Laughing at Myself. And Feeling Isolated.

Late Monday afternoon, I felt like I was coming down with a cold - I had that weird taste in the back of my mouth that seems to come before a sore throat. Tuesday morning, the sore throat had intensified. And I’d developed a lovely cough. By the following evening, I had the chills - even though I’d cranked up the wood stove enough to make it 75 degrees in my living room. I was sick.

Wednesday morning, I awoke to discover that my throat was even more irritated. My cough persisted; I found that some coughs were (as my doctor says) “productive” - I call this “coughing up a lung biscuit.” Regardless of the terminology, I seemed to be producing copious amounts of phlegm.

Sami used to tease me about moaning and groaning when I was the least bit under the weather - she figured I wanted to make sure she knew I wasn’t feeling well. She was probably right! But I can now confirm that I moan and groan even when there’s nobody else in the house to hear me. I suppose this makes me wonder about the tree that falls in an empty forest.

One of the unexpectedly difficult things about moving from Placer County (where Sami and I had lived for 30 years) to Calaveras County is the realization that my support system has changed. In Auburn, I had friends I’d known for the entire 23 years we lived on Joeger Road who I could call if I really needed something. Having worked in rangeland livestock production during that entire time, I also had friends in far-flung places (here and abroad) who would help (who did help during Sami’s illness) when I needed something. But now, all of my friends seem far-flung. I have to keep reminding myself that I’ve only lived in Mountain Ranch since early October - and I’ve travelled a fair bit of that time. I’m starting to meet my neighbors and make friends. But this week, I felt isolated. I felt alone in my house with my dogs and my phlegm.

This sense of isolation, I know, comes with living in a more rural community. Placer County has a population of more than 400,000 people. Calaveras County is barely a tenth that size. I’ve never minded being alone (even as a kid). I’m learning that it’s more difficult to be lonely.

Among the things I’ve realized I miss about my life before Sami’s illness and passing is the sound of a busy house. Of Sami talking on the phone. Of our end-of-the-day recounting of the day’s frustrations, victories, and laughs. Of waking up first to enjoy the quiet time alone in front of the wood stove, knowing Sami would join me shortly. These days, the quietness of waking up alone remains until I leave for work.

I don’t regret moving - I’m glad to be closer to my family and to be living in a smaller community. I’m happy to live in a place where we might get snow (and where, tonight, we’re finally getting rain). As my friend Jean Allender told me had happened for her, being in a new place has allowed me to recall the happy memories of my life with Sami more readily. But there are times when I feel incredibly isolated. Times when I envy my daughters for the people around them - even though I know that they struggle with Sami’s loss as much as I do. But there are also times, like this week, as I was fighting off a cold, when I feel very alone. Like a tree falling in the forest with nobody there to hear it.