Two Years

Two years ago today, a Friday, I was likely at work in my office in Auburn. My calendar from January 6, 2023, says “Emma Home!” - she was midway through her sophomore year of college. Lara had been home; she’d left to return to New Mexico just before the end of December. I was looking forward to my upcoming sheep husbandry field day in mid January (it rained incredibly hard, but we still had a great turnout) and our driving trip to visit Lara in Las Cruces. As I sit in the kitchen of a new (to me) house on January 6, 2025, I can’t quite wrap my head around how much things have changed in just 24 months.

Several days ago, I tried to write down all of the significant events of the last two years. Sami’s illness and ultimate passing. My decision to sell most (and ultimately all) of our sheep - at least for now. My mom’s dementia diagnosis. Sami’s celebration of life. The decision to transfer to Calaveras County, where I’m doing the same job (UC Cooperative Extension Livestock and Natural Resources Advisor) in a different set of counties. Related to the change in jobs, the decision to sell our property in Auburn and buy a property in Mountain Ranch. The actual move (of all of our household goods and ranching equipment). Totaling my Toyota Tacoma on CA-20, and buying a new truck in late November and early December. Traveling to see our daughters in Idaho and New Mexico multiple times. Experiencing difficult first (and now second) anniversaries - of our wedding, of Sami’s birthday, of Sami’s passing.

I realized that the previous 24 months absolutely wore me out.

I write all of this not to seek sympathy, but to acknowledge what these last two years have been like. In January 2023, I was the extension livestock advisor for the county I’d lived in for 29 years. I was the county director, too, leading a staff of wonderful folks. I was a sheepman - Auburn’s own sheepherder, in lots of ways. And I was Sami’s husband (as I had been since August 4, 1990). Looking back from January 2025, I can’t quite fathom what life was like two years ago. I can’t really remember what I expected the rest of my life to be like.

Today, 24 months later, I’m none of these things. For the first time in 20 years, I will not have any lambing ewes this spring. I’m still an extension livestock advisor, but in a new set of counties. I’m nobody’s boss. I’m nobody’s life partner. 

I’m not sure where I belong. I’m not sure who I am. I’m not sure what (if anything) brings me joy at the moment. I’m lonely. I’m sad tonight. I wonder if moving (and leaving the community Sami and I were part of - part of building) was a mistake. I’m realizing that as I write this, my leg and back muscles are tense. I realize that anticipating something (like Christmas, or traveling to see my daughters) is much easier than the aftermath. Going on a trip to see them is far easier than coming home. Similarly, decorating my new place for Christmas was far easier than putting Christmas away.

I’m profoundly exhausted.

Some days, I can focus on the positive parts of my life. I’m the father of two incredibly strong young women, in whom I can see both Sami and myself. I have a wonderful sister and brother-in-law (and their adult kids) who have helped me navigate these last two years. I live in a beautiful place on a property that I own outright. I have a job I enjoy, and that I think I’m reasonably good at performing.

Over the last 24 months, I’ve done a fair bit of reading (and thinking - and writing!) about grief. Some describe grief as a stone that you carry in your pocket - and that as time goes on, and you get stronger, the stone feels lighter. But the stone is with you for the rest of your life. I’ve heard others describe grief as a box with a ball in it, and with a button that causes pain. When your grief is fresh, the ball is big, and so it rolls around and hits the pain button frequently. As time goes on, the box of your life gets bigger, and the ball of your grief shrinks - which means the pain button gets hit less frequently. But it still gets pressed.

Both of these descriptions feel reasonably close to my experience, so far. But I especially like Jimmy Buffet’s (yes, THAT Jimmy Buffet) take on grief. He writes:

”Grief is like the wake behind a boat. It starts out as a huge wave that follows close behind you and is big enough to swamp and drown you if you suddenly stop moving forward. But if you do keep moving, the big wake will eventually dissipate.”

Building on that imagery, grief (at least at this stage) feels like a day at the beach (hear me out)! When Sami first passed, the surf felt incredibly rough - like I would be sucked under the waves if I quit moving. As time went on, over the last two years, I began to feel like the surf had calmed. But the sneaker waves keep coming. Unexpected grief is difficult, and this weekend’s grief felt like I might be pulled away from the shore. Unsettling, to say the least. And probably why I’ve had difficult slowing down - I keep moving, which is both helpful and exhausting.

I’ve never been much for New Year’s Resolutions, but I do use the changing of one year’s calendar to the next to take stock. To think about things I’ve done and things I’d like to do. To think about what I’d like to do better. I guess this year is no different. I feel like I can be better about work-life balance. I hope that the change in jobs will help - but I’m still the guy who says “yes” far too often. I know that I’m the kind of person who seeks (and hopefully builds) community - I hope that I settle into my new one. I also know that working with my hands (whether with sheep, or with my new sawmill) brings me comfort and peace. And maybe - hopefully - joy.

Finally, a word of gratitude. I’ve been told that my vulnerability in writing about these last two years has been helpful. I hope that it has; even more, I am grateful to those of you who have reached out. Grief, as I’ve written before, requires community - even if that community is virtual. Thank you for being part of my community. And my grief.

Christmas is Different - Merry Christmas, My Friends

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday - I've embraced both the religious and astronomical significance of the day. The winter solstice may be the longest night of the year, but Christmas Eve can't be far behind. But as I approach my second Christmas (and Solstice) without Sami, I realize that Christmas is different now. And likely always will be.

When we were first married (and Sami was in vet school), our Christmases were marked by mutual gifts (like the flannel sheets that turned us both blue the first night we slept in them because we didn't wash them) and homemade presents for our families. We made lots of woodworking gifts in our early years together - Christmas decorations and toy boxes, as I recall. Later, with children of our own, we made the conscious decision to be home on Christmas Day - to watch our girls discover that Santa had eaten the cookies and drank the egg nog they'd left out for him, and find their stockings full.

When we started raising sheep commercially in the early 2000s, we added sheep chores to our tradition. Usually, I'd spend December 23 and/or 24 getting sheep moved to fresh grass so that our Christmas chores (and our chores in the day or two that followed) were minimal. And on Christmas Day, after we'd opened presents and had cinnamon rolls for breakfast, but before we'd opened our stockings, the girls and I would drive out to wherever the sheep were grazing to feed the livestock guardian dogs. Sami, I think, enjoyed the peace and quiet of our short absence!

But in 2023, everything - EVERYTHING - changed. Last December 23, we celebrated Sami's life at the Gold Country Fairgrounds. The girls and I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in Pacific Grove. A very different celebration, for sure - but a needed departure from being at home. A home that was so very different than the one where I'd celebrated Christmas for 32 years.

This year, I'm in a new home. I'm working a new (if familiar) job. I've sold all of the sheep except for 8 feeder lambs. Emma is home from college; I'll travel to New Mexico to see Lara in a few days. I did most of the Christmas decorating by myself. The sharp pain of last year's sense of loss has lessened, to some degree - but I find that I'm unusually exhausted as the days have grown shorter. December 23 snuck up on me. I continue to find that being around people is both helpful and exhausting. I find that I have had a hard time thinking about the gifts I'd like to give my family and friends - even thinking about what to eat on Christmas Day seems like too much work.

My friends and family continue to be incredibly supportive and understanding, for which I'm more thankful than I can express. The shortest text - a simple card - can lift my spirits more than you know. I continue to be humbled by the people who seem to know intuitively when I need someone to check in with me. And who don't expect reciprocation or response.

Tonight, Christmas Eve, I find that I miss the anticipation I shared with Sami. I miss knowing the comfort of knowing that we're all under the same roof. I miss the ritual of preparing a simple hearty meal (for many years, I made Scotch broth on Christmas Eve) in anticipation of a much bigger meal on Christmas Day. Tomorrow, I'll miss the walks we took after an early dinner (and before dessert). I'm so thankful that Emma is here this year. I'm grateful that we got to celebrate at my sister's house yesterday (with my grand-niece and grand-nephews). But Christmas is still different.

Merry Christmas, my friends. Know that I'm grateful.

Sixteen Months

Sixteen months ago today, Sami passed away. We’re coming up on a year since we celebrated her life at the Gold Country Fairgrounds. And I continue to think (and write) about my experience - relationship might be a better word - with grief.

Journaling has been immensely helpful for me. Some of what I write in my journal ends up in these blog posts. Much of it does not. But the physical act of putting what’s inside me onto paper helps me process what I’ve gone through. What I’m still going through.

A little over a week ago, I wrote in my journal, “Does grief rip you open? Make you notice signs that are always there, but missed if you’re not vulnerable? Just because you notice the signs when you’re grieving (only when you’re grieving?) doesn’t mean they aren’t there all along.”

I was thinking about the occasions when red-tailed hawks have appeared - both in reality and in my dreams. But then, on social media, I saw this photo of a sculpture called “Melancholy” by Albert Gyorgy. I had just written “Does grief rip you open?”

I love this piece. First, the interior emptiness seems to be real - there does seem to be a hole in the core of my being. My heart, for sure, but more than that - losing Sami seems to have removed my center of gravity.

But to me, the aspect of the sculpture’s head seems right, too. I seem to have rediscovered introspection in the last sixteen months (or maybe my introspection is simply more intense). There are times when I simply sit with myself, looking inward. But the fact that I noticed a “sign” about grief after asking myself if grief makes me notice these signs more readily is an interesting coincidence. Or maybe it’s a proof.

November 2024 was a rough month in many ways. I had a great visit with both of my daughters in Idaho, but driving home was incredibly hard. The trauma of my truck crash was, too - both emotionally and logistically. But I also think the milestone I will experience every November for the rest of my life was particularly hard. Sami would have turned 57 on November 10. I have the privilege of being 57; Sami doesn’t.

That said, the last few weeks have been brighter, despite the shorter days. I had family and friends here at my new place for Thanksgiving - I smoked a leg of lamb and barbecued a turkey (for the first time in many years). We had 12 people at my table - I think the most I’ve ever had!

The following week, I drove to Reno for the California Cattlemen’s Association convention - an event I’ve attended most years since 1992 (there were a few I missed, but I’ve made more than half!). I saw old friends, ate dinner at Louie’s Basque Corner in Reno, and enjoyed my Extension colleagues. On the way home last Friday, I bought a new truck to replace my totaled Tacoma.

Saturday, I joined my sister and her family in getting our Christmas trees on the Stanislaus National Forest. We had a great time on Ebbett’s Pass. Hard not to laugh when you’re hanging around little kids and dogs! In the snow!

Last year, Emma was home when I put up our Christmas tree. This year, I approached decorating my tree by myself for the first time with some trepidation. But I found that I enjoyed it. Most of our ornaments are handmade - by us or by friends. All of them have meaning, and I found that the memories they brought to mind were happy. Mostly. There was one ornament that Sami and I received as a gift on our first Christmas way back in 1990 that I couldn’t bring myself to put on the tree. Mostly, though, I smiled with each ornament I unwrapped and hung on the tree.

On Sunday, I finished trimming the tree and decorating the house. I met a neighbor who has some pines that I will be able to mill into lumber for a barn at my new place. I went to my local cattlemen’s association dinner, where I saw more old friends - and hopefully made some new ones!

On Tuesday morning, I wrote in my journal, “I seem to be doing okay at the moment. I wonder why?… Seems like happy memories of Sami come easier - I don’t feel as weighted down by my grief. Is it the season?”

I’ve always loved December - even as a little kid, I think, I appreciated the darkness - and the eventual return to light, represented by Advent and the Solstice. This year, December seems to be healing. I feel more at ease. Or maybe more at peace.

Later on Tuesday, I attended the California Wool Growers board meeting in Los Banos. My participation has been sporadic since Sami’s illness. The meeting was productive - and the lunch at Wool Growers Restaurant was outstanding (as usual). Eating two meals at Basque restaurants - with friends - in the span of a week was a special treat. But when I got home, I found that I was exhausted - more exhausted than five hours of driving and three hours of meeting would suggest.

Sixteen months after becoming a widower, I’m finding that I’m adjusting to working by myself. Mostly. But there are still some things that I find difficult to do alone. Some are practical things - like hooking up the gooseneck trailer in the dark. Some are more esoteric - like figuring out how to travel for work without someone being home to take care of the animals. Sixteen months later, I still wish I could ask Sami questions. Or share about my day. And especially, hear about hers.

Here’s the thing. At this point in my grieving process, I find that I can laugh and joke. And still be intensely sad. Simultaneously. I can be extroverted and engaged. And exhausted when I get home. I find that when someone asks me, “How are you?” I mostly answer, “I’m okay.” Sometimes I want to explain why I can’t say, “great!” Some days things seem “normal”; other days - other hours, other minutes, even - the grief is just below the surface. Or floating on it. I can be happy, cheerful, productive. Creative. But sometimes I need to withdraw. To sit in front of my woodstove. To mourn. To cry. To not move on. Grief, to me, equals memory. And love. And, perhaps, introspection. Winnowing. What’s important to me now, sixteen months later? I will be interested to see.

Aerial Ovine Evolution

Or an Update on Flying Mule Sheep Company...

I would have to go back through old photos, but I believe I’ve lambed out ewes (even if it was only 2 or 3) for each of the last 25 years. At least. Lambing season has been part of the annual rhythm of my life for a quarter of a century or more. But it won’t be in 2025. At least not with ewes I own.

All businesses evolve; Flying Mule Sheep Company is no different. The first ewe we owned was an injured sheep that Sami nursed back to health in her final years of vet school. We brought that ewe to Penryn when we moved there in 1994. We also started buying feeder lambs - one for us, and additional lambs for our family. When we moved to Auburn in 2001, we started a small breeding flock. I can remember buying a our first ram from a ranch in Lincoln, where Home Depot is now.

In 2005, we partnered with our friends Allen and Nancy Edwards on buying some feeder lambs to finish on their place in Colfax, purchasing 12 Barbados lambs from a breeder in El Dorado County. We thought the 8-foot fences were to keep mountain lions out - turns out, they were to keep the nearly wild sheep in. When we unloaded at Allen’s, the first two jumped over my head and disappeared. We never saw them again, although Allen says people would come to their home for several years after this and say they’d seen wild bighorn sheep in the American River canyon! They were the last Barbados sheep we owned!

In 2006, we bought our first 27 breeding ewes and another ram. We started leasing property for grazing. Eventually, we lambed out as many as 275 ewes. Lambing season became a second Christmas for me - I loved the daily gift of new life that lasted for 6 weeks each spring.

I fully embraced sheep ranching. I joined the board of the California Wool Growers Association (California’s oldest livestock organization), eventually serving as President from 2018 to 2020. Even before I became a cooperative extension advisor in 2017, I started holding workshops to teach beginning shepherds about lambing, grazing, and sheep husbandry.

When my sheep partner Roger Ingram decided to move to Texas, I bought out his interest in Flying Mule Sheep Company (in July 2023). Since I was working full-time, I decided to downsize a bit - but I still grazed our sheep on annual rangeland west of Auburn in the winter, and on irrigated pasture closer to Auburn in the summer.

Then Sami was diagnosed with glioblastoma in February 2023. And everything - EVERYTHING! - changed.

After Sami’s second craniotomy in February 2023, I decided to take up my friend Ryan Indart’s offer to lamb out most of my ewes - I sent all but a handful to Fresno County. When Sami spent 3 weeks in hospitals in San Francisco in June, my old partner Roger took over irrigation duties. And when the sheep that Ryan cared for came back in July, I weaned the lambs and sold most of the ewes.

Fast forward to the winter of 2023-24. I’d kept a handful of ewes, which I’d bred to the single ram I’d kept that fall. Their lambs were born in February, and weaned in May 2024. By that time, I’d decided that I was going to move back closer to my family, to help care for my Mom (who’d been diagnosed with dementia). I moved to Calaveras County in August. And brought my remaining sheep (4 ewes, 4 ewe lambs, and 9 feeders) to Mountain Ranch in September.

This week, after three months of grazing my sheep at my new place - and after trying to find someone who can care for them when I have to travel - I’ll take the last of my breeding ewes to the sale in Escalon. Next spring, for the first time in a quarter century (at least), I won’t have any lambs. No bummers. No three-times-a-day checks on the drop bunch. No middle of the stormy night walks through the ewes to make sure everyone’s okay. I’ve decided that for the time being, I’ll buy feeder lambs each spring and graze them at my new place until the feed dries out in late May or June. But I won’t have sheep - at least in 2025 - from early summer through the following early spring.

As I grew older - and as I became more experienced in lambing out ewes - I often thought about the fact that I had a limited number of years of lambing left. I don’t think I’m done lambing - I know that once I get settled in my new place - and in my new life - that I’ll get back into the breeding sheep business. But for now, after Friday, I won’t have any breeding ewes. And next February, I suspect, I’ll miss the sound of new lambs and mama sheep.

I'm incredibly proud of the flock we built. After any years of paying attention to maternal ability, ewe productivity, and lamb quality, we built a flock that fit our environment. Perhaps the highest compliment I've ever been paid was having the friends whose daughter bought my ewes in 2023 (friends who are great stockpeople) tell me, "The lambs from your ewes were amazing." As I've written before, breeding livestock, to me, is the equivalent to an artist's body of work. My sheep are my body of work. Work that was 25 years in the making. Work that I don't feel quite ready to quit.

This afternoon, I brought the sheep into my corrals and sorted off the feeders I wanted to keep. Like many of the things I’ve had to do over the last 23 months, it was a task that I didn’t look forward to, but one I knew I had to do. The work itself was something I’ve done hundreds (if not thousands) of times since we started Flying Mule Sheep Company; the consequences of what I was doing felt different. My dog worked well, the sheep looked good. But the handful of ewes I’d kept were the best ewes we had; watching them walk off the trailer tomorrow at the sales yard will be difficult; only other ranchers can truly appreciate how difficult.

And so tonight, as I sit by my wood stove after finishing this chore, I’m both sad and grateful. Grateful to the sheep and to the way my family’s life was fitted to the rhythms of the sheep year - breeding in the fall, coasting through the winter, lambing in the spring, weaning in the summer, flushing the ewes in the early fall, harvesting lambs as we started the cycle again. I’m grateful for the years when the rains came early and the feed grew strong. I won’t miss the stress of late rains and short grass during lambing, but I will miss the sound of a ewe nickering to her new babies. I’m sad to know that I won’t have lambs here at my new place next February, but I’m grateful my daughters had a chance to experience the tie to the landscape that our sheep provided (even on a small scale). I’m sad to be severing that tie, even if it’s only for a year.

Further Out

From the day we were married, Sami and I had a point of friendly disagreement. I always wanted to live more rurally than she did. For the first two years we were married (while Sami was in vet school), we lived in the old part of downtown Woodland - an urban abode! We then moved to a house just outside of Dixon - surrounded by tomato fields - much more rural. Shortly before Sami graduated in 1994, we bought a house on an acre in Penryn. In 2001, we moved to a place on 3 acres in north Auburn. Both places were reasonably rural - but both places were also close to town. Sami, having grown up in Burbank, liked the fact that we weren’t too far from civilization. I always wanted to be further out.

Now, in November 2024, I am. In August, I moved from north Auburn to the little community of Mountain Ranch (in Calaveras County). Placer County, when I moved, had a population of 400,000-plus. Calaveras County has a population of less than 50,000. 

When I was a freshman in college, I had to give a speech in my rhetoric class about where I was from. Most of my classmates talked about coming to school in the small town of Davis. In my speech, I said, “there are more stoplights between my dorm room and this classroom than there are in all of Tuolumne County!” Later, a friend who was from Calaveras County said, “We don’t actually have stoplights in Calaveras County, but we have the colors picked out!”

That was in 1985. Today, nearly 40 years later, Calaveras County has stoplights. But not that many - fewer than 10, I think! When I leave my new office (in the county seat of San Andreas), I never have to wait long to turn left onto Highway 49! In my 15-mile commute, there are no stoplights!

A friend and colleague came to visit me at my new place in October. When she arrived (from the Bay Area), she remarked, “Wow - you really live out in the sticks!” I suppose I do - my new place is about 25 minutes east of Highway 49 - on a windy road. The little “town” of Mountain Ranch boasts a population of fewer than 2000 people.

In Auburn, we had the luxury of living semi-rurally, but being close to town. We could feed the sheep, move irrigation, and shop at Target, all within a three mile radius. Here in Mountain Ranch, I can still shop close to home, but things are more expensive. I’m equidistant between the little towns of Mountain Ranch and Railroad Flat - which both have stores. In Mountain Ranch, there’s a store that sells groceries, hardware, and livestock feed (my kind of place). In Railroad Flat, there’s a store that sells basic supplies. And beer. I’ve shopped at both!

But living further out requires more forethought. I’m finding that I need to think about what I need for groceries. For hardware. For supplies. And I need to be more aware of where I can attain those things! In Auburn, I could be be at a large supermarket - or Target - in five minutes. Here, in Mountain Ranch, that trip takes 40-45 minutes. That said, I find I enjoy shopping at my little “hometown” market - even if it is more expensive. And I enjoy buying groceries, and then going next door and buying feed for my critters!

The upside of this arrangement is that I’m living in a very quiet community. I’m on a road that has maybe 10 other people who drive on it. My neighbors also cut firewood. Feed livestock. Worry about wildfire. Keep to themselves. The downside is that things are more expensive. Or further away.

Tonight, three months after selling our home in Auburn and moving to Mountain Ranhc, I find that I miss my friends. I miss running into people I know when I’m in “town.” But I also find that I enjoy the quiet. I enjoy stopping at Sender’s Market on my way home from work to pick up milk. And alafalfa! I enjoy being further out!

Mixed Emotions and Difficult Weeks

Over the last week and a half, I’ve found that I’m processing new elements of my grief. I’ve thought about what Sami must have experienced in terms of her own grief. I’ve thought about how grief is different depending on who you’ve lost - and when you lost them. I’ve considered the paradox that my grief is one of the pathways to remembering Sami. And I’ve had a startling reminder of my own mortality.

Part of what has been so difficult about losing Sami is the feeling that we were both robbed. Robbed of time together as we wrapped up our careers. Robbed of watching both of our daughters begin (and thrive in) their adult lives. Robbed of growing old together.

I realized this week that Sami must have experienced tremendous grief as her illness progressed. I know that she must have grieved that she wouldn’t see either of her daughters marry. That she’d never know her grandchildren. That she wouldn’t even get to see Emma compete in logger sports. Or graduate from college.

Losing a partner, because of this, is a unique type of grief, I think. In many ways, I think I inherited Sami’s grief (on top of my own, at losing her). I’m finding that I’M sad that she won’t get to go to her daughters’ weddings, or hold our grandchildren. On top of my own sadness. But I also feel like should honor her grief - that I should take special delight in experiencing these things on behalf of both of us.

In the immediate aftermath of Sami’s passing, I found that I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. Today, I can - I can remember her laugh, the way she’d get annoyed with me when I wasn’t listening. I can remember her puttering on autumn days - raking leaves, or cleaning the barn. Or enjoying a quiet day inside when it was cold and rainy. And while knowing she’s not here makes me sad, the sadness (or grief) also reminds me of her. Of the good things about our marriage.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve also experienced (again) the grief of knowing that my Mom is suffering from dementia. We went to a neurologist on the day after I returned from seeing the girls in Idaho. The appointment was helpful; the doctor gave us all some things we could do to help my Mom. We had a delightful lunch together. But while my Mom could remember my name, she couldn’t remember who I was. I realized that I was at a place in my grief for Sami where I finally had room to grieve for my parents, too.

And then came my planned trip to Eureka for work. I’d planned to drive to Humboldt County on Thursday of last week, to facilitate a meeting on elk management on Friday. I’d been watching the weather forecast - as had my family. My sister texted, “I don’t think you should go to Eureka.” I changed my plans slightly - taking a route that would avoid possible snow, and planning to leave earlier on Friday to make it home before the brunt of the storm hit here. Looking back, I feel like I had an unusual foreboding about this trip.

On Thursday morning, I was awakened by an unsettling dream in which Sami (who in my dream had been cured) had a seizure. I left home around 8am, just when I planned. As I was driving down Railroad Flat Road towards San Andreas, a truck swerved into my lane - far enough that I slowed abruptly and pulled onto the shoulder. I thought, “Huh, was that what I was worried about?!” Later, on I-5 near Woodland, I shifted in my seat and swerved awkwardly. Again, I thought, “That was strange.” After I stopped for lunch in Williams, I headed west on CA-20 towards Clearlake. Just past Bear Valley Road, and above what I later learned from CHP was called “Dead Man’s Curve,” I was driving up a winding grade towards the Colusa-Lake county line in a light rain. A big rig towing an empty trailer was headed down the grade. Going way too fast. The trailer fishtailed into my lane, and in that split second before impact, I recall thinking, “Oh, okay - this is what I was expecting.”

His rear axle smacked into my driver-side front fender. My truck spun around and came to rest pointing east in the westbound lane. The side airbag deployed. I realized I was not hurt, and I scrambled out of the truck, halfway hearing the emergency alert voice in my Tacoma saying something about not being able to connect with emergency services. Not sure why, but I grabbed my phone (and thought to myself, “I don’t have cell service here.”) My first instinct was to check on the semi (which had jackknifed and slid off the eastbound lane) and the other driver, and to slow other drivers so there weren’t more crashes.

As the adrenaline wore off, I started thinking about what could have happened. That my daughters could have been orphans. That I could have been seriously injured. And that I was alone - I had nobody to call, and no way to call them.

Finally, fire trucks and then CHP showed up. A CalTrans worker pulled my truck off the road. When I first talked to the CHP officer, he seemed a little bit nonchalant about what had happened. Then he walked around the driver side of my truck and said, “Oh, I’m really sorry - this must have been really frightening.” About two hours after the accident, I rode back into Williams with the tow truck driver. My friend Leslie drove up from Woodland and took me to meet my sister, who brought me home. I did have people to call, after all.

On Friday, I decided I should probably get checked out medically. When the ER nurse came in to take my vital signs, I told her, “My blood pressure will be high - it’s always high now since what happened to my family over the last 15 months.” It was quite high, and I broke down. I cried. I told her what had happened to Sami, and that I was so worried about not being around for my daughters. She hugged me. She reconfirmed for me that nurses are amazing people who are the glue that hold together our dysfunctional healthcare system.

Tonight, I’m realizing that I’ve been through yet another traumatic stretch. I’ve awakened at 4am each of the last four mornings, reliving the moment when the trucker’s back axle hit my truck. Seeing myself ducking under the side airbag to get out of my truck (a Tacoma, which I loved) to see the driveshaft on the ground and the rear wheel detached from the rear axle. Imagining my girls mourning the loss of a second parent. These last two weeks have also brought an odd sense of detachment - a sense that I’m watching myself from six feet away.

I’m exhausted. I think I’ve reached a point where I can’t get through this by continuing to move. I need to catch my breath. I need to be quiet. I need to be still. I’m thankful that Thanksgiving will give me a reason to be home. I’m thankful, truthfully, just to be alive.

Who Am I Now?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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