Force of nature

The hurricane that hit the Eastern seaboard yesterday has left a trail of damage in its wake, disrupting and sometimes claiming lives. As with others throughout the country and the world, my thoughts are with those who are suffering and who face long clean-up efforts ahead. But I am three thousand miles away, not personally affected by the storm,

I told her I needed an appropriate photo, and several pictures
of her or us with serene water appeared in the screensaver
slideshow on my laptop -- all okay, if the goal was to say that
she's nothing like a hurricane. But then this one came up:
Sandy yanking a dead tree out of the ground. Perfect!

Still, the whole thing has been a little surreal for me. It was Hurricane Sandy, so news reports just refer to the storm as "Sandy," in phrases like "preparing for Sandy," "when Sandy arrives," "damage Sandy left," and even "Sandy's angry."

Sandy was a force of nature, but not so much in the way that a hurricane is. I want nothing more than for her to return to earth, but not in a way that kills people and animals and destroys homes, livelihoods, and ecosystems. And while at first it was kind of a thrill to hear her name on the radio, when the storm was still days away and its effect uncertain, I'm looking forward now to having Sandy discussed in gentler, friendlier contexts again.

Memories as enrichment

I've been reading a book called Staying Connected: How to Continue Your Relationships with Those Who Have Died. It's a collection of speeches given by Rudolf Steiner just about a hundred years ago, most of them dated 1914 and 1915.

Rudolf Steiner was a big deal in the spiritualist movements at the time. He founded the (still-existing) General Anthroposophical Society, "an association of people whose will it is to nurture the life of the soul, both in the individual and in human society, on the basis of a true knowledge of the spiritual world." He was also the founder of Waldorf Schools. And he had a bit of an ego, judging from the tone of his writings.

I've read a lot of books about dying, death, and life after death in the fifteen months since Sandy died. I want to know what she's experiencing, and to understand my own experiences. Some of this is just that I want to not feel crazy. But more, I've realized just how little I know about the biggest questions in life, and I'm hungry for as much information as I can glean. So I read it all, embracing the bits that feel like they fit what I've personally seen so far, and always skeptical of anyone who claims to know exactly what happens and how the afterlife is organized.

I'm reading Steiner with several grains of salt. He's way too sure of himself, without offering any indication of how he came to his enlightenment. But there are some ideas that please me, whether they're true or not.

She wanted to be remembered. And I can't help thinking about
her, even if I wanted to. So how great would it be if my
memories and those of others who love her bring beauty, too?

In particular, he talks about the effect of our memories on the dead. He compares it to art and beauty in our own physical world. We don't need art and beauty to survive, but they enhance our lives and give them additional meaning. Likewise, he says that those who are between death and rebirth do not require our memories to survive, but when we remember them, we add beauty to their existence.

I have no way of knowing whether Steiner's assertion is accurate. But I love the idea that our memories of those we've loved and lost not only bring us joy and comfort, but also enrich the experience of those we're remembering. I'm a sucker for a win/win scenario, and this is a sweet one. 

Rain!

It's been dry here, unusually dry. We don't expect to get much rain in the Pacific Northwest between the 4th of July and the end of September, but this year was extreme. We had the driest August-September of the 65 years since they started tracking it, and the second-driest July-September. And it didn't end there. Our fall rains didn't begin until this last Friday, October 12.

It was such a relief to see darkened sidewalks when I got up Friday morning, even though no more rain fell that day until about 8:00 in the evening. It didn't matter that it wasn't raining at the moment; the air was warm and moist and welcoming, balmy.

Grief has made me irritable, but some of that was eased when the rains began, and especially as they've continued through the weekend. It feels like a homecoming, a reassurance that the world is still familiar.

Sandy was a Western Washington girl born and bred, and
she'd have been frustrated by the endless dry weather,
rejoicing at the rain's return with me this weekend.

I wasn't the only one irritable, either. Turns out there's a version of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) that occurs when there's too much sun. We know a lot about the winter SAD up here; many people have lights to help their moods when our days grow short and sometimes never get light. But we don't usually have to worry about too much sun and dryness.

It's even more reassuring that it's Seattle rain that has returned. It rained much of the afternoon today, and it sounded quite heavy within the house. But when I went outside to feed Cubbie, I wandered the yard for several minutes looking for him (never found him, unfortunately) and talked with Sadie, another stray, who was nesting in a dry corner of the compost bin. There were drops of water on my clothing, but I wasn't exactly wet, and within ten minutes of being inside, I was completely dry. That's just how our rain is supposed to be, a pleasant backdrop to our lives but not an impediment. (There was thunder this afternoon, which is unusual, but it just sounded like an enthusiastic celebration of the rain's return.)

Somehow, Sandy's absence hurts less now that the air is friendly and damp again. The shortening days are less lonely with the nourishing pitter-patter on the windows. It feels much more natural to have trees losing their leaves; when they were falling dry, it felt like they were dying, but now leaves on the ground are part of the seasonal cycles. Despair recedes; nestiness and the desire to cook and bake and read all rise to the surface. It's a very good thing.

Cold and flu season

All last week, I felt run down, exhausted. I had obligations away from home every day, which is unusual for me, and the nights have gotten chillier, and I was stressed about Nada's potential anemia and the work I'm doing for the campaign and the work I'm doing for pay and several other things. So I thought I really just didn't have the energy to do it all.

I was so tired that I lay down in the middle of the day, reading or napping, in order to have the energy to get back up and do a fraction of what I'd planned each day. That wasn't promising; I couldn't see how I'd possibly accomplish everything if that was my new normal. I feared that my lack of energy was permanent, a physical response to psychological pain.

On Thursday, a cold or flu -- I'm still not sure which -- swooped in and hit me hard. My first reaction was relief. Illness meant recovery, which in turn meant I would again have energy some day. Hallelujah.

Bet you anything I made that cup of tea for her. Roo would
sit quietly next to Sandy until her guard was down, and then
she'd stealthily work her way between Sandy and whatever
she was reading, wanting to be on her chest. In this photo,
she's clearly getting ready to make her move!

Misery quickly replaced relief, and self-pity crowded in there, too. I hadn't been planning to get sick, and wasn't set up for it. I had expected to buy groceries on Friday, but didn't feel up to leaving the house. I was out of kitty litter. I ran out of my slippery elm tablets on Thursday and nearly exhausted the single bag of Ricola's that was in the house. Every time I wanted a cup of tea, I had to wait for the water to boil, and then wait for the tea to steep, all the while shivering and sneezing and wishing I were back under a blanket.

I really wanted Sandy.

At the same time, I was glad that I wasn't disturbing her as I sputtered my way through Thursday night, achieving only a couple of hours of sleep. Friday night was better -- not great, but better -- but then by Saturday night, the coughing had set in and I slept only a few hours again.

I was glad that I didn't have to worry about passing my illness to Sandy. Typically, one of us would get sick and the other would go stock up on the necessary supplies, taking care of the first one until we were both ill. There'd be a short period of overlap, but then the first one would be well enough to take care of the second. A couple of times, we did that multiple times, passing the same germs back and forth.

We were very careful when she had metastatic breast cancer, alert to the risk of illness. And both of us were on supplements and diets to boost our immune systems. From the time we learned of the cancer to the moment she died, neither of us had a cold or flu. I've had a few in the fourteen and a half months since then. I have the same diet, same supplements, that I had before - but grief is hard on a body and I'm not nearly as motivated to stay well, apparently.

At the moment, I'm underslept, but my energy started to return in earnest today. I got some work done. I showered and dressed in fresh clothes for the first time since Thursday, and thus began to feel more human. Walked to the library to return books that were due, to the pet store for kitty litter and food, to the co-op for groceries and lozenges and healing teas. I carried cough drops and tissues and a water bottle with me on my outings, but managed to walk a few miles, converse with several people, and carry reasonably heavy loads without a single cough or sneeze or nose-blow. That's a good sign, I think.

I'm tired now. My head has felt heavy for the last hour, and I'm savoring that feeling, hoping it translates to good sleep tonight.

And I still really want Sandy.

Fourteen and a half months

Sandy has now been dead as long as she lived with the knowledge (or even the suspicion) that she had metastatic breast cancer.

At about 10:00 the evening of May 6, 2010, we listened to a phone message about the chest X-ray she'd had earlier that day, which showed areas of concern in her lungs. I remember that life-changing moment vividly. The fourteen and a half months that followed are much sharper in my memory than most of my life before them.

I strongly associate walking sticks with Sandy, and it's weird
to realize she used them less than a year. Less than the time
she's now been dead. (She never has them in my dreams.)

During that period, my senses were heightened: I was afraid much of the time. I was relieved whenever we received good news, distraught when we received bad. I was deeply grateful for every moment I spent with Sandy and especially for every moment that she felt good enough to embrace life. I was focused on her wellbeing, and on finding us a path to wellness. Though the time was much too short, my memories from that span are rich and the time seems long.

In contrast, the year-plus since she died is but a blurry blip. Each day stretches endlessly, yet I never seem to make any progress on my goals. Though the hours plod mercilessly, the weeks and months fly by, without much to mark them. My senses are dulled.

Time feels warped, as do my memories. Contributing to my odd state is the frequent sense that Sandy is here. Even when I don't have visitation dreams, she's often in my regular dreams, with us just being ourselves together. I need that; I feel more grounded by it. But it also makes her death even harder to reconcile.

Someone wrote in a tribute after Sandy died that she had had a "long battle" with cancer, and I thought at the time that it wasn't long, that it had been far too short. Now that she's been dead for as long as that battle took place, I'm even more certain that it wasn't long at all.

Nada update: This is day 6, and he's still energetic and obnoxious, so I think the emergency vet was right and he's going to be fine. Thank you to those who extended support!