Continuing the conversation

Nearly two and a half years after Sandy died, I think I've found a pretty good balance. I miss her terribly, implore her to return, and cherish my memories. But I'm no longer hesitant to make changes to our home, give away things that have outlasted their usefulness, even plan for the future. That's good progress, I think.

What I can't seem to do is to have a conversation with someone I don't know without mentioning that Sandy died. And if the conversation continues much further, I inevitably talk about Sandy's continuing presence, and ask about their experiences.

What's most interesting to me is that most of the people I share with have also seen, felt, or heard (or smelled!) the presence of a loved one who's died. I think of these conversations as field research, part of my quest to develop some understanding of what actually happens when we die -- and when we live, for that matter. They also reassure me that I'm not delusional, which is a bonus.

Much of Gail and Caroline's lives were related to water, so
in their honor, here's a photo of Sandy and me kayaking in
Friday Harbor several years ago, with Sandy nearly
camouflaged by her ill-fitting lifejacket.

In 2010, a close friend recommended Let's Take the Long Way Home, a book by Gail Caldwell. She recognized our friendship in the one Caldwell honors. I read it this week, finally, and it felt like perfect timing in my life. Caldwell conveys beautifully the bond between close friends, and I enjoyed reflecting on the women with whom I share strong friendships. That alone made reading the book a wonderful experience. But then Caldwell described her friend's dying and her own grief process. My thoughts (and my tears) shifted from dear friends to Sandy. Grief is intensely personal, but so much of it is universal, too. And while there are some differences between grieving a spouse and a close friend, the raw elements are the same. It's overwhelming, physically painful, confusing, guilt-ridden, self-pitying, and all-encompassing. Caldwell captures it all so well, and I just had to share some of it here:

The only education in grief that any of us ever gets is a crash course. Until Caroline died I had belonged to that other world, the place of innocence and linear expectations, where I thought grief was a simple, wrenching realm of sadness and longing that gradually receded. What that definition left out was the body blow that loss inflicts, as well as the temporary madness, and a range of less straightforward emotions shocking in their intensity. 

. . .

The ravages of early grief are such a shock: wild, erratic, disconsolate. If only I could get to sorrow, I thought, I could do sorrow. I wasn't ready for the sheer physicality of it, the lead-lined overcoat of dull pain it would take months to shake.
. . .

What the books don't tell you is that some primitive rage can invade out of nowhere, the only bearable alternative to being with the dead. Death is a divorce nobody asked for; to live through it is to find a way to disengage from what you thought you couldn't stand to lose.

Caldwell also talks to Caroline after her death. Though she knows she may look crazy, "a solitary woman in a scull, smiling and talking to her invisible friend," she continues.

"What's worse," I asked her. "If I talk to you and there's no one listening, or if you're there waiting and I don't talk to you?"

I talk to Sandy daily, usually hourly. Sometimes I interrupt myself to say her name, Sandy Hereld, and then begin again. I remember well that she used to complain that I'd start talking before getting her attention (usually, she was reading) and she'd have no idea what I'd said.

I am grateful that I feel her presence much of the time. But sometimes I question my own experience, wonder how much of it is just my subconscious providing some comfort. Even then, though, even when I doubt, I talk to her. Because, like Caldwell, I'd much rather appear foolish than to risk letting Sandy feel ignored or forgotten.