As I’ve written previously, living through Sami’s illness and death has changed the way I look at health care. I find that driving by a hospital triggers memories of what we went through in 2023. Even trips to the vet can do this to me - this spring, Mae had three throat surgeries and Ky spent the night in the ICU at UC Davis - both experiences brought back memories of our visits to the emergency room and Sami's long stay at UCSF. Of unsuccessful surgeries and unanswered questions. I’ve been to my own primary care physician several times since Sami passed. Both times, my initial blood pressure when I got to the appointment was much higher than normal. Experiencing trauma, at least for me, has had lasting psychological and physiological effects.
A hospice counselor I’ve been seeing over the last several months told me recently, “grief needs community, but trauma is often private.” I realized that my writing is largely how I’ve been sharing my grief with my community. Talking about grief can seem awkward to me; writing about it has been hugely therapeutic.
But I find that I really haven’t shared much about the trauma we experienced. Writing about the trauma seems like maybe it’s oversharing. However, I find that my memories of the traumatic things we experienced often crowd out the happier memories - even those from after Sami’s diagnosis. And certainly my memories of this trauma colors my current interactions with the health care system.
And so at the risk of oversharing, I feel like I need to name at least some of these traumatic events. The days of uncertainty in late January when we knew something was wrong but didn’t know what it was. The conversation with the ER doctor in Auburn who told us the CT scan showed some sort of mass on Sami’s brain. The first craniotomy. The visit with a second neurosurgeon two weeks later who said the tumor seemed to have grown back already. The frustrating and frightening wait for a second craniotomy. Sami’s first mild seizure in April. Her second, and far more severe, seizure in May, which left her unable to walk within a week. The two weeks we spent at UCSF waiting for answers and hope, followed by the week we spent at acute rehab at St. Francis Memorial, with (as it turned out) little progress. The trip back to UCSF for an MRI when Sami couldn't hold still for the imaging - and when we learned that she had two new lesions in different parts of her brain. Coming home from the grocery store in late July to find an ambulance and fire truck in the driveway. Hearing the ER doctor in Roseville later that evening say, “It’s time for hospice.” The last two weeks of rapid decline (and all of the physical and mental “shutting down” that came with it). And the overall trauma of seeing my wife, who had run a half marathon in November and who was training for another when the symptoms appeared in January, unable to walk by June. Of realizing she wouldn’t practice veterinary medicine or ride her mule again. Of watching her physical remains leave the house early in the morning of August 13, 2023. Please know that I'm not asking for sympathy; rather, I feel like I need to get the words - and memories - out of my head.
Today, I find that when I see someone using a walker or a wheelchair, I have far greater empathy than I used to. I think back to what that must have felt like to Sami to be unable to walk, and to how it felt to me to try to help her navigate a world built for people who could. And I feel deep sadness. I realize that all loss involves trauma, and I’m realizing that the trauma we experienced will always be with me. Perhaps in sharing it, I can move forward in spite of it. Or with it. I’m finally finding that my memories of the happy times I shared with Sami are starting to come back into focus. A bit.
Moving to a new home has been both difficult and helpful in coping with these feelings. Leaving the home where we raised our family behind was hard; living in a new space where I’m not confronted by physical and visual reminders of the trauma has been helpful. I find that the happy memories of our lives together are a bit easier to access today than they were even a month ago, partly because I don’t wake up every morning in the same bedroom where Sami passed away. The bedroom wasn’t different in its appearance, but its meaning changed profoundly.
These last several weeks have been filled with goodbyes - to old friends, to colleagues, to the places I’ve enjoyed in Auburn. I’ve found them to be bittersweet - a combination of happy memories and both excitement and sorrow about the changes in my life that are pulling (pushing?) me in a new direction. And on top of these emotions, I miss being able to share all of this with Sami. As my move to a new job and a new community become more real, so does my sense of being alone, of missing someone who knew me well enough to hear my silences as well as my words. I find once again that being with others doesn’t cure the feeling of loneliness - I guess in some ways I sometimes want to be alone if I can’t be with Sami. At least on some days.
Several weeks ago, a close friend asked me how I was doing with the move, with work, and with life in general. I finally felt like I could open up a bit - and I was as honest as I could be about the ups and downs. She said, “You look tired and pale to me.” I’ve thought about our conversation frequently in the ensuing weeks, and I realized that I’m lucky to have a friend who can see through the facade of “I’m ok” that I suppose I’ve tried to show to the world. Mostly, I am ok, but being ok takes an enormous amount of energy. I am sensing that my body and my mind are telling me I need to slow down a bit after this move is final. I need to also give myself space to be “not ok.”
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