Time just keeps passing

The days march on, relentlessly. Though milestones related to Sandy's death are less frequent, it's a rare hour that I don't think about her, talk to her, or realize once again how bizarre it is that she's been dead for so many months.

An hour ago, I was spinning on the bike on the trainer in the living room, watching a video streaming on my laptop. I had trouble hearing it over the loud trainer, and remembered that Sandy frequently connected her laptop or iPod to the stereo, amplifying the sound. I fumbled around in the tangle of cords behind the stereo, looking for the one that would plug into my laptop. Frustrated at one point, I thought I'd just have to wait until she got home, and then remembered she can't walk me through such tasks anymore. A few minutes later, I wondered whether she'd removed the cord for some reason, and then realized I've used it since her death. Eventually, I figured it out, but only after a considerable amount of confusion — more about her not being here than about finding the cord itself.

I stared at bookcases in the bedroom this morning, recognizing that many things in the house remain untouched, unmoved, since Sandy died. I criticized myself for getting "stuck," for keeping things in place for sentimental reasons — and just as quickly decided the criticism wasn't valid: most of the things that haven't moved since Sandy died had been in the same place for the decade before her death. (How often do you rearrange your bookshelves, after all?)

I visited a dear friend in Portland for a couple of days this week, testing my ability to spend the night away from home. It wasn't as painful as I expected it to be. In fact, the hardest part was that I wanted to call Sandy to let her know my train had arrived safely, to tell her about a meal we ate, to check in. The last time I'd been in Portland was in June 2010, the weekend before Sandy started radiation. That weekend was my college reunion, full of activity, but I'd talked to Sandy several times on the phone and exchanged multiple emails with her during the 48 hours I was away. This time, I felt a pang every time I reached for the phone and realized she wouldn't be there to answer if I called.

I started knitting again in Portland, the first time since Sandy
died. I'd been making her a pair of gloves, and I didn't have
the heart to continue the project without her. But I'm nearly
done with them now, and I'll wear them, thinking of her.
Here she was several years ago, modeling the neck
warmer I knitted for her at her request.

Over all, though, the experience was encouraging. I think I should be able to visit family and friends or even have a weekend away by myself without suffering from a complete breakdown. That's good. I want Sandy and my memories of her to remain a strong presence in my life, but I don't want that life to be small or defined by fear.

A year ago I was dreading flipping the advent of 2012. I couldn't fathom entering a year that Sandy had never known, especially one that had been so much in our consciousness because of the presidential election. But that year is almost past now, a whole calendar without her. 2013 isn't quite as hard to imagine. We never talked about 2013; we'd stopped planning that far ahead. So at this point, I don't know that the year matters that much. A year without Sandy is a year without Sandy; we've come far enough that it's easier to let the days pile up on each other without cursing each one. Perhaps that in itself is a notable milestone.