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.