The times she didn't die

Sometimes when I'm feeling sorry for myself, I flip it around and think about just how lucky I am to have had Sandy for as many years as I did.

I think about all the times I could have lost her.

The danger her gallbladder attacks posed while she waited for insurance to kick in so she could have surgery.

The car accident that pretty much destroyed the working components of the car but left Sandy unscathed except for embarrassment. Especially since I'd feared for weeks that she'd have an accident of some kind, given her deepening depression. I felt such relief that the event had occurred and she had survived it.

The terrifying seizures she had in January 2004, full-blown tonic clonic seizures (what used to be called grand mal) just a few hours apart, which turned out to be a reaction to medication and which caused no lasting harm (except to my peace of mind).

This was the third day after her accident in 2005.
In earlier pictures, we documented her injuries
and her expression was grim. By day 3, she was
able to smile about how quickly she was healing.

The infections that raged in her body before and during chemo in 2006. Pumping toxins into a body can be very deadly, and the drugs certainly tried to take her down. But she came through it.

The bike accident in 2005 that occurred when a car cut her off, shoving her into the curb. She was bruised, bloody, and in shock, but she got home safely and healed.

The collision in May 2010, when a driver pulled across the bike lane as Sandy was entering the intersection, heading downhill at about 20 mph. Her injuries were painful and they left her in worse shape for the upcoming cancer fight, but the collision itself did no obviously lasting damage.

All the times she could have died before we even got together, especially the time she almost drowned.

It wasn't that Sandy's life was particularly precarious. We all have similar lists of near-misses, whether from injury or illness: the traffic accidents that almost happened or that could easily have been worse, the tornado that hits the house two blocks over, the fall down the stairs, the disease caught just in time. We're fragile beings. These elaborate machines we call our bodies are delicate, relying on tenuous relationships between each other and the world. It's really quite amazing that we are, in fact, so resilient.

It may seem odd that I cheer myself by remembering times of crisis. But the body memory that comes from each is less about the fear during the crisis and more about the relief that came after. That full-body sensation of gratitude when I compared what was with what I feared might have been.

Even on June 16, 2011, we basked in relief that she hadn't had a stroke, as we'd suspected. If someone had told us she'd die just 33 days later — and suffer immeasurably during many of the days to come — we'd have celebrated less. But like her doctors, we thought everything was going according to plan, except for a complicated migraine that appeared to be gone now. She was still Sandy; her brain was still her own. I hadn't lost her, and she hadn't lost herself.

So yes, I wish desperately we'd had another 50 years together — and I'm bitter, definitely, that we won't have that time. But I am honestly incredibly grateful for every day we shared. And that perspective is incredibly cheering.