Hard Traveling

As I was driving to work this morning, I realized traveling (both for work and for fun) has been mentally difficult for me since Sami passed away. Over the last two years, I’ve told myself - and others - that leaving home is more difficult now logistically. I need to find someone to care for my animals and water my garden. This time of year, I worry about being gone if a fire starts close to home. In the winter time, I worry about winter weather. But this morning, I realized that all of those things were true when Sami was alive. Yes, she could take care of chores when I traveled for work. And yes, she typically arranged for a pet sitter when we traveled together. But I mostly looked forward to traveling then - and I didn’t worry so much about being away from home. So what has changed?

Some days, I wonder if I got rid of my two mules, my four sheep, and my livestock guardian dog, if traveling would be easier. If I could just pick up my border collies and go! But I suspect my concern for caring for the animals is a crutch, that there’s some mental or emotional block. Similarly, wildfire is a serious threat in my community. But I’ve worked at preparing my property to survive a fire - there’s always more I can do, but I feel like my efforts at creating defensible space and hardening my home have helped reduce the danger.

So what is it? Why am I so reluctant? Why do I plan multiday trips like the one I’ve planned for this weekend and then back out as the departure date grows closer? Why am I afraid to leave home?

Reflecting on Sami’s illness, I suspect part of my reluctance stems from the after-effects of feeling like I needed to be on call around the clock to care for Sami. Of remembering the feeling when I left the house in July 2023 to go grocery shopping and came home to an ambulance in the driveway after Sami’s final seizure.

This residual feeling has carried forward during this summer of helping to care for my folks. I have felt like I’m taking a risk every time I travel overnight - what if something happens? What if they need me? What if there’s a crisis?

But I suspect my hesitation is also related to my grieving process. Sometimes I feel as though I shouldn’t be having fun. Other times, I feel like I can’t bear to be around other people. My introversion and introspection sometimes keep me from going out into the world - especially because my work often requires extroversion. Sometimes being home - doing chores, running my sawmill, stacking my firewood - feels more therapeutic than being out in the world. But maybe this is a crutch, too?

These thoughts lead me to conclude that perhaps part of my hesitancy is that I’m still adjusting to going places by myself. More accurately, I suppose, since I traveled alone before Sami died, I’m adjusting to coming home by myself. Coming home to an empty house.

Some days, I think I should simply force myself to get out and travel more. I would like to see both girls this fall. I’d like to spend some time in the mountains. I’m looking forward to our trip to Monterey for the half marathon in November (mostly because I’ll be there with family and friends). But today, as I contemplate heading north to see friends and celebrate the life of a colleague who passed away this summer, I’m struggling with whether I want to go.

Perspectives

I’m not a professional herding dog trainer - not even close. But I have trained the last several border collies I’ve used in my sheep business, and I have worked at understanding livestock handling and behavior - especially with sheep. One of the things I’ve observed with starting a young dog on sheep is that at first, most of my dogs want to work much too closely to the sheep. As a result, the dog can only see a very small part of the flock. Part of my job as the trainer, then, is to help the dog back off - to help the dog realize that he or she has more control over the entire flock if they work from further away. In other words, with greater distance comes more perspective.

Distance can be physical or temporal - measured in space or time. The further back my dog can work and still exert control over the sheep, the more effective he’ll be. The further away I get from the traumatic events of 2023, the more I see them with clarity. I don’t know if I understand what happened any more definitively than I did 25 months ago, but I am able to think about some of these events in a new light.

Before delving into several of the ways my perspective has evolved, I should say that I’ve come to realize that one does not “graduate” from the grieving process. There is no “certificate of completion” - as I’ve written before, my relationship with grief continues to evolve. But grief is not something I’ll move past. Indeed, my grief is not something I want to move past. Moving forward with my grief seems to make more sense. And so I suspect my perspective on Sami’s illness and death will always be evolving.

Over these last two years, I’ve found that reading about grief and loss has mostly been beneficial. Of particular help have been A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis, No Death, No Fear by Thich Nhat Hanh, and most recently, This Ordinary Stardust by Alan Townsend.

Dr. Townsend is the Dean of the Franke College of Forestry and Conservation at the University of Montana. As I was blogging in real time about Sami’s glioblastoma diagnosis and treatment in the spring of 2023, he reached out to me to share that he had lost his wife Diana (who was also a scientist) to the same disease several years before. His book is an account of her illness and the aftermath of her passing. I won’t attempt to summarize his writing, but I highly recommend it.

The book came out last spring, and when I received my copy, I found that I wasn’t ready yet to read about someone else’s experience with losing a partner. About ten days ago, I finally picked it up - and I finished reading it one evening this week. In many ways, Alan and Diana’s experience was very similar to mine and Sami’s - and so I found much of it difficult to read. I found myself reliving our experience. I frequently found myself crying and putting the book down. But as I reflected on the book after I finished it Wednesday evening, I realized that Alan’s story helped me gain some important perspective on our own journey with brain cancer. I’m sure more revelations will come.

At some point between Sami’s first and second craniotomy in February 2023, she told me that if she decided she didn’t want any more treatment, I needed to let her make that decision. I agreed, but she also said something about taking her own life. Since she was a large animal veterinarian with access to powerful euthanasia drugs, I knew she had the ability to act on that idea. We secured the drugs (and I bought a gun safe to replace the locked cabinet where I stored my hunting rifles), but I found the thought of Sami ending her own life terribly upsetting at the time. Later, when she was in the hospital at UCSF, she said something to a nurse or a resident about these thoughts. That evening, we had to have an observer in the room with us all night, just in case. The next day, a therapist interviewed her and determined that she wasn’t going to act on the idea - she simply wanted some control over what was happening to her. Looking back now, I realize that Sami was fearless in the face of certain death (there is, after all, no cure for glioblastoma), but the process of dying - of losing her physical and intellectual capacity - was terrifying. I realize now that she wanted some say in how long she’d need to live with the tumors in her brain, and the debilitating symptoms they caused.

I also realize now that she began the process of dying when she had the first major seizure in late May 2023. A week after that seizure, we were in San Francisco, where her medical team determined she was having ongoing subclinical seizures - seizures we couldn’t see, but episodes that were further eroding her ability to walk and speak. Episodes that increased her brain fog. I suspect I knew at the time that her physical and mental toughness were masking the severity of her symptoms - that while we knew how sick she was, her medical team had no frame of reference. They couldn’t really comprehend what a badass she was - and that she knew better than anyone what was happening to her.

The last two weeks of her life, I think, represent the most difficult stretch of my life, too - at least so far. In many ways, the two weeks she spent in hospice care are still a blur - I can still remember specific images and experiences, but mostly I remember my own exhaustion. And my fear that Sami would linger - that I wouldn’t have enough stamina or fortitude to take care of her. In this regard, I am so grateful to our daughters for sharing these difficult days with me. After reading Alan’s book, I was able to see those last two weeks differently. Today, they don’t seem any less difficult, but I do think now that Sami wanted to live until her whole family could be with her (and knowing Sami, so we could be with each other once she’d left us). Wednesday evening, as I finished Alan’s book, I remembered the afternoon of August 10 or 11, when Sami and I were sitting side-by-side on her bed. By that time, both of our daughters were with us, as was Sami’s sister and my own sister and brother-in-law. I put my arm around her, and she rested her head on my shoulder - it was the last time we embraced each other. Early in the morning of August 13, 2023, she slipped away, in our bedroom, with all of us around her. I can’t bring myself to say it was beautiful, but today, I’m grateful that we were there for her. That we were there together. For each other.

Finally, in the winter after Sami passed, I participated in several virtual workshops associated with a social science research project I’d been collaborating on with a colleague from Idaho. One of the sheep producers who participated had young children, and we talked about the realities of livestock production. Like my daughters, her children had participated in the realities of ranch life. The fact that we raise animals for meat (which requires death) while caring deeply for the animals in our care. I couldn’t help it. I asked if she thought ranching gave us a different perspective on life (and death). She answered, “Yes. I think caring for our animals - knowing that their lives sustain ours - prepares our hearts for harder things.” As a veterinarian, Sami had sat with friends who had to make difficult end-of-life decisions. As a rancher, I’d had to make some of those decisions myself. Those decisions are never easy; but my direct participation in them helped prepare me for the biological and existential realities of what our family experienced.

During these last 25 months, gaining this perspective hasn’t been a linear process. I’ve tried some online group grief therapy, which hasn’t been terribly helpful. I’ve tried some one-on-one counseling (both in person and virtual) - some of which has been enormously beneficial, some of which was not. For me, I’m realizing, reading, quiet contemplation, and vulnerability (through my writing and through conversations with friends) have been the most helpful ways for me to understand my grief. I have also realized that there is no single path through grief - that while grief may be the most universal of human emotions, we each experience it - and cope with it - differently. Distance, at least for me, has provided perspective.

The Life We Built

 

On Sunday, I’ll make the two-hour drive to Auburn to participate in the Gold Country Fair’s Livestock Awards Ceremony. The Junior Livestock Committee is commemorating Sami by naming a perpetual trophy for Master Showmanship in her honor, and I want to be there to help present it to this year’s winner. I haven’t been to the Gold Country Fair, where Sami was on the board of directors, since she passed away; Sami’s last fair was in 2022. As a director, Sami took on the organization of the master showmanship competition during her time on the board. For those of you wondering what the heck master showmanship is, it is a livestock showmanship competition where the competitors qualify by winning the showmanship contest for the species they bring to the fair. In showmanship, the judge evaluates each competitor’s ability to present their animal and their knowledge of the species and the industry. In master showmanship, these competitors show all of the species of livestock. Both of our daughters competed in master showmanship during their 4-H and FFA careers, and so I’m expecting Sunday afternoon to be bittersweet.

This morning, as I was driving through the foothill communities of San Andreas and Angels Camp on my way to talk about grazing in vineyards at a breakfast meeting in Murphys, I heard one of my favorite new songs from the Turnpike Troubadours (On the Red River), which talks about growing up in ranching family in a rural community. Perhaps it was because I was thinking about going back to the community where Sami and I raised our family (and where we still have so many friends), but the song made me think about the life that we built during our time in Placer County. Some of what we accomplished was intentional; some of that life just happened because of where we were and who we were. But when I look at the young women our daughters are today, I’m incredibly grateful for the friendships and experiences that were part of being a ranching family. Flying Mule Farm / Sheep Company was never terribly successful from a financial perspective, but I’ve learned there are other ways to measure “profit.” And yes, that’s difficult for an agricultural economist like me to admit!

In some ways, at least as I was driving to work this morning, that “old” life seems to have ended when Sami passed away. Part of this feeling, I’m sure, comes from having sold our place in Auburn and moved to Calaveras County last year. But part of it, I think, comes from acknowledging that while Sami and I both had our own lives, own interests, our own friends; but as a couple - as a family - we were part of a community that we helped nurture. That we helped to build. 

My journey over these last two-plus years has given me an odd sense of perspective. I’m still here, and yet part of me died when Sami died. Without Sami, that part of my “life” seems behind me now; looking back at that life can often feel surreal. The before and after line that I described in a recent blog seems to divide that life from the life I’m leading now. While that makes me a little sad this afternoon, I also have a sense of accomplishment - that we (and our children) were able to be part of that community.

As I’ve written before, my move to Calaveras County feels like moving “home” in some sense - I have lifelong contacts in Calaveras and Tuolumne Counties (where I grew up). I’ve spent the last year renewing these friendships and making a few new ones. I’ve spent the last year working to become part of a new community. Today, I realized that becoming part of a community without a partner - without Sami - feels very different. I’m certain that part of this difference stems from my grief - I simply don’t have the energy to be around people as much as I once did. But it also feels different not to be known by part of the community as “Dr. Macon’s husband” - just as Sami was known to some as the “sheepherder’s husband.”

An old friend who visited me shortly after Sami’s death remarked in wonder about the support our Placer County community gave us during and after her illness. Folks mowed our lawn, moved the irrigation water at the ranch, checked on the sheep, built fence. Brought us food. Just called or texted to check in on us. He told me, “That’s not the kind of community I live in.” Even today, friends from that “old” life remain friends, checking in on me, asking about the girls. Despite my sense that everything has changed, the life that we built is still part of the life I live today - even in a new community.

On Monday, some folks from Mountain Ranch who I’ve counted as friends for more than 30 years, invited me to their ranch for their annual dove and polenta lunch. I saw other friends I’ve known through the ranching community, and met some new people I hope to get to know better. And tonight, for the first time, I’m going to make myself go to the monthly Mountain Ranch community potluck dinner. Being part of my community, I’m realizing, is part of who I am - even though everything is different. Community, I realize is part of the life I will continue to build.

I Can By Myself

My “little” sister Meri will probably kill me over this essay - but I can’t help it. She’s about 2-½ years younger than me, and I distinctly remember her telling me - or anyone else who tried to help her, for that matter - “I can by myself!” Of course this was more than 50 years ago, but her confident statement became part of our family’s lexicon. “I can by myself” is something we still tell each other when we think we don’t need help!

By myself. I have been on my own (or so it seems) for just over two years now. But looking closely at my life since Sami died, I realize I’ve never truly been on my own. Friends have checked in (and they keep doing so). So do my family - even my sister (especially my sister) despite her “big” brother’s teasing. I’ve not ever been alone, despite my loneliness.

Today, I started putting this winter’s firewood in my new woodshed. A woodshed “I” built. A woodshed that I’ve probably over-shared! But a woodshed that I’m (justifiably?) pretty proud of building.

My planning for the woodshed began shortly after I moved to my new place here in Mountain Ranch about a year ago. To back up a bit, Sami and I heated every home we owned primarily (and in Auburn, exclusively) with wood. When I moved to my new place, one of the first “improvements” I made was to install a woodstove. And last winter, 99 percent of the heat in my home was from wood. I burned about 3 cords.

But my firewood storage situation was less than ideal. I stacked my wood in the open and covered it with tarps. When the wind blew, the tarps came off the stack. And the wood got wet.

Early this year, a neighbor told me I could mill a pine he needed to have removed. Over the course of 6-8 weeks, I milled enough lumber to frame and side a shed that I planned to attach to the south side of my tool shed. I did the milling “by myself” - but someone else dropped the tree and decked the logs where I could get to them.

More than 30 years ago, Sami and I built a shelter for our horses at our property in Penryn. I was so naive! We only discovered how far out of square our “barn” was when we started putting the roof up. It was awful! We adjusted, and the shelter kept the hay and the horses dry, but my carpentry skills were awful.

But this time, I recalled what I’d learned in trigonometry 41 years ago. My oldest daughter Lara and her fiancé Micah helped me lay out the corners of my new woodshed!

During the week I took off at the end of July, I dug the footings and set the post bases in concrete. Lo and behold, they were nearly square. And mostly plumb! Progress!

After setting the corner posts, my brother-in-law Adrian and my sister Meri came over one Saturday morning to help me set the rafters. Adrian said, “This is much easier with two people,” even though I told him I could do it. He was right, though - he’s usually right!

Once the rafters were set, I put the purlins up, and installed the metal roof. Over the next several days, I sided my new woodshed with the 1x8 siding I’d milled last winter.

Last week, my youngest daughter Emma came home for a visit - and so like any good father, I asked her to help me get some chores done. Including finishing the woodshed!

We put water seal on the siding, and she helped me install roof flashing and finish screwing down the tin. Today, with Emma back in Colorado, I started stacking firewood in “my” new woodshed!

I suppose this long narrative might have been unnecessary, but I have been unusually proud of this project. I feel good about accomplishing a goal that I set for myself when I moved in last year. I feel good about milling all of the lumber I used for my new woodshed. I feel good that my construction skills have improved! I feel like Sami would love this new building. 

But I guess this project is also a metaphor for my life since (before?) Sami died. I’m on my own. I’m alone. But I’m not, really. I’m still part of a community. I’m still part of a family. I still need help. I still receive help. What an incredible gift. I can’t (truly) “by myself.”

Before and After

Photo by Daniel Lee Brown

The first two weeks of August will forever be a week of anniversaries. Sami and I were married on an extremely hot day in Sonora on August 4, 1990 - as I recall, the thermometer on the bank in Sonora read 108F when we drove past it on our way to our reception at the Mother Lode Fairgrounds. And Sami passed away early in the morning of August 13, 2023. August 2025, two years after Sami died from glioblastoma, has been difficult. Last week, I realized that my life has been divided. Into “before” and “after.”

This year, in August, I’ve experienced moments of profound sadness. Our anniversary was a rough day for me. August 13 was hard, too - but I was busy getting ready to go to a conference, so I avoided some of the grief. The challenges of this particular August have been intensified by my ongoing care-giving responsibilities - this time for my parents. As I approach the last week of my least favorite month, I feel like I’ve been scattered. Unable to concentrate. Unproductive. I’m looking forward to September.

Last month, I listened to an audio book by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, called No Death, No Fear.  He talks about how we all manifest ourselves in different ways, that we don’t really “leave” when we die - we just manifest differently. I’ve found this helpful. I’ve found that Sami still manifests herself in a variety of ways in my life. In the notes and recipes that are in my new kitchen. In the way that I look at problems. In the animals I care for. In my pride at the fact that I’ve made my bed, washed my clothes,... adulted… most days since she left me.

But I’m realizing that Sami also manifests herself in the physical world. I’ve written about the hawk that followed me on the walk I took on August 13, 2023, on the afternoon after Sami died. Red tailed hawks have always been significant for me, but the hawk that watched me walk on that saddest of days will make me forever associate red tailed hawks with Sami. As will my experiences since that day.

Since then, I’ve found several hawk feathers - don’t tell anyone, but I’ve collected them (which I suspect might be illegal). Both my daughters have had hawk feather tattoos - and I’ve had some ink applied too (a soaring hawk on my left shoulder, between my head and my heart). More significantly, red tail hawks have appeared at several important points in my life in the last 24 months.

In late June of last year, I was in escrow on a property in Mountain Ranch. I wasn’t terribly excited about it, but I was feeling pressure to find a place, since our home in Auburn was also in escrow. After giving a talk on vineyard grazing at Ironstone Vineyards, I met my realtor at a newly listed property between Mountain Ranch and Railroad Flat. I really liked it - the house was too big, but nice - and the property was perfect (a combination of grassland, conifers, and black oaks). But switching properties carried the risk of losing my deposit on the first property. I told my agent I needed to sleep on it.

That night, I dreamed about the second place - a place I’d only seen once. And I dreamed that I saw a red tailed hawk sitting on the gate post. I called my agent the next morning and told her I wanted to try to get out of the other escrow, and put an offer on the new place. The place where I’m living now. And I didn’t lose my deposit.

At some point in the last year, I had my last session with the grief therapist provided by hospice. I found these sessions helpful; this last session was difficult, because I finally felt like I needed to talk about some unresolved issues between Sami and I. I was sitting at the table in my new kitchen, looking out at the grassy hillside above my house. As I was struggling to talk about these difficulties, a red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky onto its next meal. I broke down.

Two weeks ago, I was talking to a new therapist, looking out the same window. We were talking about making time to reflect on what the impending anniversary of Sami’s death would be like - and about strategies for coping with my feelings about it. And another (maybe the same?) red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky.

My rational brain knows that I live in the midst of red tailed hawk habitat. That I’m likely to seek hawks where I live. But my emotional brain takes great comfort in seeing them. When I’m driving and I see a hawk perched on a power pole, I say, “Hi, Sami!” When I see a hawk catching an updraft, and soaring effortlessly, I think about what it must have felt like for Sami to leave her cancer-riddled body and fly. I find that these thoughts make me both happy and sad. Or maybe I’m trying to say, they make me think about before and after.

Duality

Monday, Sami and I would have been married for 35 years. I took vacation last week (mostly to work around my place, but also to see Steve Earle play in Tahoe with my sister and brother-in-law - which Sami would have loved!). I decided to take our anniversary off as well. I felt like I needed a day to myself.

After sleeping past 6am (which I never do!) I decided to wash Sami’s truck and our gooseneck horse trailer, both of which I’ve decided to sell. Cleaning the cab of Sami’s truck hit me pretty hard - I found an old pair of her reading glasses, and a pair of her sunglasses, in the center console. But I decided that I needed to be sad - I needed to spend a day simply remembering our life together. While I washed the truck, I listened to music that reminded me of Sami. I cried some, and cursed some, but got the truck clean enough to send photos to the auction company who’ll sell it for me. Then I started on the trailer.

Cleaning the gooseneck that we’d purchased nearly 20 years ago felt like the final end to my sheep business. An end to our mule-showing days. An end to taking the girls’ lambs and show equipment to the fair. In other words, Monday was a pretty sad day.

Tuesday, I awoke early to drive to the UC Blodgett Experimental Forest for two days of data collection. I’d intended to take my camp trailer (which meant I could also take my dogs), but my fancy new Toyota Tundra wasn’t communicating with my trailer brakes - so I left the trailer and the dogs home. And started off my day extremely discombobulated (to borrow a word that Sami liked to use). The work day ended up going well, but I found myself exhausted and ready for bed before 8 pm.

One of the lessons I seem to be learning in the more than 31 months since we discovered Sami had a brain tumor, is the concept of duality. That two (or more) seemingly contradictory things - or emotions - can be true at the same time.

Seeing Steve Earle with my sister and brother-in-law last week was amazing - I’ve listened to him since I was a freshman in college, and our trip to western Nevada was wonderful! But I was also sad that Sami wasn’t there with us. Watching Emma graduate from college in May was an incredibly proud moment - but also sad in Sami’s absence. Similarly, learning that Lara and her boyfriend Micah will be getting married next May is an equally joyous occasion. And knowing that Sami wished for these things to happen is bittersweet.

Today, driving back from Blodgett Forest, I realized that I was looking forward to being home in Mountain Ranch. I really love my new place - when I started looking to move last year, I wrote that I wanted a place with pine trees, grass, and a front porch - and I succeeded in finding that place! But I also miss Auburn - I miss the house where Sami and I raised our family. I miss the community that I was part of for 30 years. I wish Sami could see this place, but I know that I’d never have moved here if she hadn’t died.

Looking back on August 2023, I find that I’m still reliving the trauma of Sami’s brief time in hospice, and of her eventual death in the bedroom we’d shared for 33 years and nine days. Holding Sami’s hand that night of August 12 and early morning of August 13 was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I also feel a measure of - I don’t know - blessing? Pride? Honor? To have been present when she drew her last breath. As Jason Isbell writes, “I worked hard to the end of my shift.” Or at least it feels that way to me.

As I’ve written before, the phrase “move on” does not seem to describe the grieving process for me. I do feel like I’ve moved forward with my life - I’ve changed jobs, moved to a new community, found new friends. But I’ve also found that as I’ve moved forward, I’m better able to look past the anxiety and trauma of Sami’s illness and passing. Sadness and happiness, in other words, can both be true. At the same time.

Memory is Strange

On long driving trips, Sami and I would alternate driving. And whoever was driving when we stopped for fuel would put the gas on their debit card. Sami took the “protect your PIN” advice seriously; she would hide her PIN even from me, which I of course teased her about! Nearly two years after her passing, I think about this every time I put fuel in my truck. This memory makes me smile! It also makes me wistful.

In the immediate aftermath of Sami’s death in August 2023, I found that I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. Or even how she looked before she got sick. I certainly couldn’t remember the feeling of her touch. I suppose the trauma of her cancer, and all that it entailed, made these happy memories difficult to bring to mind. I could look at old photos of her - of us - and feel like I couldn’t recall the emotions that the images should have evoked. I was numb.

This trauma, in many ways, has been more difficult than my grief. Several weeks ago, I found myself immobilized by the memory of the night that Sami decided to enter hospice care (she passed just two weeks later). My concern for the well-being of my folks made me recall this old anxiety - I cancelled weekend plans in case I was needed.

Today, though, the happy memories come easier. I find myself remembering camping trips and date nights. I smile when I see photos of Sami bottle-feeding lambs or holding puppies. I laugh to myself when I see funny pics of us together. And there are other physical reminders in my house. Handwritten notes that help me recall her neat handwriting. The “Samia Z. Macon, DVM” sign that she took from Loomis Basin Large Animal Clinic when she went out on her own (and which now hangs on my toolshed). Our wedding china. The “Protect your PIN” message when I fill my truck.

Sadness is still part of my life. I miss Sami every day. I miss sharing the ups and downs of our days in the evening; I miss being the first person up in the morning. I miss the sound of the tea kettle on the stove - Sami rarely drank my “real” coffee, preferring instant coffee instead. I miss preparing meals together. I see her enjoying my new house - even though I know we’d have never moved here when she was alive. Somedays, I find her absence palpable. The space that she inhabited in my life - and I in hers - are a void. I miss her touch. I miss the great wads of her long hair in the shower drain. I miss waking up next to her.

But I also feel like I’m learning to embrace sadness. Today, my grief doesn’t feel debilitating. Sure, the tears still overflow from time to time. But the sadness is part of remembering, too. I find that I can be both happy about the time we shared together and sad that it was cut short. As I’ve written previously, I’ve come to embrace my sadness like an old friend - like a visitation from Sami.