Who Am I Now?!

Thirty-six years ago this month, my identity changed. Or evolved maybe. In addition to being Dan Macon, I became “Samia’s boyfriend.” Or maybe “significant other” is more appropriate. At some point, I became “Samia’s fiancé.” On August 4, 1990, I became “Samia’s husband.”

”Samia’s husband” lasted for 33+ years (actually, I still think of myself as “Samia’s husband) - in 1997, I added “Lara’s dad,” and in 2003, “Emma’s dad.” As an aside, I can’t describe how amazing it is to be at a professional society meeting and have someone say, “Hey, you’re Lara’s dad!” or “You’re Emma’s dad! - we’re all members of the Society for Range Management! 

After we said “I do,” I was still “Dan Macon” - with my own work and my own friendships, But as I said, from August 4, 1990, forward, part (a big part) of my identity was that I was Sami’s husband. And part of her identity was, “Dan’s wife.”

Occasionally, we’d get mail addressed to “Dr. and Mr. Macon,” (Sami was a large animal veterinarian) - which we both got a kick out of. For many years, a former employer sent fundraising solicitations to Mr. Dan and Mr. Sam Macon (which we didn’t find as humorous). But for 36 years, we maintained both our individual identities, as well as our joint identities.

Today, a little over 15 months since Sami passed away, I’m still trying to figure out who I’ll be going forward. I know I’m not who I have been. Widower is not a term I’d ever thought of applying to myself.

Grief seems to have clarifying properties. I don’t mean that it frees the mind from confusion, or that it makes anything clear of ambiguity - at least for me. I think grief is more like clarifying butter - it separates solid matter from liquid. Or maybe grief is like refining oil or purifying a precious metal. In any case, grief, even with all of the confusion and brain fog it has induced in me, also seems to have pared down my life into its essential elements.

I have come to think of my relationship with Sami as similar to the relationship between a stream and its bank (in our case, I’m not sure who was the water, and who was the earth). The stream shapes the bank, and the bank guides the stream. One of those elements is gone now. And I’m not sure if I’m water running without direction (it feels that way some days) or a sad stream bank bereft of its life-giving water (which also describes my life at times). I do feel like part of my search for who I am now is paying attention to where my life is flowing. And to what is guiding my direction.

Last week, I participated in a webinar organized by UCSF for caregivers. One of the things I’ve struggled with since Sami’s death is that I can’t call myself a caregiver any more (or at least it seems that way to me). But the webinar speaker, a Canadian woman named Laura Dill (who incredibly lost both parents and an in-law to glioblastoma) suggested that we’re all still caretakers - of our loved ones’ legacies.

Part of Sami’s legacy is the strong, intelligent, funny daughters (young women!) that we raised. In my last blog post, I remarked that I had to do doubletakes during my time with Lara and Emma in Idaho. Their expressions, their mannerisms, their appearance - their senses of humor - all reminded me of Sami. I am proud beyond expression to be their dad; Sami would be (is!) proud of who they are today. Part of my purpose now, then, is to be here for the important milestones in their lives. To the extent I can control how long I get to stick around.

Part of Sami’s legacy is the community where we spent our lives together. She gave so much back - to 4-H, to youth soccer, to the Future Farmers of America program at Placer High School. To the livestock (and especially the horse) communities. While I’ve moved away from that community, I’ll always be part of it (and it will be part of me). In a small way, the gifts that our friends and family gave to the Placer FFA scholarship program after Sami passed is an opportunity to continue her legacy of community support. I’m looking for ways to build this legacy in perpetuity.

After we began to grasp the full magnitude of Sami’s glioblastoma diagnosis in the spring of 2023, Sami told me that when she died, she hoped her experience (and her remains) would help doctors understand more about the disease. While we’d hoped to make a direct contribution to glioblastoma research, we were only able to provide Sami’s remains to the general donation program supporting the UCSF medical school. I feel like part of caring for Sami’s legacy will involve supporting direct research into the treatment of this horrible cancer. I’m not sure what that looks like yet.

And finally, I think part of Sami’s legacy is the grief I’ve experienced since her diagnosis - and especially since her passing. Shortly after Sami’s first craniotomy, she asked me to write a blog post about what was happening. Looking back, this felt like Sami was acknowledging my role in our relationship - the role of communicator. She trusted me to share what our family was experiencing with our community. At the time, I felt like she complimented my writing ability.

I don’t know that I’ve been particularly eloquent, but I do think that I’ve been given the gift of vulnerability. In my writing, I’ve tried to be open and honest about my grief. Selfishly, my writing has allowed me to get some of these emotions “out” - out into the world, out of my system. I hope that my openness about our experience has helped others cope with their own grief in some small way. I’ve long thought about writing a book, but have always held back because I didn’t feel like I’d experienced enough adversity. Now that I have the experience, I struggle with how to write a happy (or at least a positive ending). We’ll see….

In the meantime, I’m grateful my self-identity still includes “dad,” “brother,” and “son.” I’m also grateful that my identity is still “Sami’s husband.” Perhaps our legacy together is that we were a stream and streambank - we shaped each other; we guided each other.