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.