An exploration of the physical reminders of loss...
One morning last week, as I was preparing to join a virtual meeting from my dining room table, I decided to brew a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I reached into the cupboard and pulled out a mason jar of ground coffee, which Sami had labeled. Her handwriting stopped me in my tracks. I realized that even in my new place, there are physical reminders of Sami. Reminders that bring me up short, that make me wistful. Or sad.
Last month, I had meetings in Davis on two consecutive days. Rather than make the two hour drive home on the first night - and back on the second morning - I stayed in town. On the second morning, I went for a walk through town and campus before breakfast. The city of Davis has changed since I was a student there nearly 40 years ago; much of the UC Davis campus remains familiar. Especially the Quad. As I walked through the Quad early on that February morning, I remembered eating lunch with Sami when we first started dating in 1988. I felt the physical sensation of walking through campus holding her hand. Of lying in the sun on the grass with my head in her lap.
In my new place, I have a digital picture frame on the sideboard that I see when I walk in my front door. The sideboard was from Sami’s parents; the picture frame was a gift to Sami after she got sick. Friends and family shared photos with Sami - as did I. One of my favorites is a photo I took of the two of us at Sterling Lake in the Sierra Nevada east of Auburn in September 2022. We both look incredibly happy, and my memory of that day is that we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. And I realize, whenever that photo comes up in the frame, that Sami likely already had a brain tumor.
Some of these geographical reminders are difficult. While I’ve driven to (and from) Idaho since Sami passed away, I’ve not been ready to drive to New Mexico. Our trip to Las Cruces in January 2023 marked the beginning of our journey with glioblastoma. While I’ve visited Monterey several times since Sami ran the Monterey Bay Half Marathon in November 2022, both visits have been emotionally difficult.
In the 19 months (tomorrow) since Sami left us, I’ve found that these physical reminders - places and objects - don’t always affect me in the same way. Sometimes, they’ve made me inconsolably sad. Other times, they make me nostalgic and happy for the life we had. Some things, like the jar of coffee, will be used up eventually. Other things, like the places we enjoyed going together, will always be there - and will probably always be bittersweet for me.
Grief seems like a journey through an unfamiliar landscape, in many ways. Sometimes a song, a scent, a place, will remind me of Sami. At the risk of seeming trite, sometimes I’m reminded of the Ted Kleszewiski quote about hitting a baseball:
“How hard is hitting? You ever walk into a pitch-black room full of furniture that you’ve never been in before and try to walk through it without bumping into anything? Well, it’s harder than that.”
In the 10-plus years I played baseball as a kid, I was never a great hitter. But navigating grief seems much much harder than hitting a baseball. I’ve stubbed my toes frequently. My shins are bruised.
But sometimes - more now than 19 months ago - memories bring smiles. A place we both enjoyed can bring me happiness. An object that Sami touched can make me smile. Seeing Sami’s handwriting (on a recipe, or on an envelope) brings back good memories. Maybe the actual journey through these memories - through my grief - helps me navigate more confidently. Maybe I’m feeling my way through a new geography.
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