Eighteen months

I was disoriented when I woke yesterday morning. I'd slept well and felt okay, but it took me several minutes to figure out that it was Friday. As the day progressed, I tried to write the date incorrectly multiple times, had difficulty holding the 18th in my head. I also became agitated. I assumed I'd picked that up from my mother, as she was understandably frustrated by her lack of independence as she recovers from hip replacement surgery.

As planned, I went out with friends for dinner and a local production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch (good but a bit loud). I enjoyed spending time with my friends, and I enjoyed the musical. However, I increasingly felt a sharp longing for Sandy, and by the time I got home I felt empty and lost, sinking into self-pity.

Unable to face the prospect of the empty bed, I self-medicated with potato chips, a few TV comedies, and a mind-numbing game on my iPad. Hours passed before I forced myself to turn out the lights and climb the stairs. It was quite late, but I picked up a book to read before succombing to the night.

After I'd read for a while, I felt my agitation ease, and was encouraged by my spontaneous yawns. I knew I'd be able to sleep now, that whatever I'd been waiting for had passed.

I looked at the clock: 1:35 a.m. And that's when the date registered. Though my conscious mind had hidden the significance of the date (actively avoiding it, even), my subconscious committed to the vigil. I couldn't sleep until the hour of Sandy's death had passed. By the time I finished reading the short story and looked at the clock, we were 15 minutes past the moment that her heart stopped beating exactly eighteen months before.

I haven't looked back to see how I've done on the 18th of recent months, but I suspect those are the nights that my plans to get to bed at a decent hour go most awry. It's a strange thing, waiting for Sandy to die, metaphorically standing watch, when there is even less now for me to do about it than there was the night she actually died. I can't keep it from happening, can no longer hope to ease her passage, can't even prepare myself for the awful reality of widowhood. But I wait, all the same, until the moment has passed and I can rest.

And I did rest. I slept well and deeply, awake every couple of hours but quickly asleep again, and I woke contented with both cats snuggled in tightly against me, seeking body heat on a cold and foggy morning. I'm sad today, resigned, but not agitated. Today is just another day without her.

Laying claim

Gradually, my approach to the house, the garden, and possessions has been changing. After Sandy died, I remained very conscious of which things were hers, what her preferences were, and how to preserve her intent. Slowly, I've laid claim to more of it, pulling plants I don't care for or giving away things I'll never use. But recently, that process has accelerated.

This weekend, I wanted to take advantage of a book that was available free on the kindle. It would only be free for a couple of days, so I knew I needed to download it soon. But Sandy's kindle was still connected to her Amazon account, and I'd never felt ready to transfer it to mine. I didn't even know how. Motivated, I figured that out, and then asked Amazon to close her account. (First, I printed her wishlist to PDF, read the reviews she'd written, and checked to make sure there wasn't anything else I'd want access to.)

Oddly, I don't have any photos of Sandy with her kindle, but
here's a random exercise shot from 2004.

Now her kindle has been renamed Brie's Kindle, and it's attached to my account, and in addition to all the content that was already on it (and that I've dipped into), it has the free book I downloaded this weekend. That was a big step. Friends bought the kindle for Sandy shortly after her metastatic cancer diagnosis, and soon she carried it everywhere, primarily reading fan fiction on it. It was lightweight, perfect for reading in bed or lying on the sofa. She could carry it with one hand easily, so she was able to read as she walked, if she used just one walking stick. She'd had it for only a year when she died, but it was strongly identified with her in my mind.

A shift happened when I registered it in my name. I was pleased that the change didn't distress me, but I hadn't expected to be delighted. I felt that little thrill of excitement that comes with getting a new toy, wanting to explore it, poking around to find out what else I could get free. I claimed it. I moved in. I didn't delete any of Sandy's stuff, and I won't for a while, but it's clear to me now that my enjoying her kindle won't in any way diminish the experience she had with it. Instead it felt like a gift she'd given me.

Ultimately, I think I'm becoming more secure in the knowledge that changing the space around me won't erase Sandy. She certainly isn't fading from my memory or my presence, and it's no betrayal to her to make the most of every day I have left among the living.

Reclaiming energy

Shortly after Sandy was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in May 2010, I erased the whiteboard in the kitchen, wrote "How we win" at the top, and scribbled resources we had at our disposal. Against overwhelming odds, I wanted us to remember how fortunate we were, and how many things were actually working in our favor. I got us started, and then Sandy shouted out additions ("kitties!" she yelled from the living room, as a cat kneaded her arm). When I was through, we were pleased with the list.

We continued to add to the whiteboard as we discovered new tools. The last one we added was "forest." Studies in Japan found that "forest bathing" boosted the immune system. The study results were particularly inspiring because they found that the natural killer (NK) cells that target cancer significantly increased with exposure to the forest, and that they remained elevated for at least 30 days after exposure.

Sandy on a warm day in September 2010, soaking up the forest.

We went camping and started hiking frequently. Sandy was thrilled. I hadn't been opposed to camping or hiking in the past, but hadn't made it a priority among the many tasks that filled my schedule. But since my sole priority was prolonging her life, I was happy to make time for forest bathing. Sandy cheerfully said to a friend, "I can get Brie to do anything as long as I can find a study that says it fights cancer!"

The list on the whiteboard, written so optimistically in June 2010, mocked me as Sandy was dying. I couldn't erase it, couldn't admit we'd lost and that hope was gone. Even after she died, I left it in place. Then I started adding to it again, redefining what winning meant. I wrote "time travel, change the timeline, transcend this plane," and, eventually, "Quantum physics is our friend."

Sandy's been dead almost eighteen months, and I've wondered if I'd ever be able to erase that whiteboard and use it for other things. Every time I've asked the question of myself, the answer has been quick and certain: No. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Meanwhile, I have been moving on in other ways, reclaiming energy that I'd originally spent trying to will Sandy to return. One of the things I've focused on in the past few weeks is creating a healthier kitchen, especially replacing plastic wherever possible. This morning, I was washing a few dishes and thinking about the growing list of things I'm hoping to locate at thrift stores or on sale. I thought, "I should keep a list on the whiteboard." I pictured myself jotting items there, where my list would be very visible and easy to keep in mind. And I pictured myself erasing the "How we win" list.

I was surprised, but not traumatized by the change. It's reassuring to see that what once seemed impossible becomes relatively easy as time passes and I heal. The thing I want most in the world is to have Sandy back here with me, healthy and energetic and full of ambition. But it's not a betrayal of her or of our efforts to free up the energy that's been trapped by my need to hold on to unrealistic hope. I can keep wanting Sandy, keep interacting with her, keep loving her and still move forward with life.