Nada watch

Tuesday evening, I simmered sweet onions and tomatoes, as I always do at this point in the season, planning to freeze the concoction for winter eating. I had a good onion crop, and sweet onions don't store well, so this is a good way to preserve the harvest. (And it satisfies my sweet tooth on chilly winter evenings.)

I decided they'd cooked down enough and I left the pan on the stove to cool while I sat in the living room and played around online. Both Belly and Nada had been sleeping on the sofa next to me, but at some point Nada got up to wander. I heard noises in the kitchen, and I suspected he was trying to get into something on the counter. He's not supposed to get up there, but I knew I'd put everything problematic away. The second time I heard the noises, I realized I was hearing the tag from his collar hitting the pan. I got to the kitchen as he jumped off the stove. A sizable chunk of my tomato/onion mixture was missing. And onion is toxic to cats — potentially fatal.

So, at 11:30 p.m., I called the emergency vet. I explained what had happened and told them how much I thought he'd eaten (I've been second-guessing that amount ever since — how can you tell how much is missing from a mostly liquid mixture in a skillet?). The doctor on duty said she wasn't concerned because it was a small amount, cooked, and diluted. I was relieved but skeptical, and I asked the nurse on the phone what symptoms I should watch for and if there's anything else I should do. I confirmed that the risk is anemia, and she said basically if he's anything but his normal happy cat self to bring him in. So that was late Tuesday night.

Yesterday, I was relieved to see a bright pink tongue in his mouth when he yawned, and I rejoiced every time he jumped on top of the front door or chased his brother. But I read more on the Internet and learned that cooking doesn't reduce the toxicity of onion, that it takes a very small amount to create a toxic effect, and that symptoms may not appear for several days. My anxiety increased with each bit of information I read.

Nada was an active cat from kittenhood. If the top pantry
door is open, he jumps into it; it it's not open, he climbs on
top of the pantry, somehow not knocking off the vases we
store there, and then uses his paw to open the pantry door and
climb in. (A long time ago, we stored treats in that cabinet.

It's too late to induce vomiting, and pointless to take him to the emergency vet if he's not actually symptomatic and might not be. So I'm monitoring him constantly, reassured every time he does something normal and concerned every time I catch any hesitation in his movement. I've made a point of finishing the work that absolutely has to get done this week, so I won't mess up anyone else's schedule if I spend hours at the emergency vet. I've rehearsed what I'd do if he does exhibit symptoms: reserving a Zipcar, popping him in a box with his current favorite fleece, grabbing the things I'd need to take (and yes, I've made a list). I've charged the cellphone to take with me, put my Zipcard in my wallet.

 And then I tried to switch gears and think positively. He's a boy who eats all kinds of things that most cats don't: tomatoes, broccoli, spinach, bread. He has also eaten a large quantity of plastic and rubber bands in his seven years, and though he's sometimes been a bit constipated, he's always come through fine. There was a lot of tomato liquid in the stuff he ate; it's possible there really wasn't much onion in the mix. In an effort to be proactive, I've got a call into our regular naturopathic vet to see if she has any ideas how I might bolster his defenses. I'll feel better when there's something I can do.

He likes to jump on top of the wooden front door, using the
security screen door as a springboard. As long as he's doing
that, I'm pretty sure he's not anemic. And to get him to do that,
all I have to do is to try to shut the front door, or plan to leave
the house, or walk by in a way that makes it look like I might
want to do any of those things. Then he's up in a flash

The last year of Sandy's life, we straddled two worlds: Sandy survives / Sandy dies. We tried to prepare for both, without focusing on the latter. Now I have a taste of that again, though only for a few days, I hope. Nada could be completely fine, or his red blood cells could be under attack even as I write this. I'm ready to jump into action, but trying to go about normal life while we wait to see if any action is necessary. I won't feel confident that he's actually just fine until a week has passed; we're just past 36 hours right now. I think it's going to be a long few days.

Meanwhile, I find it amusing every time he carries around the stuffed red blood cell a friend gave Sandy when she was anemic in the summer of 2010. Both cats move it from room to room. I can always tell that's what they've got because we never removed the heavy cardboard tag that was attached to it. There's a clunking sound that accompanies them, especially when they drag it up the stairs. It pleases me to see Nada with it now; keeping red blood cells handy seems like a good idea.

Marking a year here

It was on September 26 last year that I posted my first entry here. I wasn't sure why I was writing, or if I'd even share the URL with anyone. But I felt compelled to express my pain and what passed for insights. And photos of Sandy.

This was the photo I included in my first post last year. It seemed appropriate
to share it again now. My hat's off to all of you who've been with me this year.

I'd just attended an editors conference, where I'd seen old friends who offered their comfort and support. But I'd also talked with people I didn't know. I startled the woman sitting next to me when she pulled out a book titled something like "How to do the impossible" and I told her that sounded like what I needed. "I'm trying to raise the dead," I said, eagerly. My phrasing was unfortunate; I'm sure she pictured zombies. I explained that Sandy had died and that I was desperate for her return; my neighbor's response was much more understanding then and her eyes resumed their normal size. Unfortunately, her book was about marketing, not at all the kind of impossible I cared about. But I went on to tell her stories about my experiences of widowhood, and she said, "You should be blogging."

Besides, I had this cache of hundreds and hundreds of photos of Sandy that I had to share with those who love her. I thought of the blog as performing two functions: providing an outlet for my angst and offering a picture-a-day calendar. I still sort of think of it that way, though my photo choices have become more strained as the selection dwindles. I try not to duplicate them, but I'm getting to the point that most of the photos I haven't used are just random shots of Sandy posing in the house.

After a year of posting, I don't write here as often. Lest you think it's a sign that I'm healing, I should let you know that it's actually because I know how redundant my entries would be if I posted every day. How many times can I write of wanting her to return, of begging her to come back to me? How many visitation dreams do I need to document publicly? (I had one this morning, the first in many many weeks.) How much can anyone stand to hear about my insecurities or even my gratitude? So I don't write as much, coming to the page when I have something at least moderately new to contribute and leaving it alone when I don't.

I'd thought I might end the blog after a year, put the final touch on this part of the journey, but my frustration at the dearth of resources for widows past the first anniversary has convinced me to see where this goes. It's been 14 months since Sandy died, two months past the point where most of the tales of widowhood end, and I'm still aching for her. Maybe someday it will help some other widow to know that. Or someone who's trying to support her.

The blog has helped me survive the past year, and I appreciate all of you who have been with me so far on this unwanted journey. Thank you for the support you've offered in the comments, and in private email, phone calls, and embraces. Let's see what the coming months bring, shall we?

Counting

Two years ago, Sandy wasn't working because she had metastatic breast cancer, but she felt pretty good after a few months of chemo, so she felt guilty about not working. In fact, she talked a lot about needing to start looking for a job in a few months. I tried to dissuade her at every opportunity, encouraging her instead to pursue other interests. She took a woodworking class that she enjoyed, spent time with friends, started a few home projects.

None of that was enough. It was important to her to contribute to the world, so she sought out volunteer opportunities. ("I'm not working; the least I can do is x," she'd say.) So she was driving over to the East side to phone bank for Suzan DelBene's campaign every week. She beta read stories for friends. And in early September, she called me over to look over her shoulder at her laptop and said, "We should do this." It was the annual cyclist and pedestrian count. We signed up to count people at the corner of Broadway & John (less than a mile from our house) from 4:00 to 6:00 one evening.

We biked there because Sandy's osteoarthritis made walking difficult. We locked up our bikes to the trash bins, pulled out our clipboards, and got our thoughts together. And then Sandy said, "Okay, I'm sitting down." And she eased herself down onto the curb, one leg sticking out into the road. There she stayed for the next two hours, as we traded off, one of us calling out the numbers and the other one entering the tally marks.

I don't have any photos of Sandy that say "counting people,"
so here's a random photo from 2004.

A few times, people stopped to ask if she was okay, if we needed their help. That was sweet, but it took us a few tries to figure out how to graciously thank someone without interrupting our counting flow. Other people just stopped by to ask what we were doing - gathering signatures? Working on the details of some new construction project? (And what a few people didn't say but seemed to be thinking: were we terrorists, somehow staking out the corner for future attacks?) We quickly learned how to say we were counting pedestrians and cyclists for the city. It wasn't strictly accurate, but it was close enough, and it satisfied passersby without causing us to mess up on our numbers.

We were exhausted after two hours. Eyes crossed, mouths dry, limbs stiff (hers from sitting, mine from standing/shifting/leaning on the traffic light pole). We were very satisfied with ourselves, though, as we unlocked our bikes and climbed on for the short uphill ride home. We also agreed that we'd suggest they have three or even four people assigned to that corner next year, because it's far too busy for two people.

I don't even remember seeing the call for volunteers last year, though it must have come to my inbox. This year, I signed up. They had only one slot for the intersection this time, instead of two. The opposite of what we'd recommended. I went for the same corner, but I emailed the coordinator and let her know I planned to have a gang with me. She was thrilled, said I could recruit whomever I wanted. But then the people I asked were all unable to do it or never got back to me, and I tired of asking. So I just decided I'd do it alone, as best I could, and see if I couldn't summon what Sandy and I had brought to the task together.

I arrived a little early so I could mentally rehearse, analyze traffic patterns, figure out how to focus my energy efficiently. I saw one person I knew just before the official start time, so I was able to chat with her. But between 4:00 and 6:00, I was unfortunately pretty rude to the lost and lonely who saw me as a likely chatting partner. A woman with a clipboard on Broadway is usually begging people to stop and talk, trying to get signatures or, more likely, donations for some organization or another. Yet there I was, with my clipboard, actively avoiding conversation. For some people, you could tell it was just too much. One older guy approached and said, "What you doing there, honey?" When I turned my back, straining to count the number of people who'd just headed north on the other side of the intersection (was it 12? 14? and had two of them just peeled off to the west?), he assumed I'd taken offense. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you honey." He'd clearly been schooled before. I hadn't even noticed what he'd said, and now that there was a brief lull in pedestrian traffic, I could half turn toward him, and say, "No, I'm just counting. Can't talk." He wandered away.

I didn't sit on the curb, so no one asked if I was injured. In fact, except for the few people who seemed to be looking for someone to talk to, most people didn't seem to notice I was there at all. The city just went on around me, oblivious to my task, just as the world has gone on, oblivious to my pain. Everything's a metaphor.

The most amusing thing I saw was someone pushing a full-size mattress on its side on a small dolly. I have no idea how far he'd come, but I got the sense he'd been doing it for a while. I laughed and told him he won for the oddest thing I'd seen today; he smiled, shook his head, and said "you do what you've got to do" and off he went, pushing the mattress in front of him. I was glad for him that the rains haven't started yet, and then realized I was lucky, too.

I thought about Sandy a lot, in between frantic counting binges. And though I was both counting and tallying, I said the numbers out loud before I wrote them down. Two west, four south, one east, bike south, three north, four south - oh wait, no three south and one west, bike north, etc. My mouth was just as dry when I finished this year as it had been two years ago, but I didn't mind. Acting out both of our roles kept me from feeling alone or overwhelmed and also helped me focus.

I'm sure I didn't catch every pedestrian, or possibly even every bicycle, but I think I did as well as anyone could have without having more people assigned to watching different directions. And it pleased me to stand on that corner in 2012, half of my mind in 2010, doing exactly the same thing that we had done together two years ago.

Mail call

Three of the four items in the mailbox today were addressed to Sandy. It's unusual that there were so many, but most days, there's something meant for her or for both of us. In some cases, it's my doing; I've continued to make some donations in both of our names and I've intentionally not told some organizations that she died. But most of the mail that comes for her is just a reminder that we cast our nets widely in the world, and unless you're a celebrity, news of your death probably doesn't travel quickly. It's kind of like corrections in the media: far more people see the original story than ever see the revision.

An envelope from Citibank concerned me a little at first. I worried that there was some financial account I didn't know about, that I'd let something fall through the cracks. It looked very official. And it was, as it turned out, but it was just notification that a student loan she cosigned for our nephew, Kyle, was changing hands. No action required.

Sandy lifting Kyle back in April 2003, after hours of
working on clearing out bindweed, blackberries, and ivy.

I thought about calling them to tell them that she died, but decided against it. I don't expect our nephew to default, but if he does run into trouble with the loan, it's our obligation to pitch in. I'd originally intended to cosign with Sandy, but the bank preferred to have just one name. So I've always considered it our obligation, not hers, and any financial responsibilities she had when she died became mine automatically, whether legally required or not. So I'll just let it stay as-is, and that way I'll continue to get any information about the loan and be able to act accordingly if necessary someday.

She received a notice about a class-action suit that had been settled last week. Turns out we weren't the only people who suffered considerable damage from the faulty sunroof drain in a Volkswagen Golf. The notice came to Sandy because at the time we bought the car, I was pouty about owning one at all, so we put only her name on the product registration that we sent to VW. But I'd have claimed the settlement if it applied, anyway. As it turns out, there was nothing for me to claim. The settlement reimbursed owners for repairs done to the vehicle. I didn't repair it; I gave it away. So I had no expenses and have no receipt. Still, it was validating to know that we hadn't just been idiots, that the problem was with the car and not us, for once.

When she received yet another request for donations to the Puget Sound Blood Center last week, I sent a check in her honor and let them know she'd died. I'd long since informed them of her death when they called to ask her to give blood. I didn't understand why they continued to call, anyway, since we'd asked that they stop when she had metastatic cancer. She could no longer give and it was a punch in the gut to her every time they asked her to.

Perhaps the most entertaining bits of mail that come for her are from the Obama campaign. Somehow they've mangled our names. I'm Mr. Brie Gyncild, and she's Ms. Sandy Gyncild. I laugh every time those envelopes arrive. The Romney campaign, on the other hand, sends mail only to me; given my rather vocal political leanings, I find those just as amusing.

Fever

I was feeling fine yesterday morning, and then suddenly at 11:30, I wasn't. At first I thought I was just stiff from sitting and working, but then I realized that my entire body hurt. A minute later, it dawned on me that I had a mild fever, just as the chills started.

Sandy had fevers frequently in 2010 and 2011, but she didn't recognize them until they'd already been affecting her for a while. In fact, in early 2011, it was so common for her to have an unidentified fever that whenever she got cranky or irritable, restless or despairing, I'd ask if she had one. Nine times out of ten, the answer was yes. She'd take ibuprofen and pretty soon she'd feel fine.

The fevers and other cancer symptoms had abated in time for
us to attend festivities with the family in July 2010.

The fevers in spring 2010 were mysterious. They mostly occurred late in the evening, and we wondered whether she had some sort of infection. But because they were gone in the morning, we coaxed ourselves into not worrying too much about them. It was those fevers that made me hopeful that the metastases that showed up in scans in May 2010 were actually tuberculosis. I didn't know then that unexplained recurrent fever can be a cancer symptom. The fevers stopped once she was on treatment and the cancer's growth was halted.

So perhaps we should have been more alarmed when fevers became common for her in very early 2011. We were concerned, certainly, and weren't sure whether to treat them or to let them run their course and conquer whatever her immune system was battling. Her naturopath and oncologist both told us the fevers were probably a response to chemo, and she should go ahead and take ibuprofen to feel better.

Now I believe those fevers were actually her body's response to the stealthy spread of the cancer into her spinal column. That realization keeps me from thinking that we might have avoided her death if we'd gone with brain radiation in April instead of June, or if we hadn't stopped the chemo and Avastin at the end of March. The cancer was already spreading by January and February; we just didn't have an MRI of her spine to make that obvious.

So I look at fevers differently now. I used to think of them as friendly indicators of an alert immune system. Many times, I've had an unexplained fever for a few hours, and after a good night's sleep, all is fine. I've hesitated to take anything to reduce the fever because I've trusted my immune system to know when it needs to smoke out an intruder. But now unexplained fevers seem ominous.

I didn't think this meant cancer. Those fevers would be recurrent, and this was, so far, a single event. But not knowing what it was about - and having it arrive so suddenly when I'd been feeling fine - was disturbing. Also, chills and body aches tend to make me a little less rational anyway. So I noted that my sinuses had been problematic (but also that this didn't seem to be a sinus infection, and I'm very familiar with those), and noted some pain in my gut that could mean inflammation or something, and worried about internal wounds that could be killing me. I also knew that it was probably a transient virus that tried to take up residence and was being expelled by my body.

Just in case, I called a close local friend so that someone would know to check on me. I was acutely aware that my own personal nurse is no longer in the house. It occurred to me that I've never called 911 for my own medical emergencies, only for Sandy's, and only when she was incapacitated. I started to dwell on the idea that I could have a seizure or a stroke or something far worse, and no human would be here to get me help. I started feeling pretty darn alone in the world.

And then my friend brought me groceries I'd requested to help me treat my gut tenderly, in case it was the problem. And I did take a regular-strength Tylenol just before bed so that the body aches wouldn't keep me from sleeping. This morning, I woke up with a temperature of 98.6, no body aches, and a remarkably more positive outlook. The worst symptoms I've had today were fatigue and lightheadedness, both resolved with the introduction of calories, especially protein and electrolytes. Whatever this was appears to have passed. I'm still wary, but I'm feeling pretty good.

So this was apparently a benign, potentially beneficial fever. It's still hard not to second-guess such things, when I know that our assumptions were so wrong before.

Daily reminders

As I made my dinner last night, I realized how many reminders of Sandy populate the ordinary moments of my day. In the meal preparation, I used the cast-iron skillet I bought her for her 50th birthday in 2010, and then I drained pasta in the colander she bought me for my birthday a decade or so ago, and then I ate the meal from a bowl she bought me for my birthday a different year. I drank water from one of the case of glasses she bought at a restaurant-supply place to indulge my preference for American pint beer glasses.

Here she was on her 50th birthday, the day I gave her the cast-iron
skillet and a bunch of other things. That skillet was a big deal, both
because she wanted it and because I walked up a steep hill (Denny)
carrying the heavy thing in my backpack. Talk about love!

 

I took my dinner into the living room, where I curled up on the blue leather sofa that was the culmination of a search that consumed our energy for many months a very long time ago. I caught up on slog, the blog of our local alternative newspaper, The Stranger, a blog Sandy and I both read regularly. (Often, conversations would begin with one of us saying, "Hey did you read slog today? Did you see. . .") When I got chilly, I tucked my bare feet under the blanket Sandy's sister, Mindy, made for her in 2010, a huge comfort for Sandy as she miserably hung out on the sofa during the early days of cancer treatment.

I watched a couple of episodes of "The Office" on DVD on my laptop, and was all too aware that Sandy hadn't cared for the show. But, as I said aloud, if she came back, she could decide what got played; if she insisted on staying dead, I got to watch whatever I wanted.

When I finally crawled into bed, I pulled the quilt over me, a quilt that was yet another birthday present from her. (You'd think all we did was have birthdays!) As I read, Nada kneaded one of Sandy's fleecy jackets that I keep on the bed to keep Nada's claws off of my flesh. And pictures of us together looked down on me from the wall over the dresser. (Sometimes, I lie in bed and just name the places and times each of those photos were taken, spending a minute or so with each one, soaking up the memory of sitting on the base of the Campanile in Venice, getting trapped in a fort during a flash flood in Corfu, attending the Adobe holiday party, biking in West Seattle, etc. I can be there with her, and I'm younger and more hopeful, happy, for a few minutes.)

It's not just the objects that remind me of Sandy, of course. Songs, news stories, smells, places, people, even the very air bring her to mind. And that is such a blessing.

When she was dying, I knew that I'd be surrounded by reminders of her every day, and I thought that would be too painful to bear. And then it occurred to me what a gift it was, that I'd be able to remember her and us and our life together because of all those reminders. I told her that, a few days before she died, at a time that she was unresponsive. I said, "Your presence will make up for your absence."

I do believe she interpreted that to mean that she'd actually be present, and was expected to be. She certainly has been, anyway. But my intended meaning was accurate, too. Each memory of her keeps her closer and reassures me that I am loved.

Forgiveness

A friend shared a blog post from the New York Times with me today, titled "The Widow's Doctor Visit." I found it thought-provoking, primarily because the doctor who penned it spoke about the need for forgiveness when a cancer patient dies. Spouses and children require forgiveness, and, he says at the end of the piece, perhaps he does, too.

It's refreshing to see the humanity and connection in an oncologist. They're not known for emotional accessibility, presumably due to the nature of their work. Sandy and I found the oncologists we worked with -- both at Group Health and when we met with doctors for second opinions -- to be distant, falsely cheerful sometimes and other times simply disconnected. We noticed it a little bit during her initial cancer treatment in 2006 and 2007, but it was much more obvious after she had metastatic cancer. They know it's a death sentence; they've seen every other patient with metatstatic disease die. I'd probably make an effort not to get too attached, too emotionally involved, as well. And Sandy and I were optimistic in a way that they would certainly have seen as unrealistic and probably unnerving. Nurses, on the other hand, were easy to bond with, perhaps because they aren't the ones who have to deliver the bad news, nor the ones making the treatment decisions or recommendations that will ultimately prove futile.

But the bit that got me thinking was about the idea of forgiveness. I'd already been chewing on it, recognizing regrets about ancient arguments or times I disappointed Sandy. And of course I felt responsible for her illness and her death. (I say "of course," though it hadn't occurred to her. We attended a lecture at Gilda's Club about how to keep a relationship strong while dealing with cancer. One of the things the presenter mentioned was that partners of cancer patients feel responsible, because it's their job to take care of their spouses. Sandy scribbled a note to me: "Do you feel that way?" I wrote back "Of course." She was shocked; I was surprised she hadn't known that. I feel responsible for everything; why wouldn't I feel responsible for her health?)

I knew that I carried guilt about Sandy's illness, but was surprised in her last days and after she died to learn that many others did, too. So many people have confessed to me that they should have done something or other, implying that had they done it, she'd have lived. Or they've shared with me how guilty they felt about not being there for her at some point or not doing more for her or any number of things.

This is one of the photos we took to document her weight loss
each month when she was in the 20/20 program. I'm drawn
to the photo today because this is the shirt I pulled from the
drawer this morning and wore much of the day. It's a cozy, comfy,
well-worn shirt, good for when I need to be gentle with myself.

Life is a balancing act, with relationships in flux. The people we care about compete with all the other people and commitments and stresses in our lives; we accidentally hurt or neglect people we love all the time, and if we're lucky, we're able to make it up to them. Death puts a halt to that process, and I've discovered that even though I had the opportunity to apologize to Sandy and to make things right, even though our relationship was strong and she knew how much I loved her as she died, old wrongs haunt me. Arguments that were once resolved echo in my head and I flinch again at the pain I caused her. When I'm insecure about anything else, times I failed Sandy come knocking on my psyche, reminders that I am deeply flawed and that I can't do a thing about those missteps anymore.

And so I've come to realize that much of the journey of grief is about the path to forgiveness. Forgiving ourselves, forgiving the person who died, forgiving the universe for the injustice of it all. I've never been very good at accepting injustice and I've not had much success forgiving myself. So this journey is a challenging one for me. I want Sandy back for so many reasons and in so many ways, but honestly, the thing I fantasize about the most is being able to make up for every time I hurt her.

Since I read the blog post this morning, the concept of forgiveness has appeared in Facebook entries I read from random friends, bits I heard on the radio, conversations I had with people about completely different things. Forgiveness is apparently the word of the day, the lesson I'm supposed to learn right now. It's going to take some practice, but I've long since forgiven Sandy for every time she hurt me, so maybe it's possible for me to turn that forgiveness around and share a little of it with myself.

Enjoying her influence

I woke up this morning positively aching for Sandy. My dreams weren't particularly meaningful, and they didn't seem to have anything to do with her, but my first thoughts were of longing. Not just for Sandy in the present, but for us in the past. For us and the Timberline, the LGBT country-music bar we frequented for line dancing and swing dancing before Sandy even knew we were dating. I longed for the sense of possibility, the anticipation and uncertainty of discovering a connection.

It was a welcoming, energetic space, but once we'd acknowledged our feelings for each other, we no longer needed the excuse of the weekly dance lessons. The Timberline closed several years ago, and we'd stopped going long before that. This morning, though, I wanted desperately to be back there with her, with our whole future ahead of us.

I suspect my longing had to do with the air, the smell and feel of fall approaching. We had a last spell of heat, highs in the high 80s, and then yesterday afternoon, the wind changed. The blue sky was muted with clouds, and the breeze became more dramatic, more blustery, pulling a new season with it. The night was still relatively warm -- with the window open, I needed just a sheet -- but the air this morning tasted like fall.

And fall is a time of coziness, of nesting, of settling in and cuddling up. I assume the Timberline memories came along with the smell of fall because it was in the fall of 1995 that Sandy and I worked on swing dancing together; her co-workers nicknamed me Wednesday Girl for the night of the week we saw each other. It was my first fall in the house, which I'd just bought, and I had no idea how to prepare it for the winter. (I know now, but much of what I know to do I still don't quite get to.)

I worried that starting my morning with longing would lead to despair as the day progressed, but I've experienced quite the opposite effect. The longing has remained, a sweet reminder of what I had and appreciated. But it's been embellished by all the ways the day has unfolded to remind me of how much Sandy gave me, how much she influenced who I am and how I spend my time.

I worked on the book this afternoon, having neglected it much of last week due to technical and other issues. Working on the current chapter meant using Sandy's laptop, as that's where the beta software I'm writing about is installed. And I needed to take some screenshots, which meant setting things up, changing the background to a neutral color, etc. In rearranging things on the desktop, I noticed a file whose name I didn't understand, so clicked it. It was a story Sandy read a few months before she died, and today I read it too; it was an intensely sweet story that left me wistful even while I felt gratitude that she'd shared it with me, however unintentionally, leaving it on her desktop where I'd stumble across it one day.

Later, I cut browning crocosmia leaves from the bed they share with the base of the honeysuckle, and I chopped them into the compost bin. Sandy planted the crocosmia (there and everywhere else it's grown to overwhelm various beds), and she built the compost bin. She was a dedicated composter, upset if I put "good" stuff -- that is, noninvasive material -- into the yard waste bin for the city. When she was healthy, and even in the summer of 2010 when she was on chemo, she created a steady supply of compost for us to use in cultivating and planting the garden beds. I've not been as dedicated since she died; the city's gotten plenty of "good stuff" because I've not had the energy to maintain her pace. So when I do spend some time chopping and stirring and shoveling compost, I feel close to her., like I'm pleasing her as well as myself.

The forecast for more fall-like weather prompted me to plan to make a casserole today. The recipe was called Baked Orzo with Eggplant and Mozzarella, and it turned out to be the perfect recipe for the day. (Pretty much anything with pasta, eggplant, and mozzarella is going to be comfort food.) I've made casseroles on my own plenty of times, but this one came from Smitten Kitchen, a food blog Sandy adored. When I finally gave in and set up an RSS feed earlier this week (knowing full well that it could spell the end of my career, further temptation to stray from my appointed tasks), Google Reader recommended several sites to me, and every last one of them was a site Sandy had read regularly. I even checked to make sure I was logged in as myself and not her. I don't know how Google Reader makes its recommendations; I'd only been to the sites it recommended once or twice and it didn't recommend any that I visit frequently. It felt like Sandy talking to me, once again, and I quickly accepted the recommendations. Which also meant I started reading Smitten Kitchen, and it truly is a lovely blog. This orzo recipe was the most recent, so tonight's dinner was courtesy of Sandy.

It was when I was with friends at one of Sandy's performances
with the Seattle Women's Chorus that I realized how sad it was
that I didn't know how to play any musical instrument. Shortly
after that, we rented a piano and I began, slowly, to learn. I
always thought Sandy an accomplished pianist, but a couple
of years ago, she told me she'd only had a few years of lessons.
She claimed she was only a little further ahead of my current
level, but because she could sight-read, she was much more
skilled and polished. It was always a joy to hear her play.

While the food baked, I cleaned the kitchen and then played the piano for 20 minutes. Another piece of Sandy. She's the reason I started learning, and we used to play for each other while we cooked dinner. She, especially, played frequently while I made dinner in the last year of her life. We'd start cooking together and she'd become restless and irritable, in too much pain to continue standing but not sure what she wanted to do. I often suggested she play for me, and she'd happily sit down and serenade me, usually just with the piano music but sometimes she'd sing as well. It was lovely to have the accompaniment while I cooked, but it was even better to have her happy, focused, and no longer frustrated from pain and fatigue.

As I ate dinner, I watched the new Doctor Who episode. I'd seen (and mocked) plenty of ancient Doctor Who when I was in college, but I wasn't watching TV at all when Sandy and I got together. She introduced me to shows I've enjoyed very much over the years, and when the new Doctor Who series started six or seven years ago, we fell for it together. It's possible I'd be watching it even if Sandy had never been in my life, but I associate it strongly with her, and I enjoy it all the more because I know she'd enjoy it too.

All in all, it's been a satisfying day. I've felt a sense of longing all day, yes, but not painful longing. More an amplification of the melancholy and nostalgia I always feel when the fall winds start blowing and we begin to anticipate the rain's return. There's much I want to get done before the rain starts in earnest in a few weeks, but right now, tonight, I'm content to stay in the present and appreciate the past.

Shfiting the burden

It's a rare morning that I don't remember at least one, and usually two or three, dreams from the night before. Sometimes they're reflections of odd things that happened during the day or things I know I've been stressing about. But often they're opportunities for my subconscious wisdom to break through the barriers I erect in my waking hours and give me some much-needed guidance. I treasure my dreams, and am grateful that they stick around after I greet the day.

Though Sandy carried many heavy and awkward
loads for me through the years, I apparently
never took a photo of her doing it. But I have
plenty of pictures of her being strong, and
working on finding her balance.

One of those guidance dreams came a couple of days ago. In the dream, I was with a group of people getting ready to attend some sort of event. We needed to take our tables with us. They were desk-size white-topped folding tables. Like the others, I folded mine, and began to carry it. It was tremendously awkward. I held the table top parallel to my body, clutching its edges. It was in my way as I walked; the weight of the table pulled me down; and I feared losing my grip. I wasn't sure how I was going to get the thing all the way to the event.

And then I watched another person carrying his table with ease. He'd turned it on its side. I tried that, and found that there was actually a protrusion that could serve as a handle. I lifted the table with my left hand, marveling at how light it seemed now. I credited the change in position, but was also aware that I wouldn't have been able to carry it with just one hand had I not been developing strength in my arms.

The dream devolved from there. We reached the event hall, which was full of middle school students yelling and screaming. I woke from the dream to the sounds of middle school students yelling and screaming as their parents dropped them off across the street for the first day of school. So that part of the dream was just an intrusion from the waking world.

What remained with me was this notion of carrying a weight differently, finding a handle, and counting on my strength. I've been playing with that idea since. I don't want to lay down the burden of my grief -- and especially not my memories -- but if I can carry them in a way that is less draining, less worrisome, and less painful? That would be amazing. So I'm open to finding a way to take advantage of my strength -- emotional rather than physical in this case -- as I somehow shift the burden.

Lessons to learn

My hormones have finally stabilized, and I had three lovely days in a row without obligations. I haven't left home since I bought groceries on Friday, instead puttering and gardening and catching up on things undone. Clearing space in the house, the garden, and my mind. So I'm feeling more open to the world and to ideas.

If there really are spirit teams, I think there'd have to be far more
than 25 on my team. The author says there are other tiers of spirits
involved, with different levels of importance, so maybe it would
work. But it would really be hard to limit the number of people who
have had a profound effect on me (positive or negative) to
about 25. I'd say more like 60 or so; same for Sandy.

I read more of Spirited last night. The author avers that we are each part of "spirit teams," groups of spirits that reincarnate together, helping each other learn lessons and meet the goals we have for that lifetime. She says this same group of 20-25 spirits stays together through multiple lives, performing different roles (sister, lover, friend, grandfather) in different lives.

I've never heard such a theory before; she says spirits have explained it all to her. It's a challenging concept to me, but not offensive. It's actually reassuring to imagine that these people who are and have been close to me in this life will be with me in future lives.

It's the extension of this idea that offends. She talks about lessons we need to learn in order to move to higher levels, similar to Buddhist beliefs, as I understand them. And - here's the part I reject - that everything happens for a reason in order for us to learn those lessons.

I can't abide by the idea that everything happens for a reason, especially if one person's suffering is for the benefit of another person's development. Nope. Not okay.

I put the book down and wandered back to the idea that we plan our lives before we enter them, deciding what we want to learn, and then work with the others in a team to help us get there. She says we still have free will, so it's not quite as creepy as it sounds. And if anyone has planned my life in advance, I'd like to believe it was me. So I'm happy to play around with these ideas a little bit, open to the possibilities if not actually believing them.

So, what was Sandy meant to learn this go-round? If I'd been planning for her to learn something, it would be to let herself be known and accept the love that others give. And for her to learn to love herself. She struggled with those issues most of her life. But at the very end, I think she might have gotten it. It pleases me to think that she finished the test, achieving high marks, just as the timer buzzed.

And me? What lessons am I supposed to be learning? It's easier to analyze others, so I have to step back a little bit to be honest with myself. The lessons I need to learn in this life are probably the things I run from the hardest: letting go of my need to control the events of my life; recognizing that my inherent self-worth is unrelated to tasks I accomplish or wrongs I right; relaxing my vigilance.

Whether there's truth to the book's assertions or not, there's value in considering which lessons we each might be destined to learn, how the universe might be providing opportunities we're ignoring, and how to get to those insights more gracefully. I'll leave the other ideas for later scrutiny. See, I'm already learning to let go!

Muscles

Every other day, I do my pushups, the regimen I started after Sandy started pressuring me in late 2009 or early 2010. I started doing pushups on the fifth stair, gradually increasing the number I did in each set and the difficulty of the pushup itself. Shortly before she died, I'd advanced to full pushups on the floor.

The regular pushups benefit me in numerous ways, of course. But mainly I do them out of a commitment to Sandy. She wanted me to be strong. She wanted me to explore the possibilities of my post-valve-replacement body. And she wanted someone to share progress with as she did hers. In the six months or so preceding her death, I continued every other day, but she often missed hers. And then, when she did them, the chemo fatigue (and, as we later realized, the cancer's spread) pushed her backwards, so that she couldn't do as many as before, and she needed to do them on the stairs again instead of the floor. I was proud of her for taking care of herself, both in attempting them and in being gentler with herself than she might have been.

When Sandy was about to stop seeing her personal
trainer, she asked for photos of herself on all of the
equipment, so she'd remember what she did and how
to do it correctly. All of those photos, taken in
December 2004,  are fabulous. This one caught my eye
because she named it "Hey, actual muscles!" She was
two months older than I am now when this was taken,
and her muscles were much more sculpted than mine are.

For so many years, I counted on Sandy to be my packhorse, hauling bags of compost effortlessly across the yard, lifting our heavy bikes onto the bus rack, or even pulling the two-person kayak along as she rowed while I surreptitiously rested my arms behind her. (That last one may not have been about my lack of muscle strength as much as it was about my desire to just sit and enjoy the water.)

A fresh new valve changed the dynamics of bloodflow in my body, and I was told I had no limits. But I was scared to push my upper body. In the past, I'd felt something in my chest pinch when I even attempted plank pose in yoga. I'd had trouble lifting weights as far back as high school, as my lip curled involuntarily and I felt my chest squeeze. The accumulated experiences of pain and discomfort from upper-body exertion had left quite a mark on my psyche.

I resisted Sandy's efforts to get me to start pushing myself. But, as if often the case, my initial refusal melted when I had a little time to consider it and actually become curious. So, when she was out of the house, I tried a few on the fifth stair. They were challenging, but I didn't faint or feel discomfort or even feel my lip curl.

We didn't know she was preparing me to be my own packhorse, but my new arm strength came in handy as hers wavered. And now, well, I'm the one who has to haul compost bags or lift the bike or row the kayak, because her arms aren't here for me anymore.

I used to quiz her on the location of our financial records, coach her on the bills I paid, show her where our important documents were kept. Taking care of such things was in my realm of household tasks, but I wanted to make sure she'd be able to manage her affairs if I died. I don't think either of us had any idea that she was coaching me for survival, too.

I've added other exercises between the sets of pushups. I do sit-ups and leg lifts, and I've just started using weights to strengthen my triceps. I'm developing some attractive muscles, and sometimes I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, flexing for my own admiration. Sandy would be impressed if she were alive, and she probably is impressed. Proud of me. Proud of herself for providing the encouragement and inspiration.

As I get stronger, I also have no illusions that this is a longterm development. It's possible I'll be able to continue exercising at this rate for years to come. But injury or illness could strike at any time. At my age, Sandy was amazingly fit, very strong, and very active. We thought she'd arrived. But she was only able to enjoy that level of fitness for a couple of years before cancer stole it from her.

I expect to become disabled or incapacitated in some way at some point in the future, and I think of the strength I'm building now as a reservoir I'll be able to draw from then. My leg strength and overall fitness certainly helped me recover well from open-heart surgery. So every bit of muscle I bank now is a bit I can draw on later if I need to. But mainly I just want to make Sandy proud.