought them to us. I've been grateful for nearly seven years, but that gratitude increased after Sandy's death.

In some ways, I owe them my life. They definitely contribute to my overall wellbeing. They take care of me as much as I take care of them.

They got much bigger, but they still took comfort snuggling
with each other. This was about six weeks before Pico died.
Belly and Nada still curl up together daily.

Every time I've wondered why I continue to live, I know that I can't leave the boys. When I feel touch-deprived, a little head bonks against my hand demanding stroking. When I'm despairing, their antics make me laugh. When I don't feel Sandy's presence, I can talk to them instead. They pull me out of myself, out of my self-pity. And all the while, they're a bridge to Sandy. They were a great comfort to her at times of fatigue and pain. She didn't always respect their intelligence (or, say, lack of survival instinct), but she adored them.


We were lucky to have Pico for his brief life, and I'm fortunate to have Nada and Belly as my constant companions now. So, whether they register it or not, it's a happy birthday for me.