Before and After

Photo by Daniel Lee Brown

The first two weeks of August will forever be a week of anniversaries. Sami and I were married on an extremely hot day in Sonora on August 4, 1990 - as I recall, the thermometer on the bank in Sonora read 108F when we drove past it on our way to our reception at the Mother Lode Fairgrounds. And Sami passed away early in the morning of August 13, 2023. August 2025, two years after Sami died from glioblastoma, has been difficult. Last week, I realized that my life has been divided. Into “before” and “after.”

This year, in August, I’ve experienced moments of profound sadness. Our anniversary was a rough day for me. August 13 was hard, too - but I was busy getting ready to go to a conference, so I avoided some of the grief. The challenges of this particular August have been intensified by my ongoing care-giving responsibilities - this time for my parents. As I approach the last week of my least favorite month, I feel like I’ve been scattered. Unable to concentrate. Unproductive. I’m looking forward to September.

Last month, I listened to an audio book by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, called No Death, No Fear.  He talks about how we all manifest ourselves in different ways, that we don’t really “leave” when we die - we just manifest differently. I’ve found this helpful. I’ve found that Sami still manifests herself in a variety of ways in my life. In the notes and recipes that are in my new kitchen. In the way that I look at problems. In the animals I care for. In my pride at the fact that I’ve made my bed, washed my clothes,... adulted… most days since she left me.

But I’m realizing that Sami also manifests herself in the physical world. I’ve written about the hawk that followed me on the walk I took on August 13, 2023, on the afternoon after Sami died. Red tailed hawks have always been significant for me, but the hawk that watched me walk on that saddest of days will make me forever associate red tailed hawks with Sami. As will my experiences since that day.

Since then, I’ve found several hawk feathers - don’t tell anyone, but I’ve collected them (which I suspect might be illegal). Both my daughters have had hawk feather tattoos - and I’ve had some ink applied too (a soaring hawk on my left shoulder, between my head and my heart). More significantly, red tail hawks have appeared at several important points in my life in the last 24 months.

In late June of last year, I was in escrow on a property in Mountain Ranch. I wasn’t terribly excited about it, but I was feeling pressure to find a place, since our home in Auburn was also in escrow. After giving a talk on vineyard grazing at Ironstone Vineyards, I met my realtor at a newly listed property between Mountain Ranch and Railroad Flat. I really liked it - the house was too big, but nice - and the property was perfect (a combination of grassland, conifers, and black oaks). But switching properties carried the risk of losing my deposit on the first property. I told my agent I needed to sleep on it.

That night, I dreamed about the second place - a place I’d only seen once. And I dreamed that I saw a red tailed hawk sitting on the gate post. I called my agent the next morning and told her I wanted to try to get out of the other escrow, and put an offer on the new place. The place where I’m living now. And I didn’t lose my deposit.

At some point in the last year, I had my last session with the grief therapist provided by hospice. I found these sessions helpful; this last session was difficult, because I finally felt like I needed to talk about some unresolved issues between Sami and I. I was sitting at the table in my new kitchen, looking out at the grassy hillside above my house. As I was struggling to talk about these difficulties, a red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky onto its next meal. I broke down.

Two weeks ago, I was talking to a new therapist, looking out the same window. We were talking about making time to reflect on what the impending anniversary of Sami’s death would be like - and about strategies for coping with my feelings about it. And another (maybe the same?) red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky.

My rational brain knows that I live in the midst of red tailed hawk habitat. That I’m likely to seek hawks where I live. But my emotional brain takes great comfort in seeing them. When I’m driving and I see a hawk perched on a power pole, I say, “Hi, Sami!” When I see a hawk catching an updraft, and soaring effortlessly, I think about what it must have felt like for Sami to leave her cancer-riddled body and fly. I find that these thoughts make me both happy and sad. Or maybe I’m trying to say, they make me think about before and after.

Duality

Monday, Sami and I would have been married for 35 years. I took vacation last week (mostly to work around my place, but also to see Steve Earle play in Tahoe with my sister and brother-in-law - which Sami would have loved!). I decided to take our anniversary off as well. I felt like I needed a day to myself.

After sleeping past 6am (which I never do!) I decided to wash Sami’s truck and our gooseneck horse trailer, both of which I’ve decided to sell. Cleaning the cab of Sami’s truck hit me pretty hard - I found an old pair of her reading glasses, and a pair of her sunglasses, in the center console. But I decided that I needed to be sad - I needed to spend a day simply remembering our life together. While I washed the truck, I listened to music that reminded me of Sami. I cried some, and cursed some, but got the truck clean enough to send photos to the auction company who’ll sell it for me. Then I started on the trailer.

Cleaning the gooseneck that we’d purchased nearly 20 years ago felt like the final end to my sheep business. An end to our mule-showing days. An end to taking the girls’ lambs and show equipment to the fair. In other words, Monday was a pretty sad day.

Tuesday, I awoke early to drive to the UC Blodgett Experimental Forest for two days of data collection. I’d intended to take my camp trailer (which meant I could also take my dogs), but my fancy new Toyota Tundra wasn’t communicating with my trailer brakes - so I left the trailer and the dogs home. And started off my day extremely discombobulated (to borrow a word that Sami liked to use). The work day ended up going well, but I found myself exhausted and ready for bed before 8 pm.

One of the lessons I seem to be learning in the more than 31 months since we discovered Sami had a brain tumor, is the concept of duality. That two (or more) seemingly contradictory things - or emotions - can be true at the same time.

Seeing Steve Earle with my sister and brother-in-law last week was amazing - I’ve listened to him since I was a freshman in college, and our trip to western Nevada was wonderful! But I was also sad that Sami wasn’t there with us. Watching Emma graduate from college in May was an incredibly proud moment - but also sad in Sami’s absence. Similarly, learning that Lara and her boyfriend Micah will be getting married next May is an equally joyous occasion. And knowing that Sami wished for these things to happen is bittersweet.

Today, driving back from Blodgett Forest, I realized that I was looking forward to being home in Mountain Ranch. I really love my new place - when I started looking to move last year, I wrote that I wanted a place with pine trees, grass, and a front porch - and I succeeded in finding that place! But I also miss Auburn - I miss the house where Sami and I raised our family. I miss the community that I was part of for 30 years. I wish Sami could see this place, but I know that I’d never have moved here if she hadn’t died.

Looking back on August 2023, I find that I’m still reliving the trauma of Sami’s brief time in hospice, and of her eventual death in the bedroom we’d shared for 33 years and nine days. Holding Sami’s hand that night of August 12 and early morning of August 13 was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I also feel a measure of - I don’t know - blessing? Pride? Honor? To have been present when she drew her last breath. As Jason Isbell writes, “I worked hard to the end of my shift.” Or at least it feels that way to me.

As I’ve written before, the phrase “move on” does not seem to describe the grieving process for me. I do feel like I’ve moved forward with my life - I’ve changed jobs, moved to a new community, found new friends. But I’ve also found that as I’ve moved forward, I’m better able to look past the anxiety and trauma of Sami’s illness and passing. Sadness and happiness, in other words, can both be true. At the same time.

Memory is Strange

On long driving trips, Sami and I would alternate driving. And whoever was driving when we stopped for fuel would put the gas on their debit card. Sami took the “protect your PIN” advice seriously; she would hide her PIN even from me, which I of course teased her about! Nearly two years after her passing, I think about this every time I put fuel in my truck. This memory makes me smile! It also makes me wistful.

In the immediate aftermath of Sami’s death in August 2023, I found that I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. Or even how she looked before she got sick. I certainly couldn’t remember the feeling of her touch. I suppose the trauma of her cancer, and all that it entailed, made these happy memories difficult to bring to mind. I could look at old photos of her - of us - and feel like I couldn’t recall the emotions that the images should have evoked. I was numb.

This trauma, in many ways, has been more difficult than my grief. Several weeks ago, I found myself immobilized by the memory of the night that Sami decided to enter hospice care (she passed just two weeks later). My concern for the well-being of my folks made me recall this old anxiety - I cancelled weekend plans in case I was needed.

Today, though, the happy memories come easier. I find myself remembering camping trips and date nights. I smile when I see photos of Sami bottle-feeding lambs or holding puppies. I laugh to myself when I see funny pics of us together. And there are other physical reminders in my house. Handwritten notes that help me recall her neat handwriting. The “Samia Z. Macon, DVM” sign that she took from Loomis Basin Large Animal Clinic when she went out on her own (and which now hangs on my toolshed). Our wedding china. The “Protect your PIN” message when I fill my truck.

Sadness is still part of my life. I miss Sami every day. I miss sharing the ups and downs of our days in the evening; I miss being the first person up in the morning. I miss the sound of the tea kettle on the stove - Sami rarely drank my “real” coffee, preferring instant coffee instead. I miss preparing meals together. I see her enjoying my new house - even though I know we’d have never moved here when she was alive. Somedays, I find her absence palpable. The space that she inhabited in my life - and I in hers - are a void. I miss her touch. I miss the great wads of her long hair in the shower drain. I miss waking up next to her.

But I also feel like I’m learning to embrace sadness. Today, my grief doesn’t feel debilitating. Sure, the tears still overflow from time to time. But the sadness is part of remembering, too. I find that I can be both happy about the time we shared together and sad that it was cut short. As I’ve written previously, I’ve come to embrace my sadness like an old friend - like a visitation from Sami.

Checking in Again

Just over a year ago, I posted a blog titled, “Checking in with Myself.” Escrow had just closed on our home in Auburn. I was in escrow in the home from which I’m writing this blog, in Mountain Ranch. I was sad. Uncertain. Melancholy. 

Tonight, I’m mostly just exhausted. Part of my exhaustion, I know, is the result of coping with helping my mom and dad navigate their own health issues, which have intensified since my move to Calaveras County. Part of my exhaustion is the result of my busy work schedule. Part of it, too, is my normal July heat-wave discomfort. But part of it, I realized as I read last year’s blog, is the underlying grief associated with passing important milestones.

For me, some of this is induced by social media. Facebook shared a memory from 12 years ago this week of Emma showing her pony at the California State Fair. She was 9; I was still in my forties! And so was Sami. For me, July 2013 seems like yesterday. For Emma, I’m sure, it feels like ancient history - she had just finished 4th grade. Tonight, she’s a college graduate - a lifetime of difference, if my memory of my early twenties serves me correctly. And a time when she still had a Mom. When I still had a wife.

Looking back at my iPhone photos, on July 15, 2022, I was leading my last California Sheep and Cattle Grazing School in Auburn. My good friends, Ryan Mahoney and Joe Fischer, joined us to lend their expertise and experience managing sheep and cattle on rangeland and irrigated pasture. Ryan snapped one of my favorite photos of myself - me teaching students in front of my sheep.

Sami may have already had a brain tumor on July 15, 2022. She almost certainly had a tumor by the time she ran the Monterey Bay Half Marathon in November 2022. These thoughts always - ALWAYS - make me wonder if I missed any of these signs. And whether it would have made any difference.

Last Friday, as I was hauling feeder lambs to the auction in Escalon early in the morning, I found myself thinking, “Sami would have loved this morning” - the sun was just rising as I was driving out of the foothills. We both loved cool midsummer mornings - mostly for the work we could get done comfortably, before the heat became oppressive. I nearly had to pull of the road to cry.

My folks’ health challenges have brought back memories of our summer in 2023, too. I find that I’m incredibly anxious about leaving town - for work or for recreation. I find that trips to the doctor - for myself, or for my dad - are difficult emotionally. And this emotional stress wears me out.

But I’m also struck by what I wrote about moving to a smaller community. I had hoped I’d enjoy being in a less-populated place; tonight, I’m finding that I’m enjoying it immensely. On my way home from taking my dad to the doctor this afternoon, I stopped to by fruit at a Mennonite fruit stand and nursery in San Andreas, and had a delightful conversation with the cashier. Then I stopped at Sender’s Market in Mountain Ranch (a grocery store, hardware store, and feed store, all wrapped into one) and had an equally pleasant experience. I rarely had to wait to turn left - a novel experience in Auburn!  I arrived home to dogs who were ecstatic to see me. I thought about what my daughter Lara said about my new place when she and her fiancé Micah visited in June - my house feels really nice to me, as she said it did to her. I think Sami would agree.

Checking in with myself again, a year after selling our family home and moving to a new town, I’m recognizing that these anniversaries will always be hard. Wedding anniversaries, birthdays, holidays - the anniversaries of Sami’s illness and passing - will always be difficult, I suspect. But anniversaries of the happy times - our daughters’ birthdays, enjoyable trips, annual sheep activities - will help me recall happy memories.

Finally, we are going to celebrate an important memory this fall. My family and I have entered the Monterey Bay Half Marathon this November. I won’t pretend that I’ll be able to run it as fast as Sami did in 2022, but I’m training to be able to finish in less than 3.5 hours (to save you the math - that’s 13.1 miles at 16 minute miles). I find that having a goal - a goal associated with remembering Sami - has been energizing for me. Stay tuned….

Division of Labor

Any loss is difficult; every loss is different. I can’t imagine the loss of a child, nor have I experienced the loss of a parent. I’ve lost friends and mentors. And I’ve lost my life partner.

Every loss requires a period of adjustment. Of realization that everything about the lost relationship has changed. Over the last 22 months, I’ve realized that I’ve missed Sami sentimentally, emotionally, physically, and practically. And I’ve begun to understand that the new denominator in our division of labor is one, not two. The numerator - the day-to-day as well as the big tasks - has stayed the same. Maybe even increased. There’s at least as much work to be done; there’s only one person to do it.

I know I’ve written about some of this previously. During our 33 years of marriage, Sami and I had a somewhat fluid arrangement in terms of managing our household. Sami did most of the grocery shopping and cooking. I did most of the yard work and gardening. Sami managed our finances; I made sure we had enough firewood to make it through the winter. I managed our sheep and the land they grazed on; Sami took care of the bottle lambs.

Sami also took care of our equines and our dogs. Over the years of our marriage, we had six horses, one pony, and two mules (my daughters may correct my math!). We had at least 21 dogs (some pets, some border collies, and some livestock guardian dogs). Sami took care of their veterinary care (since she was FAR more qualified than I was). And she took care of buying hay and scheduling the farrier. She kept track of which dogs needed rabies boosters.

In the last 22 months, I’ve made lots of adjustments. I’ve necessarily done all of the food shopping and cooking. I’ve paid the bills (almost always on time!). I’ve changed the bed, done the laundry, swept the floors, and dusted (occasionally) the furniture. I’ve moved to a new house.

Last weekend, my oldest daughter and her boyfriend visited from New Mexico - their first time seeing my new place. Lara said, “Your house is really nice! I love how you’ve arranged it and decorated it - it doesn’t look like a bachelor is living here!” I’ll admit to some degree of pride! Lara and Micah also helped me with a number of projects that took more than one set of hands (and one brain) - I finally have an outdoor clothesline and steps down to my garden!

The hardest - and last - adjustment that I’ve had to make, though, is in caring for our mules, Frisbee and Boomerang - and for my dogs. Because we had our own mules, Sami had a reputation of being a veterinarian who would take care of long ears - mules and donkeys. In the year after she passed, I leaned on her (our!) friends to help me take care of their needs. Sami’s colleague and friend Dr. Becky Childers gave the mules their annual vaccines in 2024, and made sure I had heartworm and flea/tick preventatives for my dogs. Our friend and farrier, Eric Enos, trimmed their feet in 2024. Our friend and my colleague, Dr. Rosie Busch, made sure I had the prescription medications I needed for our sheep.

My dogs - especially my puppy Ky - have been challenging over the last year. Ky found some rat poison Sami had put in the garage in June 2024 - and she spent a couple of nights in the ICU at UC Davis as a result. This spring, Ky found a month’s worth of Mae’s arthritis medication - which one or both of them devoured, resulting in two more nights in ICU for both of them. Thankfully, they both seem to be doing fine today! Also thankfully, I had the financial resources to pay for their treatment.

The last frontier, though, has been the mules. Now that I’ve moved to Calaveras County, I’ve had to find a new veterinarian. Earlier this month, a local vet gave both mules their annual vaccines. Since the vet was a woman, Sami’s mule, Boomer, was reasonably behaved.

I suppose I should say a bit about Boomer. He’s always been a one-person mule - as long as that one person was Sami! He distrusted all men (including me) - in Auburn, I could rarely get close enough to catch him, let alone put a halter on him. Here in Mountain Ranch - with only me around to feed and care for him - he’s finally allowed me to handle him. Sometimes.

Today - finally - I was able to have a farrier out to trim their feet. Farriers - and veterinarians - are understandably reluctant to handle mules they don’t know. Knowing this, I’ve had considerable anxiety about their veterinary and foot care. I woke up anxious this morning - and my anxiety increased as the day went on. But the farrier was great - we got both mules trimmed without any excitement. And I realized when he left how much I’d been worried about this day.

This evening, I’ve realized that some of what I’ve taken on since Sami’s passing is just part of living and running a household. The laundry must get done. The food must get purchased and cooked. The house must get cleaned. But some of what I’ve taken on is a choice. I’ve kept both mules - even though I haven’t ridden or driven either one since before Sami got sick. Keeping the mules is a decision - they’ve been an important part of our family’s life - and an important reminder of Sami. But with this choice comes responsibility - and I understand this evening that this responsibility has weighed heavily on me. Caring for the mules was always Sami’s job. Now it’s mine. In a new place. I’ve had to rely on people who don’t know me, who didn’t know Sami, and who don’t know our mules. No wonder I’m exhausted this evening. 

Alone in a Crowd

“When I wake up every morning, I roll over and find you still gone. I’m alone in a way that I’ve never been, since you left me behind.”  - Sturgill Simpson

Even though grief is a universal human experience, the journey through grief seems - again (still?) - to be a road that one must travel alone. For me, the difference between introversion and introspection seems to be a matter of degrees. Or maybe mood. As I’ve written before, I often feel alone even in a crowded room. Indeed, I continue to find that large crowds are overwhelming. I find myself avoiding them when I can - or leaving early when I can’t.

This sense of “aloneness” is evolving, though. I don’t necessarily feel isolated or lonely (as I did earlier this year); rather, I sometimes find that I prefer my own introspective company to a large crowd where nobody knows what I’ve been through. Similarly, I prefer talking to a small group of friends who know the context of my life at the moment - even if we don’t talk about Sami, I take comfort in being with people who know. Who know that my loss is always with me.

Sometimes I secretly wish there was a scarlet W on my chest - that people could tell just by looking at me that I’ve been widowed! I’m mostly joking, but there are times when I wish I could avoid the awkwardness that comes with feeling the need to explain why I live alone. Why I moved and changed jobs. Why I’m often quiet.

During Sami’s brief illness, as well as in the nearly 2 years since she passed, I have found gatherings to celebrate the lives of friends who’ve also passed to be especially difficult. I want to honor my friends, and to support those they’ve left behind, but my own grief is often too close to the surface in these settings. I’ve found that I need to give myself the grace to not feel guilty about leaving these gatherings early. I suspect that my grieving friends understand. At least I hope they do.

Thinking again about the barbecue we hosted after Emma’s graduation last month, I’ve also realized that I have an easier time being in a crowd when I have a job. I’ve noticed a similar pattern in my extension work. When I’m doing something (cooking for friends or presenting information at a workshop, for example) I find that I’m energized and engaged. But small talk in large groups remains difficult. Once my work is through, I find that I need to leave. To be alone again. And I suspect my departures from these situations often seem awkward.

I listened to a podcast last week that suggested grieving is an educational process - that grief helps us learn how to cope with the physical, mental, and emotional changes that come with losing our attachment to someone - or rather, with realizing that our attachment to that person has changed now that they are no longer here physically. The researcher, Dr. Mary Frances O’Connor, suggested that when we make an attachment with someone (a spouse or a child, for example), the neurons in our brains change physiologically. The loss of that attachment requires our brains to adjust to new ways of relating to the world. For me, at least, this adjustment is an introspective process.

Now, more than two years into my own journey with grief, I find that introspection and distance have helped give me perspective. When Sami first died, most of my memories seemed to focus on the trauma of her disease and passing. Today, in June 2025, I find that the happy memories of our 35 years together come to me more frequently. I find that sharing these happy memories is not as difficult as it was early in my grief. And while I suspect that sharing these memories with others may continue to be uncomfortable for others at times, I find that this doesn’t bother me in the way it did early in my journey.

Graduation and Grief

Last week, I drove to Idaho for the last time in Emma’s undergraduate career. Once again, I broke the trip into two days each way - I’m simply not able to drive 15 hours straight anymore. Not sure I ever could do that, to be honest! At least not by myself. Going up, I stayed the night in Jordan Valley, Oregon. Coming home, I took a different route, staying in Burns, Oregon. In between, I got to see Emma graduate with a degree in rangeland conservation. I got to see Lara and Emma together. I got to enjoy the company of my sister Meri, and her daughter Hanna and her family. I got to see Emma’s logger sports friends and their parents. I got to barbecue tri-tip, leg of lamb, and Basque chorizo for Emma’s logger sports family. At least for me, the weekend was an incredibly happy moment in time.

But the weekend was also bittersweet. We all missed Sami, even though we didn’t discuss it much. During the graduation ceremony when University of Idaho President Scott Green encouraged the graduates to acknowledge their moms (on the eve of Mother’s Day), I teared up - knowing that neither of my girls could do so. One of Sami’s wishes when she knew she was dying was for Emma to graduate from college. I felt the weight of that accomplishment as I watched Emma cross the stage and receive her diploma.

As I’ve experienced during previous trips, leaving the girls was much more difficult than heading out to see them. I’ve always been sad leaving them - when Lara first started college at Montana State University, I wrote that leaving her in Bozeman made me feel like I had a Lara-shaped hole in my heart. I felt that again when I left Moscow on Monday morning. And I felt the Sami-shaped hole in my heart that will always be there. I realized that Emma’s graduation was the first significant milestone that I’ve experienced without having Sami here to share in the celebration.

On Tuesday morning, as I was getting back on the road in Burns, Emma and her boyfriend Karson drove to Fort Collins, CO, where Karson is finishing an engineering degree, and where Emma will start a seasonal range technician job this week. I reflected on my own recent experience with moving to a new home and a new job - how seeing my old life in my rearview mirror was both exhilarating and frightening. And sad. I was glad to be coming home to my new place that evening, but thinking about Emma’s move brought back some difficult memories. Crossing Carson Pass instead of Donner Pass reminded me that I was living in a different place than when Emma started college.

I talked to Sami on my drive home - and not just when I saw redtail hawks. I thought about how my sorrow factored into my new relationships - how hard it might be to my new friends to hear me talk about my relationship with Sami. I thought about how my capacity for caregiving remains low. I missed the girls. I missed Sami.

After we’d all finished our travels, Lara told me she’d put aside her sadness while we were together. I realized I’d done the same - I wanted to celebrate Emma’s accomplishment. And to be happy while we were doing so.

But I also realized that (again) that grief demands my attention eventually. Driving back to work on Thursday, I was incredibly sad. On my 20-minute commute, I realized that I would have preferred to stay home. In bed. Responsibility - maybe resilience? - is a powerful antidote. Or maybe a coping mechanism. I went to work. I was sad all day, but I also got caught up on emails.

As I begin a new week, I’m again exhausted. I’m reflecting on what Sami and I had both hoped for our children - and what I still hope for them. But I’m also cognizant of what it means to be their only living parent. I’m cognizant of my own loneliness (again). I’m aware of how my own capacity for friendship, care, and empathy has evolved.