tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35792425893722093412024-03-18T22:26:27.250-07:00Foothill AgrarianThoughts about sustainable agriculture and forestry from the Sierra Nevada foothills.FlyingMulehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08319140214676274456noreply@blogger.comBlogger973125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-84762343343256457032024-03-04T18:46:00.000-08:002024-03-04T18:46:45.271-08:00Springtime Already?!<span id="docs-internal-guid-ad920511-7fff-1610-f308-a898fe4d4c96"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8e0BI5gl_AE1DIh-ztCOVPqOvG3kOd8jKMq2sgehKgDAIZ1Z4aK4KvoaJzsK20RPNND3m-5XUZFhshwnr2oGhGb8MS4Nf3-9jraLpg_eiiaui1lKSGSWN2oBbS2RHNOufUSB7bzw2thW5HDPPuOLARW00YLIR8FsPg8_rL-TTPoTb2jCU_KOnq7Ai4UC/s5712/IMG_3276.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5712" data-original-width="4284" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8e0BI5gl_AE1DIh-ztCOVPqOvG3kOd8jKMq2sgehKgDAIZ1Z4aK4KvoaJzsK20RPNND3m-5XUZFhshwnr2oGhGb8MS4Nf3-9jraLpg_eiiaui1lKSGSWN2oBbS2RHNOufUSB7bzw2thW5HDPPuOLARW00YLIR8FsPg8_rL-TTPoTb2jCU_KOnq7Ai4UC/w300-h400/IMG_3276.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Last spring, as we were adjusting to the realities of Sami’s glioblastoma diagnosis - to treatment schedules, symptom management, the possibility of enrolling in a clinical trial at UCSF, and to preparing our home for Sami’s eventual incapacity - </span><a href="https://flyingmule.blogspot.com/2023/04/time.html" style="text-decoration-line: none; text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I wrote that time was not behaving normally</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. This week - nearly seven months after Sami’s passing, time continues to operate inconsistently. Last night, as I was walking back from the barn after feeding the mules and gathering eggs, I realized springtime was quickly approaching (indeed, it was already here). The days are again getting longer. The grass is growing. The ewes are finished lambing. How could all of this be, with Sami gone from the world?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I look back at the seven months without Sami, I’m struck by the paradox of feeling like I’ve been incredibly busy while standing perfectly still. After Sami passed, I helped Emma move back to Idaho to start her junior year of college. I went to Sonora twice to see family. I drove to Siskiyou County to help a colleague with a workshop. I filled my deer tag in Colfax. I traveled back to Moscow for Emma’s logging sports competition, and later to Las Cruces to see Lara. We planned and held a Celebration of Life for Sami, and then went to Monterey for Christmas. In the new year, I traveled to Denver, Moscow (again), and Sparks, Nevada. I turned the rams in with the ewes in September, harvested my finished lambs in October, and lambed out the ewes in January and February. I bought a sawmill and started learning to use it. During that timeframe, I also worked on setting Sami’s financial and business affairs. Thankfully, the estate planning we’d done made this job easier, but I still needed to meet with attorneys, bankers, and accountants (not to mention DMV) during the fall months. This week, I reached out to our CPA about our 2023 taxes.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I’m normally very in tune with the changing seasons. I always look forward to the first day in August that feels as though fall is approaching. The day I turn the rams in with the ewes feels like the first day of the Sheep New Year - followed shortly thereafter by the appearance of Sandhill cranes flying south. As late September gives way to October, the cooler nights make me think of hunting. The shorter days and longer nights of November and December mean Christmas and the Solstice are approaching; my tradition of maintaining my wood-handled tools on New Year’s Eve makes me feel like I’m ready for a new year of working outdoors. And lambing usually coincides with the northward return of the cranes. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Looking back now, I feel like the seasons changed without me this year - disconcerting and reassuring at the same time. I noticed all of these things, I think, as they were happening, but I feel a bit like I’m waking up again after sleepwalking my way through winter. Also, while the list above suggests that I’ve been busy, I feel like there are many chores I’ve been avoiding. Last weekend, I finally cleaned the far side of the dining table, where all of the leftover cups, plates, and supplies from Sami’s Celebration had been sitting since December. The desk in the kitchen, however, is still a disaster - piled high with unread books, notecards, and hats that I’ve worn off and on all winter. The garage is similarly disheveled.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Some of why I kept so busy over the last seven months, I suspect, was a way to avoid feeling sad. On the other hand, I realized this week (again) that I’d been grieving since late January 2023, when we learned that Sami had a mass on her brain. In my cleaning frenzy over the weekend, I found the pocket notebooks I’d kept during Sami’s treatment, along with a notebook that Sami kept early on in the process (while she was still able to take notes). Glancing through these, I realized how heavily the uncertainty and anxiety weighed on all of us. Perhaps what seemed like sleepwalking has really been my internal processing of everything that happened to us. Rather than observing the world around me (which has been a lifelong habit), I’ve been reflecting on my internal landscape.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Recently, this inward focus has resulted in some external brain fog, I think. I find myself missing meetings, or mixing up dates. I know I’ve been a frustrating colleague because of this - I’m frustrated with myself. But I seem to need to look inward at the moment, sometimes to the exclusion of anything else.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Indeed, much of my inward focus has been on reliving the 202 days between Sami’s first symptoms and her eventual passing. While we were living through that period of time, I was concentrating on one crisis after another - surgery, recovery, another surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, doctor’s visits. I’m realizing now that my introspection is part of my process of making sense of what just occurred.<br /></span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I was considering whether to accept a job transfer back to the counties where my family lives, my sister told me she thought I was courageous for even considering such a move. At about the same time, a bereavement counselor provided by Hospice suggested that making big decisions within a year of a loss like ours was inadvisable. Last week, I read that “courage is the ability to experience fear but not be overwhelmed by it.” As I’ve thought about these last few weeks, I’ve decided that I don’t feel particularly courageous. While Sami was sick, I simply tried to do what needed to be done. Now that she’s gone, I’ve simply tried to put one foot in front of the other. Some days I succeed; some days I don’t move at all (or at least I feel that way).</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Late last week, I spoke with the counselor again. We talked about the concept of moving forward versus moving “on” from grief. I know there are people in my circle who think I need to move on - but (as I’ve written often since last August), moving on from 35 years of relationship doesn’t feel right to me. My relationship with Sami will always be part of who I am - in working to move forward, I feel like I need to be able to carry that part of who I am (and who we were) with me. But I also realized last week that I’m still searching for direction - in which direction does “forward” lie? I’m hoping that my move to be closer to family, to a job that allows me to refocus on my curiosity and teaching ability (rather than my administrative responsibilities), will provide some direction. In the meantime, I am trying to enjoy the signs of spring - the daffodils blooming and the lilac buds swelling, the sounds of nuthatches in the blue oaks when I take my morning walk, the gamboling lambs in my sheep pasture. Some days this is easy to do; some days I still fail to see these things entirely.</span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vgxgNCnypwuk6REB7l9_8ek1DJobJsTZZvvLBZhVQLk1d02bFN_dvTejxr59QZxzYYZvd1S_bT7lb7QbHiirFciD0ZkAurM15Vgm3fPW3vdkbVYfktLeHbgEaL6p-6Hh6c_vzzZv4nO9-S2WuViM1iTY_Hh1TTlo1vZVaeDo94pOOZdbcfDE1QcHmFpQ/s4032/IMG_3334.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vgxgNCnypwuk6REB7l9_8ek1DJobJsTZZvvLBZhVQLk1d02bFN_dvTejxr59QZxzYYZvd1S_bT7lb7QbHiirFciD0ZkAurM15Vgm3fPW3vdkbVYfktLeHbgEaL6p-6Hh6c_vzzZv4nO9-S2WuViM1iTY_Hh1TTlo1vZVaeDo94pOOZdbcfDE1QcHmFpQ/w480-h640/IMG_3334.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-72371918876756408092024-02-27T18:46:00.000-08:002024-02-27T18:46:14.989-08:00From OUR to MY<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-c2e19ba1-ed98-b4ec-f348-49a5e813d295" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">During the Holidays, I jokingly told my coworkers that I couldn’t host a party because a bachelor had moved into my house. At the risk of perpetuating gender roles, what I really meant was that my house was in no condition to host guests because I hadn’t kept it as clean as Sami and I generally did together. To be fair (to myself), this reflected a loss of the division of labor we enjoyed during our marriage! And also to be fair (to both of us), neither Sami nor I were ever great housekeepers! But since Sami’s passing, I’ve also realized that I’ve become uncertain about when to use the words “we,” “our,” and “us” versus “I,” “my,” and “me.”</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a married couple, Sami and I both had possessions and activities that were our own, as well as possessions and activities that were ours together. I drove MY truck to check on MY sheep. Sami hauled HER mule in HER horse trailer. I took MY rifle to go hunting, hoping for venison to fill OUR freezer. Sami used HER power tools to make repairs in OUR barn. But the house was OURS - the place where we raised OUR daughters. I took care of OUR yard; Sami did OUR grocery shopping.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Since August, though, I’ve struggled with whether I should say, “I’m going to visit our (or my) daughter,” or “We’re (I’m) so proud of Emma and Lara.” Should I say “our” mules? Or “my” mules? After 33 years of “we,” I find that saying “I” is difficult.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some things now, obviously, are purely mine - MY laundry, MY garbage, MY shopping list. Some of these had been mine even before Sami got sick - for example, when Emma left for college, I started doing my own laundry (I think Sami was happy not to mix my sheepy-smelling clothes with hers). Some became purely mine as the only person in the house - I generate half of the garbage that we generated before. Some I’m learning how to do - shopping for one is much different than shopping for two.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But most of what’s important to me remains OURS. Lara and Emma will always be OUR daughters. The people who have been so supportive throughout this process will always be OUR friends (even if they were originally Sami’s friends, or mine). The house I’m sitting in as I write this is OUR house, filled with OUR furniture. And with OUR memories.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This realization makes my decision to sell this house and move closer to MY family difficult in some ways. The house I move to will be MINE (our perhaps OURS - I find myself considering how Lara and Emma will like the homes I’ve looked at, but that’s a slightly different OURS). For my daughters, I’m sure, it will be difficult not to come home to the house in which they grew up. As much as we say home is not so much a physical structure as a place in our hearts, not returning to their own rooms will be hard.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, even though OURS, US, and WE is still in my vocabulary, I stumble on these words. They remind me that I’m on my own now. They remind me that while I’ll always be Sami’s husband, and Lara and Emma’s dad, that I’m also someone different now. I’ve always been ME, but for 35 years, I was also US.</span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-995223456020457342024-02-22T14:32:00.000-08:002024-02-22T14:32:01.088-08:00More Changes Ahead<p><b><i>Cross-posted and adapted from my <a href="https://ucanr.edu/blogs/RanchingintheFoothills/index.cfm" target="_blank">Ranching in the Sierra Foothills</a> blog...</i></b> </p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As anyone who has read this blog at all in the last 12 months knows, 2023 was an incredibly difficult year for my family and me. My wife of 33 years, Samia, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of brain cancer last February. After two surgeries, chemo- and radiation-therapy, and an extended stay in the hospital at UCSF, she passed away at home in mid-August.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Despite the enormity of my family's loss, we have been so fortunate to be part of the foothill agricultural community. Family, friends, colleagues, and even folks we barely knew, offered support throughout last year – my freezers were full of food, my woodshed was full of firewood, and my barn was full of hay. I am humbled. Thank you.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">All of which makes the decision I recently made even more difficult. One of the things I realized during Sami's illness was how important it was to do everything I could to allow her to be home as long as possible (in her case, ultimately until the very end). While I'm fortunate that my own parents are still living in the house in which I grew up (in Sonora, California), I have realized that being even just three hours away presented a challenge with respect to helping them.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In January, my livestock and natural resources colleague in the Central Sierra UC Cooperative Extension office (covering El Dorado County south to Tuolumne County), Dr. Flavie Audoin, left to become the Assistant Specialist in Plant-Herbivore Interactions and Targeted Grazing at the University of Arizona – her dream job! At my request, UCCE is facilitating my transfer to the Central Sierra region effective October 1, 2024. UCCE will also refill my position here (covering Placer, Nevada, Sutter, and Yuba Counties) – hopefully before I leave.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">As you might imagine, this has not been an easy decision. I've lived in Placer County for 30 years; Samia and I raised our children in Auburn, and I've had the good fortune to work with and become part of an incredible farming and ranching community here. But I'm also grateful that UCCE is providing me with the opportunity to come back to the part of the foothills where I grew up – to continue doing work that I love while being closer to my family.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In my seven years as a livestock and natural resources advisor here in Placer-Nevada-Sutter-Yuba, I have focused my research and extension programs on livestock-predator interactions, drought management and disaster resilience, targeted grazing systems, rangeland prescribed fire, and economic sustainability. While many of these issues are relevant to ranchers and land managers throughout the Sierra region, I look forward to working with the ranching community in Central Sierra to better understand their specific priorities and needs. And I will continue to share information on ranching topics through my <a href="https://ucanr.edu/blogs/RanchingintheFoothills/" style="color: black;">Ranching in the Sierra Foothills blog</a> and our <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/0wu6MF1PIBbcwp9zrJCVqI" style="color: black;">Sheep Stuff Ewe Should Know podcast</a>. So, while my home office (and my home base) will change, I look forward to remaining a part of the larger Sierra Nevada ranching and rangeland communities.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In the meantime, my extension and research work will go on – we have workshops on fire, agricultural technology, and sheep health management planned through the spring and early summer. Our Tahoe Cattlemen's Association Spring Ranch Tour is set for May 4 (stay tuned for details!). We have targeted grazing workshops and research projects on tap. If you'd like more information about any of this, please contact me at <a href="mailto:dmacon@ucanr.edu" style="color: black;">dmacon@ucanr.edu</a>!</p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-41499562264007122422024-02-17T17:37:00.000-08:002024-02-17T17:37:42.975-08:00Doldrums<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">February has probably always been my least favorite winter month - a colder, drearier July (my least favorite summer month). In January, I’m still basking in the glow of the holidays. In March, the onset of spring is evident. February’s only redeeming qualities are the Presidents Day holiday and new lambs. Thankfully, it’s a short month!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This February seems especially dreary. A year ago, Sami had her second craniotomy, and we finally learned that the “mass” on her brain was indeed glioblastoma. And six months ago, Sami passed. Last month, I got to see both of our daughters at the Society for Range Management conference in Reno. This month, I’m back to coming home each night to an empty house.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dictionary.com defines doldrums as “a state of inactivity or stagnation” - pretty much how I feel at the moment. I feel old - widower is a term that feels old. I feel listless - I come home from work thinking I should work on cleaning the house or cook a hearty dinner. Some nights I do; mostly, I seem to collapse into my recliner after a simple meal. And wake up the next morning to do it all again.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But today, a seed catalog showed up in my mailbox. March - and springtime - is around the corner. And then April and garden-planting time. Not to mention baseball on the radio. And trout season. The sweet spot in the sheep year is approaching - after all the lambs are born but before I need to irrigate. Maybe next week, I’ll get caught up on dusting, mopping, and cleaning the bathrooms.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m grateful that there are only 12 more days this month. Grief and loss, at least for me, seems to intensify my emotions - especially my lows. February is always a low point - even more so this year.</span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-26364591737360141352024-02-12T11:19:00.000-08:002024-02-12T11:19:25.928-08:00Lambing Alone<span id="docs-internal-guid-8915927d-7fff-8f55-5e25-d60702f8124f"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NbFSWH48l2D9uVIXbfgSsm3VW5hz8WZfBoyLd1E3lBSA9e3zzItOSebzMZ06OJgg3f52crgYw7DXA-xhZ74cKvapwgqatEHcLC9lc-41IyDEQDOKc3lVc1wC93uaw80Z_Mj4OxbJdSPVRyMmqyoThlgw5zJ5vmOfqimOMAXI85aQvUQxwEoxVmVW5tX0/s1920/bottle%20lamb%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NbFSWH48l2D9uVIXbfgSsm3VW5hz8WZfBoyLd1E3lBSA9e3zzItOSebzMZ06OJgg3f52crgYw7DXA-xhZ74cKvapwgqatEHcLC9lc-41IyDEQDOKc3lVc1wC93uaw80Z_Mj4OxbJdSPVRyMmqyoThlgw5zJ5vmOfqimOMAXI85aQvUQxwEoxVmVW5tX0/w300-h400/bottle%20lamb%201.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Throughout our 33 years of marriage, Sami and I both had our own separate professional pursuits. She was always a veterinarian and a mom. I was an agricultural lobbyist, a land trust executive director, a USDA employee, a land trust executive (again), a farmers market vegetable grower, a firewood cutter, and, ultimately, a shepherd. And, certainly, a dad! But we both had our separate things - we parented together, but we worked (largely) separately. Except at lambing time.</span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sami, I think, always viewed my sheep herding aspirations somewhat skeptically. Like me, she loved raising livestock. Unlike me, she had a clear understanding of what it would take to make a living at it. Ultimately, she was right - I never did achieve a scale of operation sufficient to make a decent living solely from raising sheep. Her realism ultimately resulted in my returning to school for a masters degree - and my eventual landing in cooperative extension. And it seemed, once I realized my sheep raising habit could be a part-time gig, she embraced the idea of co-owning Flying Mule Sheep Company!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But from the point where we established our small-scale commercial sheep enterprise, Sami was in charge of raising bottle lambs. She loved animals, and she especially loved baby animals. Even before we dove into the sheep business, we (mostly she) raised a bottle calf that our friends Jack and Darcy Hanson gave us! She named him Brutus!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">(Memories are interesting things, aren’t they - I distinctly remember meeting Jack and Darcy in Dutch Flat to pick up the calf (probably in 1994 or 1995). As I drove the stretch of I-80 between Auburn and Dutch Flat last week, I recalled hauling Brutus in a big dog crate in the back of my old Ford.)</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">We bought 27 ewes in 2005, breeding them to lamb in February and March of 2006. We grazed them at Loma Rica Ranch in Grass Valley - and it seemed to snow every two weeks during our entire 8-week lambing season. On March 17, we had our first bottle lamb - a ram lamb that the women in my office named Patrick (it was St. Patrick’s Day, after all). I can’t remember why he had to come home (probably because his mother couldn’t count to one), but I do remember Sami bottle-feeding him every 3 hours for that first week. And I remember how much Lara and Emma loved having a lamb in the house!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Over the years, Sami developed her own system for raising bummers. If they were cold, they’d go under the wood stove wrapped in a warm towel and atop a heating pad. Many nights, we’d go to bed with a half-dead lamb on the hearth, only to wake up to the lamb walking around the living room squawking for its mother. She would go out of her way to get raw sheep’s milk or goat’s milk rather than use milk replacer. And she would name them all - Patrick was the first, but by no means the last bummer who earned a name.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This lambing season, I’m on my own for the first time. Yesterday, during my evening check, I came up on two ewes who’d both given birth to triplets in close proximity to one another. One lamb had been born dead, another had been abandoned. And the four healthy lambs were nursing off both ewes interchangeably. I decided to trust the ewes to sort out the healthy lambs on their own; I took the abandoned lamb home and put him next to the wood stove. About the time I was ready to go to bed, the lamb decided he wanted to live - and so I gave him a bottle every 3-4 hours during the night!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This morning, a Facebook friend from Lincoln responded to a post offering a bottle lamb, and off he went to his new home. I’m glad I saved his life, but I simply don’t have the bandwidth to raise bummers this year. Part of this is a reflection of working full time and ranching part time; part of it is that I’m all by myself this year for the first time in more than three decades.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But I’m finding a deeper meaning in my desire not to keep any bottle lambs this year. Today, just a year after Sami’s second brain surgery, and six months (tomorrow) after she passed away while I held her hand at home, I find that the weight of the decisions I had to make in the last twelve months is still heavy on my mind.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In some ways, I regret breeding my ewes to lamb this year. Lambing season usually brings me great joy, but this year’s lambing has been more difficult than I expected - not due to weather or dystocias or other problems with the sheep, but because I miss getting to talk to Sami. I miss having someone with whom I can troubleshoot problems, someone with whom to share the daily ups and downs. I miss watching Sami care for lambs in the living room.</span></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLShwkyzo7QV_ogdoZmXF6bPX_o46LguAV5RbQybAvrxhvYgSRh9Aq4oS59ZnxrCBiVveN3XysDffSdWqsYWL4EVbqY-Ogy_P817TQQBPKmrBXrKwwwmXkiZwWeII-4MVUkU8H1atwy8cER-16C2OHrIV1FhDVqmgDCHXou8_upeZJdwbIrKG_H0PG8GY/s1920/bottle%20lamb%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLShwkyzo7QV_ogdoZmXF6bPX_o46LguAV5RbQybAvrxhvYgSRh9Aq4oS59ZnxrCBiVveN3XysDffSdWqsYWL4EVbqY-Ogy_P817TQQBPKmrBXrKwwwmXkiZwWeII-4MVUkU8H1atwy8cER-16C2OHrIV1FhDVqmgDCHXou8_upeZJdwbIrKG_H0PG8GY/w480-h640/bottle%20lamb%202.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-89176666188750251122024-01-22T10:51:00.000-08:002024-01-22T10:51:58.910-08:0052 Weeks<span id="docs-internal-guid-9bd40c06-7fff-e9d4-2c45-239c1b3222f4"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A year ago today, Sami and I left Las Cruces a few minutes before 7 a.m., headed for Reserve, New Mexico (for a lunch meeting) and ultimately for Flagstaff, Arizona (our halfway point on our drive home from visiting Lara). The desert sunrise was notable; I still have a photo on my phone, taken from Lara’s front steps. Sami slept off and on as we made our way through Silver City and along the Gila River, which she often did during long trips. While we ate lunch, snow started falling, making the drive into Arizona slippery. Driving a road I’d never driven before, through the snow, required all of my concentration; I finally relaxed a bit when conditions improved north of Alpine, Arizona.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I relaxed, I began to notice that Sami was having difficulty finishing sentences. She’d start to say something and then trail off before she could finish her thought. As the afternoon wore on, I grew frustrated with her - she seemed so distracted. When we arrived in Flagstaff after dark, we checked into our hotel and walked next door to grab dinner. I asked her what was going on - what was wrong. “Nothing,” she insisted, “I’m just tired.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">We pulled out of Flagstaff early the next morning. Interstate 40 was icy, so I drove first. We switched seats in Kingman, and Sami drove us into California. The weather cleared, but the wind was blowing - we joked that the wind was pushing the truck around, making it hard for Sami to stay in her lane. Somewhere between Needles and Barstow, I got behind the wheel again, taking us through Bakersfield. By the time Sami started driving again near Tulare, it was late afternoon. She was still having trouble finishing a thought, and trouble staying in her lane of traffic on Highway 99. We called Emma in Idaho, putting her on speaker phone - Sami didn’t say much.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">We reached Merced and a confusing stretch of roadwork after dark. Sami exited the freeway and asked me to drive. We had trouble figuring out how to get back on the freeway; Sami was confused by what Google Maps was telling us to do. I, of course, grew frustrated again.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sometime after 8 p.m., we pulled into our driveway. Since we’d been gone more than a week, the house was cold. Sami said she’d unload the truck if I’d work on getting a fire going in the wood stove and feed the animals. She stopped unpacking about halfway through, telling me she was tired. I grumbled my way through unloading the rest of the truck. We went to bed.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The next day (Wednesday), I went back to work. Sami stayed home to put things away and return phone calls. She still had difficulty finding words (a condition we would soon learn was called aphasia). On Thursday morning, we both arose around 5 a.m. Sami said she felt nauseous. I left to move sheep. When I returned home around 8:30, Sami was sitting in front of the wood stove. She said, “I just passed out. I thought I was going to be sick, so I went into the bathroom. I came to on the floor. I don’t know what happened.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I insisted that she try calling her doctor. When she couldn’t get through, we decided to go to the emergency room. After running a series of tests, the doctor thought she had some type of aortic aneurysm, and since she’d fainted, the doctor suspended her driver’s license.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">That evening, Sami had a fair board meeting she didn’t want to miss. I took her to her meeting, picking her up when it was over. We talked about the meeting, and Sami noted that she’d had difficulty writing (she was right-handed). We both thought that was odd.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Friday morning, I had to leave for work early. By this time, all of us were very worried. Lara and I talked while I was driving to work, and we made Sami agree that we would check in on her every half hour or so while I was gone. When I got home that afternoon, we finally heard from Sami’s doctor, who found the neurological symptoms (aphasia and writing difficulties) concerning. She told us to go back to the ER, and she called ahead to talk to the doctor. As we walked from the parking lot, I remarked that Sami seemed to be dragging her right foot. Later that night, the doctor told us a CT scan had revealed a mass on Sami’s left frontal lobe. He had referred her to a larger hospital for an MRI as soon as possible. By 10:30 the next morning, Sami was being prepped for what was to be the first of two brain surgeries. Just 202 days after we started home from New Mexico, Sami passed away from glioblastoma.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Even a year later, this six day stretch of time seems so clear - and so surreal. When we got into the truck on that January morning, I was excited to see new country, and nervous about the snow in the forecast. When we arrived in Flagstaff, I was relieved to be off the icy roads and annoyed with Sami for being so distracted. Annoyance gave way to anxiety and uncertainty, as we began to realize that something was seriously wrong. And then my memory grows a bit fuzzier; the two weeks between her first surgery and her second are far less clear, as is the rest of 2023.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sami recovered from her first craniotomy and returned home. Lara and Emma returned to their homes, too. And then Sami felt worse - just 16 days after her first surgery, she was back in the hospital. And just 18 days later, she underwent a second craniotomy. My next clear memories are of the second surgeon telling us she had glioblastoma, and of sitting next to her in the neuro ICU after she’d come out of surgery on February 15. She held my left hand all night, rubbing the knuckles raw with her thumb. We were both so scared.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Looking back at all of this a year later makes me think how naive I was. On that Monday morning, we both expected that life would simply go on as it had been going. We were in our mid fifties and (we thought) in decent health. Sami was training for a half marathon in March. I was looking forward to lambing season in mid February. We were both figuring we’d settle back into our work routines upon returning from a wonderful trip.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Today, 52 weeks later, I find myself searching for lessons. Cliches like, “take life a day at a time,” and “live every day like it’s your last,” resonate to some degree, but they fail to acknowledge the magnitude of what our family experienced. I also find myself thinking about how Sami experienced those weeks after we returned from our trip. As much as I try to put myself in her shoes, I know I’ll never truly understand what she was feeling. And I find myself wondering who and where I’ll be 52 weeks from today. I guess that might be one of the lessons of this past year - none of us really know.</span> </p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSP8qtKVrRHvNqDykAWgN0Jojx9Ge7r6dJy28RI1Ug_9VGHF_EWAQ_lP78kVnkdh9pShCRsrdHUqmhyphenhyphenpyS-5M40zhlYImDYtil3z7IpSJ6cJch6kFq0mn1TQSTYsa-DgdmYr5nqYXWA8Lk-FzZKorRo28PQZ86AxLNRp4Cp5Yfq3G3V0_uvSCSsboK9fB/s1920/thumbnail_IMG_0889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSP8qtKVrRHvNqDykAWgN0Jojx9Ge7r6dJy28RI1Ug_9VGHF_EWAQ_lP78kVnkdh9pShCRsrdHUqmhyphenhyphenpyS-5M40zhlYImDYtil3z7IpSJ6cJch6kFq0mn1TQSTYsa-DgdmYr5nqYXWA8Lk-FzZKorRo28PQZ86AxLNRp4Cp5Yfq3G3V0_uvSCSsboK9fB/w400-h300/thumbnail_IMG_0889.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-26670865885874429502024-01-19T20:05:00.000-08:002024-01-19T20:05:09.847-08:00All In<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve always admired those people who go “all in” on something. Who train and work at a skill and become incredibly proficient. I’m not talking about athletes or professional musicians (although there are some among these folks who I admire) - I’m talking about buckaroos. Loggers. Cabinet makers. Sheepherders.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Becoming great at anything, I think, takes drive, dedication, and focus - and 10,000 hours of work, according to Malcom Gladwell! But becoming good at caring for livestock on rangeland, or falling trees safely and efficiently, or crafting useful and beautiful furniture, takes more than that, I believe. Going all in, in any of these occupations, requires a sense of place. A sense of the aesthetic. A sense of how others will use the end product of one’s work. And lots of sweat.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have never been able to focus enough to go “all in” on one particular set of skills. In high school, my favorite classes were woodshop and drafting - even though I knew I wanted to go to college to study agricultural economics. My woodshop teacher even nominated me for a Bank of America award in applied arts - my presentation focused on the value of skills like woodworking and welding - “arts” that improve our everyday lives. I didn’t “win,” but I did get a small scholarship!</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I’ve grown older, I’ve tried to learn skills like falling trees, milling lumber, roping calves, shearing sheep, and farming vegetables. At some of these, I’ve been reasonably successful - I’m pretty good at lambing out ewes, for example. At some, I struggle - I’m not a great logger, nor am I a great roper. But I’ve enjoyed the learning process. I’ve enjoyed trying to understand the combination of intellectual knowledge and physical skill. I’ve enjoyed embracing my own curiosity and fallibility.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve also enjoyed learning a bit more about what it takes to become proficient at the skills in which I’ve only dabbled. I’ve come to understand that some things can only be learned by doing - falling a tree in the right direction and in a way that preserves the log requires lots of mistakes. Roping a calf safely and gently requires lots of misses, and probably a few wrecks. From experience, I know that lambing out a bunch of ewes will inevitably come with a whole bunch of problems!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ultimately, I suppose I’ve tried to be a jack of all trades - and I’ve ended up being a master of none. But my attempts to understand the work involved in housing, clothing, and feeding all of us have given me a greater appreciation for the skills involved. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone “all in.”</span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-6742793187271012742024-01-16T14:31:00.000-08:002024-01-16T14:31:17.761-08:00What I Didn't Know Then...<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Against the Wind</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, Bob Seger sings, “I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.” I’ve always liked that line - sometimes, gaining wisdom from life experiences is painful. There are some lessons I wish I didn’t have to learn - and I would certainly count most of the lessons I learned in 2023 in that category. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-2cc69c5a-7fff-479e-2c87-2b428efb260a"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I traveled to Denver last week to participate in the American Sheep Industry Association annual conference, as I’ve done every year since at least 2016. Last year’s meeting was in Fort Worth, and I realized as I was driving to the airport, last year’s conference was the last normal week we had. I left Sami at Lara’s house in Las Cruces to fly to Fort Worth; I returned to Las Cruces to Sami waiting up late for me. We enjoyed a wonderful weekend of hiking, barbecuing, and pecan harvesting. When I look back on who I was the last time I participated in this conference, I was so naive about many things - I didn’t know what glioblastoma was. I didn’t know how to respond to a grand mal seizure. I didn’t know how to help care for someone who couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t know I’d be returning from this year’s conference to a cold and empty house.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">At one point during the first day of this year’s conference, I felt sadness building up inside me. I felt the need to be alone - I find that sometimes my grief needs company, while other times I need to sit with it by myself. Some days, I’m extroverted; other days I’m introverted. Losing Sami doesn’t seem to have changed that - and the grieving process for me seems to reflect this oscillation. In some ways, I think, grieving has intensified these extremes for me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I started the second day of the conference by having breakfast with my friend Cat Urbigkit from Wyoming. We always have great conversations - usually about sheep and livestock guardian dogs. But Cat has also had close experience with glioblastoma (we had talked while Sami was sick, which I found immensely helpful). Last week, she reminded me that I have a choice about what parts of my life with Sami I choose to relive. In the five months since Sami passed, I have found that I mostly relive the hard moments of her disease. Cat reminded me that I would need to work to relive the happy moments of the life I shared with Sami (and there were many). And so here’s one….</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sami loved collecting coffee mugs (you might say she horded them - much like I horde pocket knives and hats). At some point last spring, the girls helped me clean out the coffee mug cabinet - even with four or five of us in the house, we figured we didn’t need two shelves full of coffee cup options. Some of these mugs went to Goodwill; others ended up in Emma’s apartment. This morning, as I took down a mug to make a cup of coffee at Emma’s place in Idaho, I saw Sami’s mugs. I would have been sad to see these three months ago. This morning, while I did feel a pang of melancholy, the mugs brought back happy memories of Sami drinking Maxwell House Cafe Francais instant coffee (what our family always referred to as “Mom Coffee”). I laughed to myself about her habit of leaving a half-full mug in the microwave - “I might want some later,” she’d say.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">If I concentrate, I find that I can recall brief moments of light and laughter we experienced even after we learned of Sami’s diagnosis. Reliving the uncertainty of Sami’s early symptoms, the anxiety of waiting for a diagnosis after her first brain surgery, the cycles of hope and despair we experienced during her radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and the ultimate sadness of the progression of her brain cancer during the summer months, come easy. Remembering how happy she was when we remodeled the porch and planted flowers is more difficult. Remembering the weeks when I slept in the living room so that she could sleep better in bed - when she awakened me each morning by squeezing my big toe on her way to make her morning “Mom Coffee” is challenging - but far more rewarding.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Perhaps this is the difference between moving forward and moving on. As I’ve written previously, moving on simply doesn’t describe the process of grieving for me. I don’t want to move on - Sami and I spent 35 years together, 33 of them as husband and wife - this will always be part of who I am. I do want to move forward - I want to cherish the good times we spent together, and learn from the hard times (and make no mistake, there were hard times that had nothing to do with Sami’s glioblastoma - any couple who stays together for that long will have hard times!). Celebrating Sami’s life before Christmas was an important part of this process for me (which I am realizing as time goes on). Seeing a hall full of people who shared happy memories of Sami - who have supported our family throughout this process - helped me fully appreciate the impact Sami had on our community. Hearing others share happy memories of Sami helped remind me to relive ALL of our life together, not just the last 12 months. That said, I would still rather be ignorant of glioblastoma. I still wish that I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.</span></p></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-14450809740819889522024-01-02T17:42:00.000-08:002024-01-02T21:08:03.367-08:00Random Thoughts on Grief, Celebration, and Facing a New Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjlut1ot3wcCH48Im0IF-6emTGMfWuficY9i6SvjSp-A5LN-4ltxApbMKfq3Hz9UAz-iAws0q6lecO8VfDCTzh9QNi6pcb9fzk01Jgz3N9nu1BCp8AQeO1Orrj3yVpVNvZ3F8AGWj4q0WSeNLqBhlk4V2EwnQEsHE14Ph1cyA8DjFt5_5vnlI1fOKbiwv/s1600/image000000.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjlut1ot3wcCH48Im0IF-6emTGMfWuficY9i6SvjSp-A5LN-4ltxApbMKfq3Hz9UAz-iAws0q6lecO8VfDCTzh9QNi6pcb9fzk01Jgz3N9nu1BCp8AQeO1Orrj3yVpVNvZ3F8AGWj4q0WSeNLqBhlk4V2EwnQEsHE14Ph1cyA8DjFt5_5vnlI1fOKbiwv/w400-h300/image000000.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As the holiday season winds down and a new year begins, I continue to reflect on my experiences over the last year - on Sami’s sudden illness, on her treatment and ultimate passing, on being a father of children who’ve lost their mother while grieving myself, on finding myself suddenly alone. And on what moving forward looks like. <div><br /></div><div>We celebrated Sami’s life with our family and community two days before Christmas. I wrote previously about the stress of worrying whether we’d have enough food and about trying to remind myself that I wasn’t throwing a party (rather, I was creating a time and place for us all to celebrate and remember Sami). As probably everyone but me predicted, my worries were entirely unfounded. Looking out on a completely full hall at the Gold Country Fairgrounds - a hall full of people who loved Sami and who love my family - was both humbling and comforting. Looking at all of the leftover food was daunting! Looking back ten days later, I know that part of the relief I feel is simply having the event behind us, but my sense of comfort is more profound. Sami touched so many lives. The celebration included friends from throughout our marriage, and gave us all an opportunity to reconnect. I’m so glad we held a celebration rather than a funeral - and I know that Sami is, too. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the day after the celebration, we drove to Monterey Bay. The girls and I felt like we wanted to be somewhere other than home for Christmas; I felt like I needed to be at the ocean, where Sami’s cremated remains had been placed. On Christmas morning, we took our dogs to the rocky coast near Lover’s Point in Pacific Grove. At a sandy beach, I waded into the ocean - several months ago, someone had told me, “Sami’s molecules are still here - all around us,” and I felt the need to be in the ocean. As I submerged myself entirely in the cold water, I felt Sami’s presence physically - I returned to the beach and cried. When I got in the water a second time, a swell engulfed me and lifted me off the ocean floor ever so slightly. I can’t explain it logically, but it felt like Sami was there, embracing me. I decided I wanted to be at the ocean on our anniversary in 2024. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later that afternoon, we took the dogs to Del Monte beach to play in the waves (which, as it turns out, Mae does not enjoy!). At one point, I noticed Mae looking intently at a woman who was walking past us 50 yards or so away. To me, and at that distance, she resembled Sami ever so slightly - and I wondered if Mae was thinking the same thing. Mae’s reaction made me think what Sami’s absence must be like for our animals - especially for the dogs and the mules. I’m not anthropomorphizing here, but I do know our animals enough to know that they’ve “noticed” that Sami is gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of animals, Lara remarked last week that the mules could probably use some more groceries during the winter months - she thought they looked a little thin. I find that seeing the world (including livestock condition) through someone else’s eyes is always helpful - I upped their hay ration. But it also made me wonder if there are other things I thought I was handling - keeping the house clean, preparing nutritious meals, keeping up with my bills - that I was fooling myself about. I expect I’ll need feedback about these things over the coming year, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>That brings me to “my” versus “our” - it was always our house, our daughters, our sheep - our life. Some things are now mine, but I still find myself saying “our” - I probably always will.</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, at least, the “stages” of grief and “moving on” don’t seem to describe my experience. I seem to oscillate between the “stages” - one day I’m angry, the next I’m sad. Some days I can accept being alone, other days I’m depressed by my solitude. From talking with friends who have experienced similar losses, I suspect my grief and its various manifestations will be with me the rest of my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>And “moving on” is simply bullshit - I don’t want to “move on.” I hope to move forward - to discover who I am now that Sami is gone. But I don’t know how one moves on from 35 years of relationship. For that entire time, part of my identity was “Sami’s significant other.” That is still - and always will be - part of how I think of myself. Moving forward, I’m sure there will be new elements of my identity, but “Sami’s husband” will remain.
</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, nearly five months after Sami’s passing - and nearly 12 months after we discovered something was horribly wrong, I’m beginning to understand what an awesome responsibility I assumed. Making medical decisions for someone else is incredibly stressful - the adrenaline of the crisis moments we experienced masked its intensity. I have no regrets, but I’m finding that the stress of this responsibility is leaving my body and my psyche slowly.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve tried talking with a grief/trauma therapist online. I’ve found these sessions moderately helpful - just talking about the last year with someone who is totally unattached is therapeutic. What’s more therapeutic, at least for me, is working with my hands at something that also engages my intellect. Operating my new Lucas portable sawmill has done me more good than anything else I’ve tried so far. The mill was more expensive than therapy, but I enjoy seeing what I’ve accomplished when I finishing operating it!</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0liFWTp0DHDSF5AhLXYYjRtecQynKNtViclsbj7nVHk6pSLEavUt-mCO5y_kwM5qgurtm_tT4763f1IkgQsPl_lc3NpB9dZNbGuyIPhCsZwVBcTvzQAHceQpnRXJuKJvpAQ5ygtaRKwyc6Hs7J4JZ2fENfsGbDtU9YrcUixVljpNbrhtfFv3CvtJ9Fp8/s4032/IMG_3038.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0liFWTp0DHDSF5AhLXYYjRtecQynKNtViclsbj7nVHk6pSLEavUt-mCO5y_kwM5qgurtm_tT4763f1IkgQsPl_lc3NpB9dZNbGuyIPhCsZwVBcTvzQAHceQpnRXJuKJvpAQ5ygtaRKwyc6Hs7J4JZ2fENfsGbDtU9YrcUixVljpNbrhtfFv3CvtJ9Fp8/s320/IMG_3038.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>All of this self-examination culminated in the physical act of turning my weather journal back to page one yesterday. Christmas without Sami was difficult, but I was able to cope. Celebrating Sami’s life before Christmas was filled with both sadness and joy. But realizing that I’m getting another year, while Sami isn’t, was incredibly hard for me.</div>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-31877618569806173642023-12-13T11:01:00.000-08:002023-12-13T11:01:57.567-08:00Our Last Normal Week<span id="docs-internal-guid-0f2bf2b0-7fff-6dfd-5f82-6bdb31d4ab2f"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBS8MmTOEf28MWsIrw7nVgFJYVlHeX_ZJe_OuHF2-u9b3MjJEEHe-HnJpFmIcPTYrBg8CIUa0hEk97QvoSORKNyfCer3gryGUgP1k579KmHXiBsgoeHEeCZ6Gj_Kz-mzKpGSpv5GNW1luAAqNLFXwGy65GgKWnwvMDr2DciMuQSytV7TcQ5H-td-wFGEa/s1920/sami%20Jan%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBS8MmTOEf28MWsIrw7nVgFJYVlHeX_ZJe_OuHF2-u9b3MjJEEHe-HnJpFmIcPTYrBg8CIUa0hEk97QvoSORKNyfCer3gryGUgP1k579KmHXiBsgoeHEeCZ6Gj_Kz-mzKpGSpv5GNW1luAAqNLFXwGy65GgKWnwvMDr2DciMuQSytV7TcQ5H-td-wFGEa/w300-h400/sami%20Jan%202023.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">January 2023 - near Las Cruces, NM</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Last Thursday, I traveled to Las Cruces, New Mexico, to visit my oldest daughter - our first visit since she returned home after Sami passed away in August. I was anxious to see her - and we had a great time! But as I prepared for my trip last week - as everything I did made me sad - I realized that this trip would also be difficult. I was returning to Las Cruces for the first time since Sami and I visited in late January 2023. Our last normal week.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In some ways, last January seems like a lifetime ago; in other ways, it feels like yesterday. The uncertainty we felt when Sami’s symptoms first appeared during our drive home from Las Cruces turned into anxiety when a CT scan showed a “mass” on her brain (just three days after we got home). And only 197 days after that second trip to the emergency room in late January, Sami died from glioblastoma.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I find that I can’t help but relive these last 11 months. Reliving the end of January is especially difficult - we had such a wonderful time in New Mexico, but our lives changed in an instant when we got home. We went from planning for lambing season in late February, and for a trip to see our youngest daughter compete in logging sports in April, to scheduling one (and then another) brain surgery. We went from going back to work after a wonderful trip to going to the hospital.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sleeping in Lara’s guest bedroom - where Sami and I had slept just 11 months before - wasn’t as difficult emotionally as I thought it might be. The old queen bed, with a trough in the middle, forced Sami and I to sleep close (which we both laughed about - and enjoyed); having the bed entirely to myself wasn’t as hard as I expected.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But I did find myself thinking about Sami’s final months. I awoke in the middle of the night several times, reliving our lengthy stay in San Francisco in June. One night, I dreamed that Sami called my name - I awoke before I learned what she wanted to tell me. I found myself stressing about Sami’s Celebration of Life just before Christmas - would we have enough food? Would our friends have fun? I keep trying to remind myself that we’re celebrating Sami’s life, not throwing a party. But even with the help of my family and of so many of our friends, I’m stressed.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">And so I feel entirely wrung out at the moment. The sadness I felt last week has turned to numbness yesterday as I traveled home from New Mexico. I’m looking forward to having both of the girls here by early next week. I look forward to remembering Sami as we decorate the house for Christmas. I look forward to taking some extended time away from work - to simply being with my kids and remembering my wife. I look forward to seeing so many friends and family on December 23.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I think about our trip to Las Cruces last January, I guess I’m amazed at how naive we were. We enjoyed each other’s company, thinking we’d continue to enjoy traveling together for years to come. We made plans for future trips. We talked about what we both hoped to do when we retired (Sami was a better planner than I - she would have been able to retire long before me). We talked about what we planned to do later in 2023. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Over the years, I have had several border collies that needed to be retired (for various reasons). In each case, I knew when I was working with them for the last time (and savored the moment). I suppose part of why I seem to relive the last 11 months is that I’m searching for lessons. I’m realizing that I couldn’t possibly know the last time Sami and I would do things together - like travel to see our daughters, or share a quiet moment together. I’m wondering, what did I learn about dying (and more importantly, about living)? I don’t know yet - I hope that someday, I will understand a bit of what we went through - even if I never understand why.</span></p><div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-87137760338544995952023-11-23T15:19:00.000-08:002023-11-23T15:19:10.069-08:00Grief and Gratitude<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-0790e543-fe79-a2c9-e788-66319bf6a98d" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I write this, I’m sitting in a poorly maintained Air BnB in Spokane, Washington, getting ready to cook Thanksgiving dinner with Emma and her boyfriend Karson. This is our first holiday without Samia - it’s the first holiday ever for Emma and Lara without their mother. We’re all sad today, but for me at least, there’s also some gratitude. There are reasons I’m thankful alongside my grief.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First, why Spokane? Emma is still in college - nearly halfway through her junior year at University of Idaho. This fall, she brought her dog Sage back to Moscow with her (which has been great for both of them). But having a dog also means flying home for a few days is out of the question. So I came up here. Sami and I drove to Moscow last Thanksgiving - and so Emma and I decided it would be difficult to celebrate in her apartment without Sami with us. Spokane seemed like a doable alternative.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For me, Thanksgiving always helps me think about the people that produced the food we serve (today and all year long). I’m grateful to count myself in that group - tonight, we’ll enjoy rack of lamb from our own flock, along with winter squash from my garden. All day, we’ve snacked on mandarins from our friends Bob and Shandy Bonk (Snow’s Citrus Court) and pickled wax peppers (also from my garden). Tomorrow morning, we’ll have venison sausage from last year’s buck with our eggs (store-bought - I wasn’t brave enough to bring eggs on the airplane).</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the year we’ve experienced, I’m incredibly grateful to my friends and family, too. When I get home, the woodshed will be full, the animals will have been cared for, and I’ll pull a homemade, ready-to-eat meal out of the freezer. Yes, the house will be 50°F (or colder) inside, but a few hours with a good fire in the wood stove will make the house comfortable. I’ll be happy to scratch Mae behind the ears after we check on the sheep.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m also blessed to have a job that provides solid health insurance and the flexibility that allowed me to be with Sami throughout her illness. I can’t imagine what this would have been like if it had resulted both in Sami’s death and in our bankruptcy. I can’t imagine having to chose between keeping my job and caring for my wife. I’m grateful to my supervisor for her understanding, and to my colleagues for picking up the slack - and for picking me up when I was especially down.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This last week, I heard from a friend whose spouse died from the same insidious condition. He was unable to get out of bed for 8 months. Sami’s last two months were incredibly difficult, but in some ways, I’m grateful that her suffering wasn’t more prolonged. Ultimately, nobody survives a glioblastoma diagnosis; the progression of the disease can be even more cruel than Sami experienced.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, I’m grateful that I got to spend 35 years (33 of them married) with Sami. Our’s was not a perfect marriage (I’m convinced that perfect marriages are a myth); our 35 years together is more an example of persistence and forgiveness than perfection. I’m grateful that we had a chance to raise two exceptional girls who have grown into strong and exceptional women. I’m grateful to see Sami when I watch Lara and Emma.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grief and sadness are part of my daily experience - and probably will be for the rest of my life. I regret that Sami isn’t here with us today. I regret that the girls won’t get to see their mother grow old. I’ll be sad when I return to an empty and lonely house on Saturday. But I’m beginning to realize that I often feel more than one emotion at a time - I can be (and often am) sad and thankful. I can be lonely and enjoy being alone. I can show gratitude even while I’m grieving. Happy Thanksgiving 2023, everyone.</span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-6103863601105480292023-11-20T17:50:00.000-08:002023-11-20T17:50:56.093-08:00The Wrong Side of the Bell Curve<span id="docs-internal-guid-80d81f44-7fff-7281-501e-126418e0ea4b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">And Other Observations about the American Healthcare System</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Last month, for some reason, I felt compelled to talk to Sami’s UCSF healthcare team again. In the two months after Sami’s passing, I’d thought quite a bit about whether we missed early symptoms, or whether there was anything else we could have done. In reaching out to her doctor, I guess I wanted reassurance - not that any of my second guessing would have changed the outcome. When I finally spoke with her doctor in late October, I began thinking about our experience with the healthcare system - and found the system lacking. Again.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As we learned early on, glioblastoma is not a cancer that can be cured - it does not go into remission. Sami’s doctor told me that patients diagnosed with glioblastoma usually survive for 3 months to 5 years after their diagnoses, with an average survival of 1.5 to 2 years. Sami was on the wrong side of that bell curve - she passed away 197 days after we noticed her initial symptoms. He also confirmed that the earliest symptoms are usually what we detected - cognitive difficulties, motor skill impairment, and other neurological signs (all of which we observed in late January). I asked him if we’d missed anything - and whether it would have made a difference if we’d noticed symptoms earlier. He assured me that we did not - and that it would not have made a difference.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">He also told me that there have been no new drugs approved for treating glioblastoma in the last 20 years. This is a cancer that confounds doctors - we don’t know its origins, causes, or cure. Glioblastoma remains a relatively rare disease, thankfully. I came away from the conversation somewhat reassured that we had done all we could do. And with confirmation that glioblastoma is an awful diagnosis.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Looking back at the care Sami received, UCSF was clearly the best. The doctors answered our many questions and took time to explain what was happening. The nurses (as they were nearly universally, regardless of the hospital) were amazing. But even at UCSF, while Sami was admitted to the hospital in early June, we had difficulty getting timely answers.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The Sutter Health system, on other hand, was consistently bad. During Sami’s first emergency room visit in late January, the doctor concluded that she’d had an aortic aneurysm, despite the neurological symptoms we’d described. The first neurosurgeon who operated on her several days later assured us that he’d removed “all” of the mass on Sami’s brain, but he failed to order a post-operative MRI to confirm this boast. During Sami’s second stay in the neuro intensive care unit at Sutter Roseville, the doctor tried to discharge her a day or two after her second brain surgery in two weeks - so that they could refer her to Sutter’s expensive acute rehabilitation facility.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In April, after Sami had a mild seizure, her medical oncologist (also a Sutter doctor) was unable to figure out the right anti-seizure medication for her. Early on in her treatment, we’d found that the most common anti-seizure drug lowered her blood platelets. We tried to explain this all to the oncologist, who finally threw up his hands and told us, “you’ll need to make an appointment with a neurologist - I don’t know what else to do.” The first appointment we could get with a Sutter neurologist was more than two months out (in July). Before that appointment, Sami suffered a major seizure and ongoing subclinical seizures - resulting in her admission to the hospital at UCSF in late May.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">After Sami’s second major seizure in late July, she was referred to hospice care through Sutter Health. While she passed away just two weeks later, those last two weeks seemed incredibly difficult. Despite her condition, we didn’t start getting daily hospice visits until we convinced her nurse that we had a good grasp of where Sami was in terms of disease progression. At one point, we got a call from a home health aide who said, “I’m not coming back to work today after lunch; I’ll try to get there tomorrow.” I seethed. At each step in the care Sami received from Sutter Health, we seemed to have to convince her healthcare team that we knew what Sami was facing, that we knew how she was feeling, and that we were committed (at the end) to taking care of her at home.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In retrospect, much of my angst with the healthcare system has its roots in our insurance coverage. When I checked today, Anthem Blue Cross had been billed nearly $1.7 million since January 1. They’d negotiated this down to a total bill of just under $700,000. While we’ve reached our deductible and out-of-pocket maximums for the year, we continue to get notices that Anthem denied a claim for one of Sami’s ambulance trips (the ambulance company has recently taken to texting me reminders about this). While I’m grateful that we have insurance, the experience of navigating the insurance bureaucracy has been mind-numbing and infuriating.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Adding to my sense of being in the inescapable healthcare “matrix” is the “patient advocate” contracted by my employer to help navigate these issues. According to its website, “Accolade healthcare solutions combine unstoppable Health Assistants, physician-led care teams, and industry-leading technology. The result? Outstanding care experiences.” Our experience was less than outstanding, in every way possible. At one point, when we were waiting for Anthem to approve acute rehabilitation at St. Francis Memorial, Accolade completely ghosted me - more than 4 weeks went by without any response from my “unstoppable Health Assistant.” I had to resort to using Twitter to shame Anthem into getting back to us.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">So what’s the answer? Clearly, we need more research into glioblastoma - the </span><a href="https://secure.braintumor.org/site/Donation2?df_id=8406&8406.donation=form1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=paidsearch&utm_campaign=gt2023&utm_content=responsivead-donate-GT&s_src=paidsearch&s_subsrc=google-185&gclid=Cj0KCQiApOyqBhDlARIsAGfnyMqinejx6sB-B3jFRgTgomHmkrujBt1W0TAY56Rhwwp2jczDq1JHor0aAkSoEALw_wcB" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">National Brain Tumor Society</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> and </span><a href="https://www.ourbrainbank.org/" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Our Brain Bank</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> are advocating for (and more importantly) funding research. UCSF is one of the leading neuro-oncology research hospitals in the U.S. - and clinical trials (like the one Sami had hoped to join) are critical. But from my perspective, we need to change the entire structure of the U.S. healthcare system. The system is broken - I can’t imagine navigating it without the help of my employer, my kids, and my own intellect. Stockholder returns for insurance companies and hospitals shouldn’t be given greater consideration than patient well-being and critical care.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-2989541479373540242023-11-14T18:16:00.000-08:002023-11-15T05:52:04.607-08:00Difficult Milestones<span id="docs-internal-guid-5fa70927-7fff-ff62-5f7c-0857f840ca2c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIYmCMvbarXuNvkP-amqTp3t3fhjzFoqFIt_4mjFg6RyhZx3h0V9qGAY4KZ7UOsglcEwff-DT6Jq_iRIMeQQe-IIp2rN1KDOF-VBuHBYxpSrzGQAcK3mopIxnFjUXT1z3nT1hgtRJsivs_HwUIoOyrhZ1-rQmIE1sxhyphenhyphenax6mA4h3afMhdZ7VyquvjUmFD/s1920/IMG_2582.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIYmCMvbarXuNvkP-amqTp3t3fhjzFoqFIt_4mjFg6RyhZx3h0V9qGAY4KZ7UOsglcEwff-DT6Jq_iRIMeQQe-IIp2rN1KDOF-VBuHBYxpSrzGQAcK3mopIxnFjUXT1z3nT1hgtRJsivs_HwUIoOyrhZ1-rQmIE1sxhyphenhyphenax6mA4h3afMhdZ7VyquvjUmFD/w400-h300/IMG_2582.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Last Thursday, I traveled from Auburn, California, to Moscow, Idaho. I’ve made this trip by myself before (both driving and flying), but this trip felt different. This was a trip Sami and I had hoped to make together - to see our youngest, Emma, compete in her home logging sports competition (and yes, there is such a thing as logging sports!). We’d planned on going even before Sami was diagnosed. After she’d been diagnosed, we hoped she would feel good enough to go to the competition. But I went alone - my first visit with Emma since she returned to school shortly after Sami passed in August.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">On November 10, Sami would have turned 56. Her birthday always marked the beginning of a flurry of November birthdays in both our families (at least 11 between November 10 and November 23!) - not to mention the kickoff of the Holiday Season. I thought about Sami all day. That evening, after a day of helping Emma’s logger sports team with the first day of competition, I ordered a Moscow Mule cocktail at the hotel bar (Sami’s favorite) and thought about her as I drank it.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Saturday’s competition was incredibly fun! I watched Emma compete in the choker race (an obstacle course involving balance, speed, and setting a logging choker!) and several crosscut saw events. I watched her lead her team. I watched her shmooze the President of the University of Idaho and his wife when they showed up at the arena. Many times over the course of the weekend, she reminded me of Sami (as does her sister Lara) - I'm lucky to be surrounded by such strong and intelligent women. Emma is far more mature than most 20-year-olds, partly (I’m sure) because of what we experienced as a family over the last 10 months.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But Saturday night, I went back to my hotel room alone after the awards dinner. I’ve been coming home to an empty house every night since the girls left Auburn in August; this felt different. Saturday night, I found myself wanting to call Sami and tell her how the day went. That night, more than any time since August, I felt truly alone. For the first time, I suppose, I felt despair.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I had a wonderful time seeing Emma - and experiencing her communities (both the University of Idaho community, and the collegiate logger sports community). Teams from Colorado State, Montana State, University of Montana, Oregon State, Northern Arizona University, the University of British Columbia, and Flathead Valley Community College in Montana all made the trip to Moscow. Watching them help each other - and cheer each other on during the competition - was wonderful (and a stark contrast to high school sports, for sure). But the trip was more difficult emotionally than I expected. I kept thinking how much fun Sami would have had. And I felt her absence sharply.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">These milestones have forced me to look squarely at the things that will never be the same in my life. They force me to acknowledge that many of the assumptions I’d made about growing old(er) with Sami no longer apply. The reality of Sami missing many of the milestones in her daughters’ lives is hard to bear - Emma’s graduation, both girls’ marriages (if that happens), our retirement - all things that we’d both looked forward to. I’m finding myself challenged by the duality of life at the moment - I was so happy to see Emma and watch her lead her team; I was so sad that Sami wasn’t there with me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Three months after Sami’s passing, I’m also beginning to feel overwhelmed by work and by the work of running a household by myself. I’ve written previously about the things I took for granted; this week, I feel like there’s not enough time in the day for everyone who needs a piece of me (let alone for me). I’ve always struggled with setting boundaries and saying no - and I suppose the time change (and getting home after dark) have made these last several weeks all the more difficult. I’m working on being better about knowing my limits.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In all of this, I’m trying to cut myself some slack. I’m trying to remember that I need to take care of myself before I can help anyone else. I’m trying to be open to who I will be and what I will do in the future. I’m trying to let go of the things (and people, frankly) that only add stress to my life. I’m trying to simply put one foot in front of the other.</span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-18773773948097545922023-11-02T18:21:00.006-07:002023-11-03T09:46:46.985-07:00Things I Took for Granted<span id="docs-internal-guid-3cfa84ec-7fff-4b5f-e539-e4e678a5b09b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Over the last several months, I’ve needed the services of a large animal veterinarian. In midsummer, I noticed that a number of our ewes had developed symptoms of chlamydia infection (mostly blindness). Last month, Indy (officially Lara’s horse, but one that both girls rode), turned up lame. In the first case, I called my friend and colleague Dr. Rosie Busch for advice about treating the ewes. In the second case, I called Sami’s friend and colleague, Dr. Becky Childers, about diagnosing Indy’s lameness. In both cases, I have realized that I’m fortunate to have such friends! But both of these instances have made me realize some of the things I took for granted - for one, being married to my veterinarian was quite a luxury as a part-time sheepherder and mule man!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But access to veterinary advice isn’t the only thing I took for granted. I’ve realized that Sami and I each relied on the other to decompress after a difficult day, or to celebrate after little triumphs. When we got home from work, one or the other of us would vent about the people or situations that caused us stress during the day, or share something that went well. On the other hand, sometimes, we </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">wouldn’t</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> talk much - I didn’t realize how comforting it was just to know the other person was simply there as we went about our evening chores. We both ran our ideas by each other - how to fix the barn door, when to move the sheep we kept at the house, or what to fix for dinner.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I also took for granted the fact that Sami handled the household finances. I paid the ranch bills and did the ranch books: Sami took care of everything else. As her condition worsened over the summer, I began to take steps to change our bank accounts and make sure our bills got paid. I think I’ve figured out most of these, but since Sami’s passing, I’ve discovered some bills that hadn’t been paid since last spring - and others that were paid automatically even though we didn’t owe anything on them. Fortunately, our estate planning made much of this transition easier - we had granted each other power of attorney in case something like this happened.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I have written previously, we both wanted Sami to be at home to the end - and I’m so thankful for the help we received from our family (especially Lara and Emma, and my sister Meri and her husband Adrian) to make this possible. That said, after Sami passed, I found that I needed to change our bedroom up - I couldn’t bear to sleep in the room as it was before Sami’s illness. I moved furniture, bought a smaller bed and a rocking chair to read in, and rearranged some of our artwork. But last night, for the first time, I rolled over in my sleep and expected to find Sami next to me - I awoke when I realized she wasn’t. Despite changing up the room, I guess I still take Sami’s presence for granted, too.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Over the last several weeks, I’ve thought a great deal about how to describe where I am in the grieving process. Sometimes, I feel like the forward momentum that carried me through the immediate aftermath of Sami’s passing kept me steady on my feet. As this work has slowed (and as summer ranch and extension work have transitioned to fall), I find myself slowing down - which makes me feel less steady on my feet. Equilibrium is more difficult the slower I move. In other ways, I feel like our lives together were like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle - in the part of my life where Sami and I fit together for 33 years, there’s now empty space. Maybe a river and a streambank are a better analogy - we both shaped each other; now that resistance and force is missing.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Finally, I have found that memories from friends and family about Sami are comforting. My friend Roger shared that he was fixing hamburger and rice for a dog that wouldn’t eat - because that’s what Sami had told him to do many years ago. Another friend related how patient Sami was when we taught her and her husband how to butcher chickens. I suppose that another thing I take for granted - and I suspect most of us do - is the power of little things like this. The power of patience and friendship. The power of community.</span></p><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-61977145347376925642023-10-20T11:04:00.001-07:002023-10-20T11:04:33.748-07:00Sami's Celebration of Life<p>Some of you have already seen this and responded - thank you!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Celebration of Life for</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Samia Macon </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizltK2wpYLkGpw1qd55RSbqrMhMGjgr5gZsTK3_im-KbeWYcyLSM_Fs95s5m2gfsO5t7pmj0xOd3YHfmJKLKGwarlOKvfmX7ifx_1JePpToCLAjs4h2ytFl2WiAULGOwl0w3guq841zrkKYBEQhedNB1lr74uIEAa0gCKa_DQNucmMSx0plQRWYur70Yjl/s4032/IMG_8367.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizltK2wpYLkGpw1qd55RSbqrMhMGjgr5gZsTK3_im-KbeWYcyLSM_Fs95s5m2gfsO5t7pmj0xOd3YHfmJKLKGwarlOKvfmX7ifx_1JePpToCLAjs4h2ytFl2WiAULGOwl0w3guq841zrkKYBEQhedNB1lr74uIEAa0gCKa_DQNucmMSx0plQRWYur70Yjl/s320/IMG_8367.heic" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>1967-2023</span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Saturday, December 23, 2023 - 2pm - 5pm</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Sierra Building - Gold Country Fairgrounds - Auburn, CA</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We hope you can join us for an afternoon of celebrating Sami's life and service to our </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVQQf4-sfb517DmgvqeTh4bu60-QCeuoMmeqZ2IQEpGf53wyLjHsMrrWEYeCmUvMLR9NJHDXBa16NciPp_g0Bbiq06BrXBftf3psGrlI3C8e8jyfqOTtkCjPJsG5dlpug1DTzAnK38IcJtVD-RAyJX7p2mnrB3La5yHQGuFEUjvQhceqGD0LJ9ndIEx01/s512/IMG_8371.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="512" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVQQf4-sfb517DmgvqeTh4bu60-QCeuoMmeqZ2IQEpGf53wyLjHsMrrWEYeCmUvMLR9NJHDXBa16NciPp_g0Bbiq06BrXBftf3psGrlI3C8e8jyfqOTtkCjPJsG5dlpug1DTzAnK38IcJtVD-RAyJX7p2mnrB3La5yHQGuFEUjvQhceqGD0LJ9ndIEx01/s320/IMG_8371.HEIC" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /><br />community!</span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Lamb BBQ and Potluck Dinner</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Please bring your favorite side dish, salad, or dessert to share!</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Please RSVP to Dan Macon at <a href="mailto:flyingmulefarm@gmail.com">flyingmulefarm@gmail.com</a> or (530) 305-3270.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>If you are unable to attend, we invite you to share a memory or photo of Sami via email.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px; text-align: start; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Finally, we invite you to contribute to the Samia Macon Memorial Scholarship through the Placer High School FFA Chapter. Checks can be made out to Placer High FFA Boosters, 275 Orange Street, Auburn, CA 95603 (Attn: Sami Macon Memorial Scholarship).</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfzG2-6j2Jb-tr6HbLgDZyucLPUQkoa669txBBPJP2EdBHr1PeNII7FPBOsfUwltqsGFwMKb20GMsj0XmEZ_VscZgtB9ljEUuG2TOlfBRFFQz8jT6dE0as4lyblWAK10pRqGjWfeJxZEwNJ-doUOoGffmGjKm6ZXD0nOMEaRfuUsBwVQVMdxGcji5hO00/s4032/IMG_3424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfzG2-6j2Jb-tr6HbLgDZyucLPUQkoa669txBBPJP2EdBHr1PeNII7FPBOsfUwltqsGFwMKb20GMsj0XmEZ_VscZgtB9ljEUuG2TOlfBRFFQz8jT6dE0as4lyblWAK10pRqGjWfeJxZEwNJ-doUOoGffmGjKm6ZXD0nOMEaRfuUsBwVQVMdxGcji5hO00/s320/IMG_3424.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6667px; text-align: start; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-37765726898468476822023-10-13T15:57:00.004-07:002023-10-13T17:15:07.357-07:00Two Months Gone<span id="docs-internal-guid-94e74d11-7fff-2e7a-7032-db620014e967"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Two months ago today, in the very early morning, Samia, my wife of 33 years passed away. I know each of the “firsts” that our family experiences going forward (the first holiday season, the first anniversary of her glioblastoma diagnosis, the first birthday) will be difficult; for some reason, this particular milestone is especially difficult for me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">For the last several weeks, I have been reliving the last 10 months. Part of this, I’m sure, is simply my reflective nature; part of it, though, has to do with work. Each year, we are asked to document the research, extension programs, and service activities we’ve accomplished during the previous fiscal year (for UC Cooperative Extension, this runs from October 1 through September 30). I’ve been going back through my calendar to make sure I’ve included all of my work - looking at the timeframe from late January 2023 (when Sami had her first surgery) through mid-August has been full of difficult reminders of how quickly our lives changed. This morning, my brain flashed back to sitting next to Sami in the neuro intensive care unit at Sutter Roseville after she’d come out of her second craniotomy in February. She held my hand all night, eventually rubbing the back of my hand raw with her thumb. It was one of many sleepless nights for me; this morning, I recalled how tired and anxious both of us were - and that we both still had hope that treatment might buy us some time together.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Several weeks ago, my friend Carol Arnold told me, “Sami had to live through this just once; you’re having to live through it again and again.” And I have - I’m not second guessing myself (for the most part), but I am reliving much of the experience. And this has intensified over the last month as the shock of Sami’s passing and the activity associated with its immediate aftermath give way to going back to work. And adjusting to living alone.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Jackie Davis, another friend and rancher, reached out to me this week after an evening cattlemen’s meeting. I’ve known Jackie since I was in college and he was managing Napa Valley Polled Herefords (more than 35 years ago). He asked me how I was doing - I said, “up and down, good days and bad.” He told me that his wife had died in a car accident in 1978 - something I had never known. He said, “Even today, all these years later, I still sometimes wake up really sad about it. It will always be with you.” Today, 2 months after Sami died, I find this oddly comforting - first, that a friend would be so open about how hard this all is; second, to know carrying my grief forward is normal and healthy.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Moving forward in other ways can be challenging at the moment. I feel like I’ve been reasonably successful at accomplishing specific tasks at work and at home. I’ve been able to take care of much of the estate and inheritance issues that arise when anyone passes. I’ve been able to teach workshops, collect data for grazing research projects, and catch up on most of my administrative responsibilities at work. But I don’t feel like I’ve been able to be particularly creative. I don’t feel like I can concentrate for very long. And some of these tasks are rough - today, I sold Sami’s car. I’m happy to check this off my list, but seeing her spot in our driveway empty reinforces my feeling of loss.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Moving forward when others have moved on is also difficult, as is dealing with people and situations that I found stressful even before all of this happened. I certainly don’t expect even my closest friends to think about the fact that today marks two months since Sami died, but sometimes I struggle with everyone else being “back to normal.” And I find that I have little patience for the relationships in my life that have always been challenging - they are especially challenging for me now.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Something else that Jackie Davis told me this week has resonated. I asked him how he got through the initial stages of his loss. He said, “I would wake up and not feel like doing anything. And then one of the cowboys would call and say, ‘Hey - we gotta get these cows bred,’ or something similar. So I just worked. And worked and worked.” I know I’ve found similar solace in activity, but I’m also realizing I’m pushing so hard into the yoke of work, that if the yoke were removed, I’d fall. I find that I’m exhausted by Thursday morning each week. While I know I eventually need to slow down and simply be sad, I find it hard to not be active. Another colleague remarked that I may be overscheduling myself at the moment. He’s probably right!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I’ve been trying to think about the things that bring me joy at the moment, as I’m going through the motions of moving forward. Preparing a meal from meat I raised (or from the deer I harvested) is one of the highlights. Talking to my daughters and my sister and brother-in-law, too. Going for walks with Mae the wonder dog - or even better, watching Mae gather and move the sheep. Hunting was a pleasure - and with a second deer tag in my pocket, the anticipation of more hunting before the end of the month. Milling lumber - and making plans to purchase a real portable sawmill - is enjoyable. Hearing rain on the roof during the night, and waking to a drippy, wet world. Seeing a redtail hawk. And recognizing, finally, that I can be both intensely sad and lonely, and enjoying life, all at the same time. That’s where I seem to be, two months in.</span></p></span></span><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-64400891761486683352023-10-10T16:34:00.000-07:002023-10-10T16:34:02.387-07:00What to do about the Sheep<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXtli3igonmZXpJJiPsQCzuREX1TSv-XBlZhTYgntv1gYH-UcKLcqLrf6rn2npU5bw2DZLxs_L6zQXUsYhMUumsiiIm_miYvon0xSsWtGoKWcgMJ5K9WYH0JOBHuKNB8jDH8CtDo52unWRzxt9NWr5wW9SbJsAdFWOiPQ7HjyJibkhJNcsillJ3EkL6vH/s1440/380889981_18388903276055926_6006059638565186208_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXtli3igonmZXpJJiPsQCzuREX1TSv-XBlZhTYgntv1gYH-UcKLcqLrf6rn2npU5bw2DZLxs_L6zQXUsYhMUumsiiIm_miYvon0xSsWtGoKWcgMJ5K9WYH0JOBHuKNB8jDH8CtDo52unWRzxt9NWr5wW9SbJsAdFWOiPQ7HjyJibkhJNcsillJ3EkL6vH/w400-h400/380889981_18388903276055926_6006059638565186208_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As many of you know, until 9 months ago, this blog was largely focused on all things sheep (with periodic forays in to farming generally and, very occasionally, into baseball). But since late January, I've written just one essay about sheep (<a href="https://flyingmule.blogspot.com/2023/03/once-sheepman.html" target="_blank">Once a Sheepman...</a>, March 27). My normally simple, sheep-centric world was overtaken by Sami's diagnosis of, treatment for, and ultimate passing from glioblastoma. Now, nearly two months after she passed, I'm finally starting to think about what the future holds for Flying Mule Sheep Company.<p></p><p>As I wrote back in March, I'd been considering some changes to the sheep enterprise even before Sami got sick. After buying out my partner Roger when we weaned our lambs in the summer of 2022, the day-to-day responsibilities for managing sheep, feeding livestock guardian dogs, and irrigating our 15 acres of pasture fell to me. On top of my full time "day" job, the sheep chores (at times) made my days very long (especially during the 6 months of irrigation season). Trips to see our daughters (both of whom live out of state) began to take on more importance; Roger graciously offered to help out while we were traveling, but I didn't want to impose.</p><p>This spring, I sent about two-thirds of the ewes to a friend in the San Joaquin Valley for lambing. I kept a handful here; lambing is my favorite time of the sheep year, and I didn't want to miss all the fun! Roger helped take care of things during Sami's two stays in the hospital for surgeries. And when we spent three weeks in hospitals in San Francisco in June, Roger also took care of keeping the pasture irrigated. In late June, all of the sheep came home. We weaned and sold our lambs, and I sold more than half of the ewes and all of the ewe lambs to a friend in Humboldt County. This fall, I'm breeding 23 ewes (the fewest since we started in the sheep business in 2005). Next week, we'll have lambs harvested - my total sheep inventory will be 23 ewes, 1 replacement ewe lamb, 2 feeder lambs, and 2 rams. And one livestock guardian dog. And I'm beginning to think it might be more than I want to keep - at least for the next several years.</p><p>Since we bought 20 ewes in 2005, I've tried to make this a business. At it's peak, Flying Mule Sheep Company had nearly 300 ewes. We found (not surprisingly, looking back) that this was not big enough to be a viable full-time business - we'd either need to get much larger, or make it a part-time business at a manageable number of sheep. Ultimately, I came to enjoy the part-time nature of what we were doing - I could use the sheep for teaching others about shepherding, and we were large enough to turn a little profit at the end of most years (although I was always afraid to calculate my per hour profit!).</p><p>In early August, my friend Roger moved to Texas to be closer to his family - which I totally understand. Without Roger here, however, I felt like I didn't have any backup - I had nobody who could irrigate if I was gone; nobody to move the sheep if they were out of feed.</p><p>After I sold sheep this summer, I talked with the wonderful folks who have rented me their irrigated pasture for these last many years. They told me not to worry about paying rent this year, and offered to help feed the dog and watch the sheep when I needed to be out of town. They've been wonderful all along; we've become great friends. But I can't ask them to irrigate. I can't ask them to build electric fence and move the sheep. Those tasks fall to me - and with fewer than 30 sheep, I'm not sure it makes sense to continue as we've been operating.</p><p>In the ongoing self-examination I've been doing since Sami's passing, I went back and looked at a journal I started keeping while she was in the hospital in San Francisco. I tried to list the things I missed about being home, and the things I was grateful for during that difficult time. Interestingly, the sheep weren't on the list (which I just realized this week). I missed my dogs, I missed being outdoors in the natural world; sheep chores (and especially daily irrigation) were not among the things I longed to be doing.</p><p>I've raised sheep (and irrigated pasture) long enough to know that I'm always burnt out on irrigating by early October. And I always have rancher amnesia once lambing season approaches - I'm always renewed by the arrival of new life, and anxious to start the entire cycle over again. But this year feels different. This year feels like I might make a more significant change.</p><p>For starters, I'm thinking I might only keep the number of ewes I can manage at our home place (maybe 5 or 6). During the spring flush of grass growth, I might buy feeder lambs to graze my back pasture while it's green; my only irrigation chores would be the small pastures at the house and my vegetable garden and flowers. But as tired as I am now (from what life has thrown at my family this year, and from the daily slog of animal chores, my real job, and an hour of pasture irrigation most evenings), I'm trying not to make any quick decisions about my future with sheep. For now, I'm simply trying to get through each day. We'll see...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R8j1Y1P1_ogqxF6ei3R-AcCUukWsamzmwVvt-_ctKZggCK5rT-HD_mpTbfov4CCUJZcDGUh4jXxiGyCMkwDfgVIsvxrMu2ezjdwzJHmZuyXHeLweaEll63YocczvkE6SXS72DvPj1JPwCE-Bx8dtL4Hv7r1kNPQia4xtOS2xF2KRcwgWzgQKxq884t74/s1440/2022_twins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R8j1Y1P1_ogqxF6ei3R-AcCUukWsamzmwVvt-_ctKZggCK5rT-HD_mpTbfov4CCUJZcDGUh4jXxiGyCMkwDfgVIsvxrMu2ezjdwzJHmZuyXHeLweaEll63YocczvkE6SXS72DvPj1JPwCE-Bx8dtL4Hv7r1kNPQia4xtOS2xF2KRcwgWzgQKxq884t74/s320/2022_twins.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-77321424543170590892023-10-01T18:01:00.002-07:002023-10-01T18:01:36.139-07:00Not Sure<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6Vpn2-_s-_d4tQhDLTyEG9KdjC77AuzNKVsZGlrCITBqolY1q_J9eRpZYNTBQufI1HxExPKed0ms0DJSVqOqZ6YeC9mqeH1anLJyqZ1TX6FiJai2JQ8j4NdQiTyLF6RrAkXhbM2uu0o3xOq7o0FcM57u2_oioxo3mwGftWVHnAOajpXcFnvt_hyj2ARG/s3088/IMG_2335.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6Vpn2-_s-_d4tQhDLTyEG9KdjC77AuzNKVsZGlrCITBqolY1q_J9eRpZYNTBQufI1HxExPKed0ms0DJSVqOqZ6YeC9mqeH1anLJyqZ1TX6FiJai2JQ8j4NdQiTyLF6RrAkXhbM2uu0o3xOq7o0FcM57u2_oioxo3mwGftWVHnAOajpXcFnvt_hyj2ARG/w480-h640/IMG_2335.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br />I normally don’t post photos of my successful hunting trips. I hope you’re not offended…. While I’m always grateful for the gift of meat, this year’s hunting success is especially meaningful to me.<p></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I grew up camping and fishing. Every summer, we’d head up Sonora Pass to camp. Fishing was so important that I sometimes skipped school. But I didn’t start hunting until I was middle aged.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sami grew up mostly in Burbank - in a family that did lots of things together, but not camping, fishing, or hunting. And yet, like I imagine the “LA doll” that John Mellencamp married and brought to his “Small Town,” Sami embraced these parts of living in rural (semi-rural, anyway) Northern California. The year before we were married, I remember taking Sami to fish on the Stanislaus River at Dardanelles - she caught more fish than I did! We camped most summers of our married life. And when I started hunting, Sami started loving to prepare and eat venison.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Usually, I put in for antelope and elk tags when I buy my hunting license and deer tags - I’ve never been drawn, but I’m hopeful! This year, when I put in for tags in May, things were so uncertain that I only bought deer tags - a tag for our home zone, and a tag for Tuolumne County, where I grew up (and where my sister and brother-in-law still live). At best, I knew I’d need to be here with Sami. At worst, I suspected I’d be alone.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On opening weekend (last week, here in Placer County), my brother-in-law Adrian joined me in hunting a property in Colfax that I’ve been privileged to hunt for the last decade. Last Sunday, he got a buck; I didn’t (which is a story unto itself). Yesterday, after a long day hiking through the rainy woods and not seeing many deer, I got my buck.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Killing an animal to sustain myself and my family is always an emotional experience; direct participation in feeding myself and my family is why I started hunting. I’m always grateful. But this year seems different. This year, filling the woodshed and filling the freezer seem to have more significance. </span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In years past, I would always text Sami a photo of my successful hunt. She’d be excited for me, and about the venison meals in our future. This year, I texted our daughters and my extended family. They were equally excited - partly, I think, because my success seemed like a normal autumn activity. Or maybe that’s just my perspective.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve come to enjoy hunting not only for the meat in my freezer (and, if I’m honest, the thrill and skill involved in a successful hunt); I also enjoy hunting for the excuse to be outdoors, in an environment I love. I love being quiet and attentive to everything around me - yesterday, I saw a great horned owl, a red-shouldered hawk, an enormous flock of Sandhill Cranes headed south, and exactly seven deer. Including the buck I killed. This morning, as I quartered the buck in preparation for cutting and wrapping my winter meat, I experienced an odd mix of sadness and contentment. I’m not sure why, but getting a buck this year seemed especially important to me - perhaps because it felt like “normal”; perhaps because I knew how happy Sami would have been. Regardless, I will think of Sami every time I make a meal from this buck. </span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-88399166008400734442023-09-19T19:33:00.004-07:002023-09-19T19:33:45.267-07:00Finding a New Routine<span id="docs-internal-guid-aeaa9411-7fff-857d-03e7-82df8028022d"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In response to a friend’s beautiful social media tribute to Sami after the Gold Country Fair concluded earlier this month, I replied that I had a Sami-shaped hole in my heart. I’m also finding I have a Sami-shaped hole in my daily routine.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Before Sami got sick, we divided the animal chores. I would take care of the commercial sheep flock each morning; Sami would take care of the animals here at the house. The morning chores at the house usually took Sami about 20 minutes; my morning sheep chores often take longer, especially if they include pasture irrigation or checking lambing ewes.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Up until the third week in August, when I started back to work, I had help with chores from our daughters. One of them would generally take the morning chores at home, while I’d do my normal sheep work. But now that we’re all trying to get back to “normal” (whatever that is now), all of the chores are mine. I absolutely don’t mind doing them, but I have a greater appreciation for how Sami’s work allowed me to do my own.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My non-animal morning routine has also changed. I’m trying to go for a walk before work (or on weekend mornings) at least four days a week. During Sami’s illness, I became addicted to the </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">LA Times</span><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> crossword, which I do every morning with my coffee. I am trying to keep a journal, too - and morning seems to be when I’m motivated to write in it. With all of these things (plus breakfast) on top of my animal chores, I need to be getting up around 4:30am! I’m an early riser, but not that early!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I also find that I’m trying to be open to new routines - and to new ways to approach my old ones.I’ve struggled with whether to keep my sheep. I realized this weekend that I could let go of thinking of the sheep as a business - at my current scale of operation, they are an excuse for me to be outside every day, and a way to put meat in my freezer, as well as the freezers of my extended family. Most of you are probably saying “DUH” as you read this, but for me, it’s been a revelation. It means I can pay someone to irrigate occasionally during the summer months so I can travel - and not worry about the impact to my profit. It means the sheep would become my exercise program, my therapy, and my hobby.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But I’m also trying to be open to new ways of working with sheep more generally. Perhaps there are other ways for me to continue to pursue my passion for sheep-raising (and for the products sheep produce) without having a 7-day-a-week, 365-days-a-year obligation. We’ll see.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I’ve also relied on technology to help me settle into a new routine. I’m not a cat guy, and yet I have a cat (Simba, an obnoxious 10-year-old orange tabby). I have had to set reminders in my calendar to clean his litter box (he “reminds” me to feed him, mostly by jumping on the counter as I’m making coffee each morning). The reminders to clean out the end product of feeding him are annoying, but necessary (and helpful). As a side note, if anyone wishes to adopt a middle-aged cat….</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I suppose all of this is part of coming to terms with - and moving forward with - my grief. I don’t miss Sami because I’m having to do her chores. I miss Sami because I know how much she enjoyed doing her animal chores (as I enjoy mine). I miss being able to ask her little questions about the sheep, or teasing her about the cat. I miss her practicality and her ability to help me understand the little (and sometimes, big) problems that arise when any of us care for animals. I miss her terribly, and yet I also think that establishing a new routine - caring for ALL of our animals - honors her love for our life and our animals. My routine (much like me) is a work in progress.</span></p></span></span><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-45846509297945990642023-09-07T21:36:00.004-07:002023-09-07T21:36:35.440-07:00Little Reminders<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sami has been gone now for just over three weeks. During that time, I’ve helped our youngest daughter move back to Idaho, watched our oldest daughter fly home to New Mexico, and gone back to work myself. I’ve also started working on settling Sami’s affairs - wrapping up her veterinary business, closing accounts, and talking with financial planners and life insurance companies. And I’m adjusting to being alone at home for the first time in 34 years. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m finding that if I keep busy, I don’t have time to dwell on my sadness - work, and the work of keeping a household (which for me includes pets, chickens, mules, sheep, a vegetable garden, and landscaping), seems to take most of my waking hours. I try to exercise regularly - Mae the wonder dog (the only border collie left at home) and I try to walk at least a couple of miles most mornings - but I haven’t had much real down time. In some ways, I think I’m afraid to stop.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For me, the grieving process began with Sami’s glioblastoma diagnosis last February. Our research confirmed that glioblastoma was not a curable cancer. We hoped that a combination of chemotherapy and radiation treatments would stop the spread of the cancer in her brain for a time, but we both knew that it would eventually spread. And so we were sad from the outset.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The intense effort that preceded Sami’s passing early on the morning of August 13 - a period that I now realize started at the end of May when she was hospitalized at UCSF following her first gran mal seizure - required us to keep our grief at arm’s length. Dealing with multiple doctors, insurance providers, and at the end, hospice caregivers, seemed to occupy all of my time and most of my mental capacity. Similarly, the rush of activity immediately following her passing left little time for grieving. But I sense that this is starting to change, at least for me.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Initially, little reminders about Sami’s absence brought tears - seeing her toothbrush next to mine, or realizing that I couldn’t text her with updates about our trip to Idaho made me incredibly sad. These last few weekends, the small accommodations we made in our home to help keep her safe and comfortable (like the grab bars in the shower) made me cry. Coming home from work to an empty house has been hard - I find that I took for granted how important our inane, “how was your day” conversations were in helping me decompress and relax.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I reflect on our nearly seven month journey with cancer, I also regret the times I was overly protective of Sami - trying to keep her safe. I regret being angry with her on the afternoon last spring when I found her rearranging the hay in the barn, or the times I chastised her for getting out of bed without our assistance. She was such an independent person during our entire life together - I’m certain she hated being dependent on me.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I’ve also found myself in conversation with Sami during these last three weeks. Sometimes I simply tell her how much I miss her; other times, I find myself telling her what I’ve accomplished - mostly little things like remembering to clean the litter box, or making my bed every morning (things that she always did). Sometimes I joke with her - I tell her I’m finally going to clean out her Tupperware cupboard, or get rid of the ratty old clothesline in the backyard. And I relish the times that I see the resident red-tail hawk at the ranch where our sheep are grazing - I know Sami’s checking in on me.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That said, I’m beginning to see that at some point I will need to cease keeping myself so busy that I don’t have time to grieve. I will need some time to simply live with my sadness - to acknowledge how much I miss Sami; to acknowledge how hard the last seven months were. I know that I’ll miss her terribly when I visit the places we enjoyed together, but I also know that I will need to visit those places. I know that the holidays (which for me always began with her birthday on November 10) will be especially difficult. But just as we had to walk the path that glioblastoma laid before us, I’ll need to walk through (and with) my grief.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwSgFgc_a-xzvyj2TAsJnqZoemKW5GeuGyn9vqrSsiWLbaxIpIDJO3N1PcCVuQamCNOywXJwTAtGMzzgZh5vpLXRfBb20L1SEKai4iPKgp4ucdmK2xezd7iKc4K09uhNEauSyLjQWpHnBuW5FIqm7KOCCJmBEZmWI5wzMdX-5RMpiCMCpTHb4bki_lgZZR/s769/IMG_0411.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="594" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwSgFgc_a-xzvyj2TAsJnqZoemKW5GeuGyn9vqrSsiWLbaxIpIDJO3N1PcCVuQamCNOywXJwTAtGMzzgZh5vpLXRfBb20L1SEKai4iPKgp4ucdmK2xezd7iKc4K09uhNEauSyLjQWpHnBuW5FIqm7KOCCJmBEZmWI5wzMdX-5RMpiCMCpTHb4bki_lgZZR/s320/IMG_0411.jpeg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-11512156060926486372023-08-28T20:40:00.004-07:002023-08-28T20:40:35.652-07:00Samia Z. Macon (1967-2023)<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-3581846a-3f59-6d01-011d-cddc462c154b" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0sFzyrdHP3j7_PuOLOC-wae_mDY_A7cRiaZV1HmUgYx1S0AvV716uTRFs08z4Im3dIL4btNLlcKRr1BCP54vCAqgD8gishcNhDlbkomPgQnfriOIea8mHApUHL72bbTAMtPD1A9wod-bt9QEzALR9mmHBD3b-9EHdDqPvK6P8H0P7Sjshwha1wTP6YIu/s4032/IMG_9555.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0sFzyrdHP3j7_PuOLOC-wae_mDY_A7cRiaZV1HmUgYx1S0AvV716uTRFs08z4Im3dIL4btNLlcKRr1BCP54vCAqgD8gishcNhDlbkomPgQnfriOIea8mHApUHL72bbTAMtPD1A9wod-bt9QEzALR9mmHBD3b-9EHdDqPvK6P8H0P7Sjshwha1wTP6YIu/w300-h400/IMG_9555.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Samia Zaki Macon passed from this life on August 13, 2023 following a diagnosis of glioblastoma in February 2023. She was 55 years old. She was home and surrounded by her family.<p></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Samia was born on November 10, 1967, in Cairo, Egypt, to Sami Sami Zaki and Barbara Zaki (Perrin). The family moved to Ceres, California in 1968, and later to Burbank, California, where Samia attended elementary and high school at Village Christian School. She graduated from UC Davis with a degree in biological science in 1989, and with a doctorate of veterinary medicine in 1994. Samia married Dan Macon in Sonora, CA, in August 1990.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After working for Loomis Basin Large Animal Clinic in Loomis in the late 1990s and early 2000s, Samia started her own independent mobile large animal veterinary service in 2004. While she worked primarily with horses, mules, and ponies in Placer, Nevada, and Sacramento Counties, she also worked with commercial livestock producers throughout the region.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">An avid horsewoman (and later, mule-woman) herself, Samia enjoyed riding and showing horses and mules, including her mule Boomerang. In her veterinary practice, she became known as someone who would treat “long-ears” (mules and donkeys). While her daughters were young, she volunteered as a 4-H horse and sheep group leader, sharing her knowledge and love of animals with Placer County youth. She showed mules in local horse shows, as well as at Bishop Mule Days. And she enjoyed trail riding with her family and friends.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Samia and her husband Dan also raised sheep throughout their 33 year marriage, ultimately starting Flying Mule Sheep Company in 2006. Sami always raised the bummer lambs - in February and March, she typically bottle-fed several lambs (or more!) in the family’s living room! She also cared for the ranch’s herding and livestock guardian dogs.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Throughout her career, Samia was active in community organizations. In addition to serving as a 4-H leader, she served as President of the Placer High School Future Farmers of America Boosters and the Placer High School Lady Hillmen Soccer Boosters. She was appointed to the 20th District Agricultural Association (Gold Country Fair) Board of Directors by Governor Gavin Newsom in 2018, and served as the board representative to the Gold Country Fair Junior Livestock Association, helping to manage the fair’s junior livestock shows and auctions.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Samia is survived by her husband Dan Macon (of Auburn, CA), her daughters Lara Macon and Emma Macon, and her sister Suzi Zaki. </span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A Celebration of Life will be held at the Gold Country Fairgrounds in Auburn, CA, on Saturday, December 23, 2023. For more information, please contact Dan Macon at </span><a href="mailto:flyingmulefarm@gmail.com" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">flyingmulefarm@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> or (530) 305-3270.</span></p><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In lieu of flowers, the Macon Family invites you to contribute to the Samia Macon Memorial Scholarship through the Placer High School FFA Chapter. Checks can be made out to Placer High FFA Boosters, 275 Orange Street, Auburn, CA 95603 (Attn: Sami Macon Memorial Scholarship).</span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-3182135258227587822023-08-15T19:52:00.004-07:002023-08-16T11:38:44.697-07:00Conclusion<p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: times; white-space: pre-wrap;">Much of what I’ve written over the last six-and-a-half months during Sami’s journey with glioblastoma has mostly served to help me process our experiences - writing, for me, is therapeutic. But I’ve come to learn that my blog posts have been helpful for others, as well - I have found the feedback and support from friends and strangers alike to be incredibly helpful. And so I write this blog post for both purposes - for myself and for our family and friends (virtual and real-life).</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As it has throughout this process, time has behaved oddly over the 18 days since I posted </span><a href="https://flyingmule.blogspot.com/2023/07/where-we-are-on-this-map.html" style="text-decoration: none;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1155cc; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where We Are on this Map</span></a><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. While we were still discussing treatment options, Sami was leaning towards trying one round of a new chemotherapy drug (Lomustine) with the hope that it would slow (or even stop, for a time) the growth of the multiple lesions on her brain. On Sunday, July 30, my parents and my sister Meri drove from Sonora to join us for lunch. We had a great visit on the deck - it was a beautiful day, and a delicious lunch. After they left that afternoon, I headed to the grocery store to do our weekly shopping; Emma stayed with Sami.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I arrived home to find a fire truck in one driveway and an ambulance in the other. While I’d been shopping, Sami had suffered another seizure. We’re not entirely sure what happened, but she fell and hit her head - she eventually required seven staples to close the wound. And she got to take another ambulance ride - this time to Sutter Roseville.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After the first ER doctor examined her, and we explained more of Sami’s medical history, someone I perceived to be a more senior doctor came into the room. He told us based on Sami’s diagnosis, and on what had happened that evening, that we should probably consider hospice care - the second time a doctor in the Sutter Roseville ER had suggested it. Understandably, we were all upset, worried, and anxious - but unlike when it had been suggested 2 months earlier (before Sami’s stay at UCSF), we all (Sami, Emma, and me) felt like it was time. Sami said, “I just want to be done.” Later that evening, we asked the doctor to enter orders for Sutter Hospice, and we completed Sami’s first “Physician Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment” (or POLST), indicating that Sami did not wish to have CPR or anything other than comfort care if we found ourselves calling for an ambulance again.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking back at that decision (which was just a mind-blowing two weeks ago), I feel like having some clarity about being done with treatment helped Sami’s frame of mind. On the morning of July 31, I called her UCSF nurse practitioner to let her know we would not be pursuing further treatment. The NP told me that she didn’t like the language around “fighting cancer,” especially when it applies to glioblastoma. “Sami’s not giving up ‘the fight,’” she told me, “nobody wins when it comes to this particular cancer.” Sami began to be willing to talk about what she wanted our daughters to know and to remember about her. We talked about her legacy, and about how she wanted us to celebrate her life. In many ways, I’m grateful for the conversations we had in the few days between entering hospice and the eventual intensification of her symptoms. They were terribly difficult, but terribly important.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sami’s hospice care didn’t get off to a great start, unfortunately. Looking back, it felt like we had to convince yet another care team that we knew what Sami was facing, and that we had a good sense of how she was feeling and how quickly her condition was changing. With the help of a wonderful hospice nurse, we were finally able to get daily visits from Sami’s care team.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We celebrated our 33rd anniversary on August 4. Our friends Eric and Courtney, who operate Restaurant Josephine here in Auburn, treated us to a takeout dinner. Our dinner on the deck turned out to be the last time Sami was able to get out of bed. And that evening, I made the decision to ask our oldest daughter, Lara, to come home sooner than she had planned. Lara and her partner Micah arrived home the next evening.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After our anniversary, Sami’s decline accelerated. After Saturday evening, we could no longer get her out of bed. As the weekend progressed, she had difficulty talking, and told us her vision was becoming blurry. On August 9, our niece Hanna and her husband Wyatt drove to Auburn with their kids and fixed us lunch. Sami got to hold our 5-week-old great nephew Boone. It was an amazing day. By August 10, Sami slept for most of the day. The next day, she could no longer respond when we asked her questions.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But she could still hear us. Sami’s sister Suzi flew in from Pittsburg on August 10. My sister and brother-in-law joined us on August 11. We all sat in our bedroom off and on over the next day or so and shared memories and laughs. And Sami definitely knew we were there.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The evening of August 11 was rough. Sami was obviously progressing towards the end; we stayed with her a good part of the night. On the morning of August 12 (Emma’s 20th birthday) Sami had a few moments where the fog lifted. And during one of these phases, Sami reached out and hugged me. For the last time.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That evening, we decided we’d sit with Sami on shifts - I took the 12am-1am shift. At 11pm, my sister awakened me and said Sami was noticeably worse - she was having difficulty breathing and was calling out. We sat with her, talking to her, holding her hands, and stroking her brow. Finally, just before 1am, she began to relax. She passed just after the top of the hour. At 1:30, a hospice nurse pronounced her dead. We sat with each other well into the morning hours, reminiscing about Sami and our lives together - our version of a wake, I suppose. Sami wanted to donate her brain for the study of glioblastoma. I talked to UCSF, and the NP suggested donating her body. Two men arrived from San Francisco at 4:30am.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So much for chronology. One of the things that struck me early Sunday morning was the relationship between biological death and spiritual life. The process of dying from glioblastoma was agonizing to watch; I can’t imagine what it felt like to Sami. When it was over, I felt like I needed to be present for the practical work of caring for someone who’s died. I watched the UCSF representatives prepare her body, place it in the vehicle, and drive down Joeger. I cried when the taillights disappeared down the road. But I had to watch.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve also realized that every family’s path is different - that it’s unfair to judge another family’s decisions. The NP told me that some patients want to continue seeking treatment until the very end, while others may feel that quality of life and time with family are the top priorities. For us, being at home at the end felt like the right thing to do. That said, there’s no way I could have cared for Sami at home without the help of my family, especially Emma and Lara. I found that I wanted to be fully present for everything that Sami went through. To do (with the girls and with family) the things that we needed to do in order for Sami to spend her final days at home. To watch her leave (physically and spiritually). But everyone’s path is different. There can be no right or wrong in navigating these journeys.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In many ways, I have been grieving since an ER doctor told Sami that a CT scan revealed “some sort of mass” on her brain on the evening of January 27. But I’ve also been holding that grief at bay so I could be a husband, a father, and a caregiver. This week, as the reality of Sami’s passing settles on me, I’m finding that little things bring great sadness - seeing her unused toothbrush next to mine, or opening the contacts on my phone and seeing her picture at the top of my favorites. I have a feeling that Sunday morning, when I wake up with everyone gone, will be rough.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This next bit may sound strange to some. In the early 2000’s, when my grandmother passed away, I saw a snowy egret on my way home from her house. I immediately thought of her - egrets are graceful and stately in a way that Grandmom was. Last Sunday, I went for a walk at home, and a red tail hawk circled over me for several minutes. I can’t explain it rationally, but I felt like Sami was checking in. Red tail hawks, to me, are beautiful, graceful, and fierce when they need to be - much like Sami. I know I’ll think of her every time I see a red tail hawk for the rest of my life.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, I want to say a few words about community. Our actual community - the Sierra Foothills - has been amazing. Our freezer is full of food, our barn is full of feed, our woodshed is full of this winter’s firewood. My friends built fence for my sheep two weeks ago while I tended to Sami. We are incredibly blessed. But our virtual community is equally amazing. We’ve received gifts of food and drink from people I’ve never met in person. I’ve received the most amazing messages on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. All I can say is thank you. Even on the hardest of days, you hold us up. Thank you.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To that end, we are planning a Celebration of Life for Sami on December 23, 2023, when both Lara and Emma can be home. It will be at the Gold Country Fairgrounds, where Sami served as a board member. Stay tuned for details, but we hope you’ll join us on that day.</span></p><span style="font-family: times;"><br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And Sami wanted to establish a scholarship for Placer High School Future Farmers of America students. In lieu of flowers, we would invite you to contribute! Checks can be made out to Placer High FFA Boosters, 275 Orange Street, Auburn, CA 95603 (Attn: Sami Macon Memorial Scholarship).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE1glA1p-4mtX2lZuDjVck8tuOxSonA6VCOK53C3VS_8nsie5kE3QhDjDGRFdyyhNT941B-KdrhAJt1cOuR8koAYeUCwYefO8xWsbOEHLELq4Ab0Lg9qXGPh0BjRv1W__k7AjJF2WFlqtzEHhTDd1k4ewxPLBL6ZhNLRtV6i3qTB2z_JPg0A5PFVWC4qL/s1590/IMG_3441.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1590" data-original-width="1286" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRE1glA1p-4mtX2lZuDjVck8tuOxSonA6VCOK53C3VS_8nsie5kE3QhDjDGRFdyyhNT941B-KdrhAJt1cOuR8koAYeUCwYefO8xWsbOEHLELq4Ab0Lg9qXGPh0BjRv1W__k7AjJF2WFlqtzEHhTDd1k4ewxPLBL6ZhNLRtV6i3qTB2z_JPg0A5PFVWC4qL/s320/IMG_3441.jpeg" width="259" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3EP18Kf-DCbNFDmzhaMpg07rygMzd1GmdIH56OxOLDZdrK6Lza2oBA6fUrpMdvaDCihT-8vM0EnW6KeeBvj68_i932XWFCsaEGb_IwZ6FgxGe8SfL4RFsD0KS26G1J7ToAmiTcS_Wg0xnNIUvUbskGsLYupFMIJ7kYJBZZpZDDDDcp4u7xC-tNHOMPaA/s3129/IMG_3692.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3129" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq3EP18Kf-DCbNFDmzhaMpg07rygMzd1GmdIH56OxOLDZdrK6Lza2oBA6fUrpMdvaDCihT-8vM0EnW6KeeBvj68_i932XWFCsaEGb_IwZ6FgxGe8SfL4RFsD0KS26G1J7ToAmiTcS_Wg0xnNIUvUbskGsLYupFMIJ7kYJBZZpZDDDDcp4u7xC-tNHOMPaA/s320/IMG_3692.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></div><br />Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-34178434372868670462023-07-28T13:20:00.007-07:002023-07-28T19:26:44.907-07:00Where We Are on this Map<span id="docs-internal-guid-c0696d8a-7fff-538a-ae38-2d196d93f326"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">While I’ve completely embraced digital maps and global position system (GPS) technology, I still enjoy using paper maps - especially topographic maps. Paper maps rarely crash; on the other hand, finding exactly where I am on a paper map takes more skill than following the blue dot on an aerial photo map on my phone. I enjoy trying to figure this out!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In some ways, our experience with Sami’s glioblastoma over the last seven months has felt like navigating with a paper map as it’s being drawn. Part of this, I think, has been the fact that there is no outward visible manifestation of her tumor - we can’t see or feel any lumps or abnormal growth. Instead, we see neurological and cognitive symptoms associated both with swelling and tumor growth. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">When the neurosurgeons we saw in January and February started talking about primary brain tumors, astrocytomas and glioblastomas, we started researching these cancers and their prognoses. As I’ve written previously, we learned that these cancers were manageable (hopefully) but not curable. We learned that fewer than 20% of patients diagnosed with glioblastoma survive for more than 2 years following diagnosis. Our research, and our questions of Sami’s doctors, began giving us a rough idea of where we were on this journey.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">When Sami ended up back in the hospital in mid February (following her first craniotomy in late January), we assumed that the tumor had started to regrow quickly. As Sami’s neuro oncologist at UCSF pointed out when we saw him in March, however, we had no way of really knowing - inexplicably, the first neurosurgeon had failed to order a postoperative MRI to determine how successful the surgery had been. Looking back, this felt like a major landmark had been left off our map. The oncologist also explained that the pathology report suggested a relatively low proliferation rate - in other words, the tumor did not seem to be especially fast growing, which seemed hopeful at the time.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My earlier blogs record Sami’s experience with the first round of chemotherapy (with an oral drug called Temodar) and the concurrent six weeks of radiation treatments. As this wrapped up, she felt pretty lousy - which the doctors said was due to brain irritation and swelling associated with the treatment. At the end of her first round of maintenance chemotherapy, she suffered a major seizure and ultimately spent the first three weeks of June in hospitals. The MRIs she had during this phase of the journey hinted at “flares” and “evidence of disease progression,” but we came home with the understanding that Sami’s difficulties with walking, remembering, and speaking were due to ongoing brain swelling. Nobody, including us, seemed terribly worried about new tumors.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">On July 11, we went back to UCSF for a full day of appointments (MRI, oncologist visit, and an Avastin infusion). Sami was unable to hold perfectly still for the MRI, resulting in less-than-clear images, but we left the oncology appointment with the impression that the swelling in her brain was subsiding, and that she’d be able to reduce the amount of steroids she’d been taking to control this edema.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The day after our visit, however, the doctor called and said the radiologist had found evidence of two new tumors in Sami’s brain - one on her cerebellum and one on her left occipital lobe. He said the fact that these new tumors were so far removed from the first mass (on her left frontal lobe) suggested that the cancer was more aggressive that we’d thought, and that the Temodar chemotherapy had been ineffective. He said we should consider another chemo drug. I felt like we’d reached a new landmark on the map. I also felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Towards the end of that week, as we tapered the steroids, Sami’s condition began to worsen again - she had more brain fog, and she fell several times. While she’d been able to move around the house with a walker (but without our help) when she came home from the hospital, we found that weekend that we needed to help her at all times to keep her from falling. We talked to the doctor on Sunday, July 16, and he said we needed to increase the steroids again.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Over the next ten days, we talked with Sami’s UCSF team several times. Finally, this week, we learned that her ongoing (and worsening) symptoms were a direct result of the disease progression (in other words, the new tumors), not because of brain irritation and swelling associated with surgery and radiation. We learned that some glioblastomas are genetically imprinted with resistance to chemotherapy (and that nobody seems to know why). We learned that the Avastin infusions Sami has been receiving had not been as effective at reducing swelling and limiting tumor growth as her doctors had hoped. And finally, we learned where we are in the likely timeline for the ultimate progression of Sami’s cancer - more likely a matter of months than of years. We found where we are on the map.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Obviously, this was a difficult week for all of us, and yet I feel somewhat better oriented now that I know where we are. To some degree, I think Sami feels the same. She has struggled emotionally and mentally since the initial diagnosis (who wouldn’t?!); over these last several days, she seems more at peace to me. I am afraid of what comes next (as Sami’s symptoms multiply and intensify), but I’ve also realized this week that I’m doing things for Sami today that I didn’t think I was capable of 8 months ago. I’ve also realized that my prayers for Sami are evolving; rather than hoping for a cure (or at least long-term management), I pray that the time we have left together brings us some peace - and that her ultimate passing doesn’t involve more suffering and pain.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As this new reality has settled in my heart and in my mind, I’ve also noticed that I’m taking a great deal of pleasure from very simple things around me. A ripe tomato in our garden; a Common Merganser hen and her 15 chicks swimming by me as I fished on the Little Truckee River; a home-cooked meal enjoyed with Emma and Sami. A few nights ago, as Sami and I were sitting on the edge of our bed, she put her head on my shoulder - something she hadn’t done since before her hospitalization in June. I found it hugely comforting. I remain sad, angry, anxious, and frustrated, but these little bits of peace and grace and light have helped calm me. I hope I remain open to them.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Finally, thank you to all who have reached out with thoughts, help, and support. And thank you to all who have followed our journey. I write mostly for me - but I also hope that writing helps others process what they may be facing. A good friend told me this week that sometimes it’s hard to talk about our own experiences with cancer (as a patient or as a caregiver) because we realize that everyone’s journey with this disease is different. The map of our journey is unique to us; but knowing that others have navigated similar maps is helpful for me. Thank you.</span></p></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrtQKUMsW-wM76jxleXKymj2Qgd-zOsTYC4F43F0f6EiWsr76rQ2iBaJYjScgBsDmLl3Oo_wrivx_tKkMJrYNDTW3D9jjyL_ufSgFOtFXcdbjR5qTtFsYZs_t4F4HZVIdsAPc9Tp3T4A9WKOItMGqmde3XbyO6b-0JzQauOfCCVY2wkQdNifwMnc_WDtnj" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjrtQKUMsW-wM76jxleXKymj2Qgd-zOsTYC4F43F0f6EiWsr76rQ2iBaJYjScgBsDmLl3Oo_wrivx_tKkMJrYNDTW3D9jjyL_ufSgFOtFXcdbjR5qTtFsYZs_t4F4HZVIdsAPc9Tp3T4A9WKOItMGqmde3XbyO6b-0JzQauOfCCVY2wkQdNifwMnc_WDtnj=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-55695460367357494082023-07-14T16:55:00.006-07:002023-07-14T20:25:31.075-07:00Mid-July Update<span id="docs-internal-guid-ac40d5ac-7fff-c9c6-fafa-ce39f56dd8c5"><span style="font-family: times;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">At the end of another long and difficult week, I wanted to provide a quick update on Sami’s journey with glioblastoma. I think I can safely say that all of us - Sami, Emma, Lara, and me - are exhausted and worn down. So here’s my mid-July update:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sami had a regular check up at UCSF on Tuesday. We started with an MRI and then raced across town in San Francisco to visit the neuro oncologist. While the MRI images were not great (mostly because Sami found it difficult to hold still), the doctor compared the images this week with the images from the beginning of Sami’s hospital stay in late May. He showed us that the swelling had subsided substantially - which was very positive news. He told Sami she could start tapering off of the steroids she’d been taking to control the swelling. Finally! The steroids bring their own side effects, and Sami is ready to be done with them. We also had a good talk with a social worker about Sami’s emotional and mental health. We were exhausted when we finally rolled back into our driveway at 9pm (13 hours after we’d left home), but we all felt a little more hopeful.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Wednesday evening, as we were finishing up dinner, I received a call from the neuro oncologist. I’ve written previously about our frustration with lack of communication from Sami’s health care team; on the flipside, getting a call after hours from the doctor rarely brings good news, and this call was no exception. He told me that the radiologist had contacted him regarding Sami’s MRI, and had told him that they had seen two new lesions on Sami’s brain that he (the oncologist) hadn’t seen - and that he hadn’t mentioned to us on Tuesday. These lesions were significant enough that he told me that the current chemotherapy wasn’t working. And he told us that Sami’s best option was a stronger chemo drug (with potentially greater side effects).</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me - I think we all did. I asked if we could talk over this new development as a family and come back to him the next day with our questions. Of course, he was traveling the next day, but he indicated we send him an electronic message that someone in the office would respond to. As of this evening (Friday), we haven’t had any answers. Despite our questions, however, Sami has decided to give the new treatment a try with the hope that it will slow the progression of the disease better than the first chemo drug. She’ll also continue with infusions designed to limit the blood supply to the cancerous tissue.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">All of this is occurring against the backdrop of continued mobility challenges. Sami is able to navigate our house with the aid of a walker, although we are finding that she is at risk of falling when she’s especially tired. And one of the things the social worker helped us all understand is that we all have some anger about this situation that has nothing to do with the quality of the health care Sami has received. We’re angry at the situation - the fact that my active, smart, successful wife has had much of what made her active, smart, and successful stripped away.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I wrote in my last blog (</span><a href="https://flyingmule.blogspot.com/2023/07/home-for-good.html" style="text-decoration-line: none; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Home… for Good</span></a><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">), we are not planning to go back to the hospital. We all hope this new treatment brings a window of relief, but regardless, we will go through this next phase at home. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Finally, I want to end with a few thoughts that have been floating around my head about how we talk about things like this. Talking about cancer - any kind of cancer, I think - is difficult. What do you say to someone who has cancer? What do you say to someone who’s caring for a loved one with cancer? Before our personal experience with glioblastoma, I mostly avoided the subject, I’m afraid. I offered help, offered condolences, but quickly moved on to other subjects - mostly out of my own discomfort. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I didn’t say anything.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Today, I find that our situation is all-consuming. It’s all I think about - even when I’m thinking about something else. And so I find myself annoyed at times when it’s not what other people are thinking about. This week, I realized that many of my friends are probably as uncomfortable as I have always been about discussing what we’re experiencing.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My own uncertainty and anxiety have made me grumpy. I’ve told several people over these last few months that I had a very short fuse. I hate that about myself - I hate being that pissed off guy who takes offense at a very minor insult and ruins someone else’s day. But that’s where I am. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">That said, I have finally realized this week how much a simple “I’m thinking of you guys - how are you doing?” means to me. Thank you to our friends and family, who continue to help out, to check in, and to ask how we’re doing - you help us get through each day.</span></p><br /><br /><br /></span></span><p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3579242589372209341.post-91038731736360850602023-07-07T16:02:00.003-07:002023-07-07T20:42:44.566-07:00Home... for Good<span id="docs-internal-guid-efb97c83-7fff-6dcc-791f-fe073f5c02c4"><span style="font-family: times;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">At the end of May, we took Sami to the emergency room in Roseville - our third trip to the ER in four days as Sami wrapped up her first maintenance course of chemotherapy. The following morning, Sami was transferred to UCSF - she was in San Francisco for just over three weeks (the better part of June - at UCSF for treatment through June 11; at Saint Francis Memorial for rehab until June 20). While I made several runs home during that stretch - for Sami’s chemo medicines, for a work meeting, and for my own sanity - I mostly stayed in San Francisco, too. One evening, over dinner (from the Trader Joe’s around the corner from Saint Francis Memorial, a welcome break from cafeteria food), Sami and I talked about what we were most looking forward to doing when we returned home. And we talked about Sami’s wishes for being home from this point forward.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As big cities go, I actually kind of like San Francisco. The combination of hilltop landmarks and a street system laid out on a predictable grid (for the most part) helps a hayseed like me navigate. I find that I need to see the horizon to know where I am; that’s why I love open country. But staying in The City (as we Northern Californians refer to San Francisco) wore thin for all of us. I found myself wanting to wake up in the morning to the sound of birdsong and the hungry mules in the barn, rather than honking horns and the hum of the hospital. When I woke up in the middle of the night (which is a regular occurrence in my mid 50s!) I wanted to hear the great horned owl that roosts in the gray pine near our bedroom, or the coyotes singing (hopefully not from the back pasture), rather than sirens and squealing tires. Sami was looking forward to these things too - and to enjoying the sunshine from our back deck, and being in our vegetable garden.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">We had to work on some logistics when we got home for Sami to be able to do these things. When we left home in late May, the swelling in Sami’s brain meant she was unable to walk. Thanks to the treatment she received at UCSF, and the occupational and physical therapy she had at Saint Francis, she made progress towards walking again, but her mobility still requires a walker and a wheelchair.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In talking about home one evening while we were at Saint Francis, I asked Sami a difficult question, one that I’d been avoiding. I asked her if her symptoms worsened again, if she wanted to come back to the hospital. We’d danced around this question a bit when we decided to go to UCSF in late May - all of us know what glioblastoma means with regards to a long-term prognosis. The deciding factor in late May was that the UCSF team told us that they weren’t ready to say they couldn’t help Sami feel better again. While Sami’s progress has felt exceedingly slow, she has started to feel better, thankfully - but the right-side weakness and brain fog persist. As I write this, two-and-a-half weeks after returning home, someone needs to be with Sami all of the time.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Sami told me that evening that if things get worse again, she wants to stay at home, with the help of home-based healthcare, and ultimately, with hospice care. These conversations are exceedingly difficult, and exceedingly important. Sami and I have both signed advance directives that state, “I do not wish to artificially prolong the process of my dying if continued health care will not improve my prognosis for recovery or otherwise enable me to live a productive and/or enjoyable life.”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Part of our conversation that evening revolved around the last part of this sentence - what is a “productive and/or enjoyable life?” Each of us probably has a different definition; for Sami, she said she missed working. I would to - we’ve both been fortunate to get to do work that we are passionate about, work that fulfills us. I missed working while we were in San Francisco; I can’t imagine what it would feel like to know I wouldn’t be able to work again.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">In another section of our advanced directives, Sami and I give each other the responsibility to make decisions about these matters in the event we ourselves are incapacitated. We talked about what this meant when we worked with our attorney to draft the language many years ago; reading this language now is more sobering. How will we know? What do we mean by “incapacitated”? Incapacitation isn’t an on-off switch - now that I’m faced with this in reality, it seems like an awesome responsibility. How will I know if taking Sami back to the hospital will “artificially prolong” her life without any prospect for productivity or enjoyment? What exactly do we mean by “quality of life?” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Throughout this experience, I’ve been reminded of one of my favorite pieces of fiction by Wendell Berry, a story titled </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Fidelity</span><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. I won’t try to summarize it here, but it is perhaps the best thing I’ve ever read about the conflict between our medical system and our sense of humanity and community. I encourage you to read it. As a livestock producer, I suppose, I’ve always thought about what death means - biologically, emotionally, and spiritually. To paraphrase my friend and fellow sheep rancher Al Medvitz, death is not the opposite of life. The process of dying, however, can be frightening and incredibly difficult. As I think about what Sami and I are really trying to express in our advance directives, it might be that we both, to the extent possible, want the final steps in this process to happen at home, with our loved ones around us. As Berry’s story suggests, the entire insurance-medical complex is arrayed against us. But I feel like we are home for good.</span> </p></span></span>Flying Mule Sheep Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15025902155175709402noreply@blogger.com0