Days Like This

Today should have been a good day. I slept in (making up for the “spring forward” loss of an hour to daylight savings time). I exercised after breakfast, slogging (slow jogging) and walking four miles. I got a load of laundry done! And I had a wonderful lunch with a friend I haven’t seen for quite some time - which brought the added bonus of a beautiful springtime drive through the foothills. As I write this, I’m sitting on my deck watching the sheep I purchased yesterday graze on my hillside. And yet…. Unexpectedly, today was a hard day.

For some reason, on the drive to Placerville, my mind kept going back to the trauma of Sami’s illness. To the seizures. To holding Sami’s hand after both craniotomies, while she came out of anesthesia. To holding her hand while she passed away six months later. To watching her slip away during two weeks of hospice. To realizing that the three weeks we spent in San Francisco didn’t really help, after all. Tonight, after a day in which I really didn’t do all that much physically, I’m exhausted. Trauma and grief, even now, have the power to wear me out.

I’ve been traveling quite a bit since mid January, which is also part of the reason I’m tired. I wonder if exhaustion opens the door to grief at this point in the process? Or if grief intensifies exhaustion. I expect grief and exhaustion work in both directions; regardless, I am incredibly tired tonight.

Part of my sadness, I think, stems from wishing I could tell Sami about my week - my trip to San Diego and the people I met. The talks I gave on livestock guardian dogs, and the positive feedback I received after the talks. Emma’s new job. Lara and Micah’s wedding preparations. Even the little aggravations that piss me off during a normal work week. I have some wonderful friends who are always willing to listen, but today, I wished Sami was here to talk.

Three years ago this week, we went to UCSF for a second opinion about Sami’s brain tumor, and to learn about the possibility of a clinical trial. We came hope hopeful, but that hope ebbed through the course of radiation and chemotherapy treatments in March and April of 2023. As I’ve written before, I know my grief began on that evening in January 2023 when we learned there was a mass on Sami’s brain. That was the rubicon for us - the before and after point of inflection. Today, my mind also went back to those last normal days before we knew anything was wrong. The last normal experiences we had as a couple. As a family. Days that we’ll never experience again.

Again, my grief feels like being on the ocean. At this point, three years in, the ocean of my grief is mostly a gentle rocking motion that doesn’t interrupt my life, but reminds me of its presence. But occasionally (and today was one of those occasions), a big wave swamps my boat. On days like this, grief rolls me over. I know the ocean will be gentle again, but I’ve also learned to expect the occasional storm.

Twinges of Sorrow

I’ve been thinking about milestones lately - events that have a before and an after. Key stages of my life. And how these milestones change as we age. And as we grieve (or at least as I grieve). Milestones that Sami and I would have celebrated together become milestones that are still celebrated, but with a twinge of sorrow. At least for me.

I think my first experience with this was my first trip to watch Emma compete in logging sports in the fall after Sami died - an event that coincided with what would have been Sami’s 54th birthday in 2023. We’d planned to go to Moscow, Idaho together that fall. And while watching Emma compete (and lead the University of Idaho team as club president) was an amazing experience, I was also incredibly sad to be there alone. Celebrating alone was hard.

My daughters and I have passed other milestones since that 2023 trip. Emma turned 21 the following summer, and graduated from college in May of 2025. Lara and her boyfriend Micah got engaged later that summer and will be married this May. Emma just landed her first career job. We’ve celebrated all of these events together; in some ways I think we celebrate more fully because we realize now that none of us know what lies ahead. None of us know whether we’ll continue to be able to celebrate together. But each of these milestones make me miss Sami. Each milestone is more emotional for me alone than it would be if I were still sharing it with Sami.

As I was thinking about all of this on my drive to work this morning, I also realized that I’m at an age (and a stage in life) where I don’t really know how many milestones I have left in my own chronology. While I enjoy my work, I do hope to be able to retire in seven or eight years - and I suppose retirement will feel like a milestone. But for some reason, birthdays feel minor to me - maybe turning 60 in 2027 will feel more significant. But for now, I prefer to celebrate my daughters’ milestones and successes. I’m so lucky to be their Dad; I wish Sami could be here to celebrate with us as their Mom. My own milestones seem insignificant.

I wonder if these feelings are unique to grieving for a partner? I know that my family and friends are happy for these accomplishments (and for my own milestones, like birthdays), but I also know they can’t fully appreciate them because my girls - our girls! - aren’t “their” girls. They helped make “our” girls who they are today, but they didn’t have a front row seat - or day-to-day responsibility. They can’t celebrate like Sami and I would. I don’t expect them to.

And I think this probably makes me difficult to approach sometimes. I share my happiness about these milestones; my sorrow is often private. My sorrow makes me look inward, which is partly responsible for my frequent introversion, I suspect. I also suspect that my introversion confuses friends who also hear me say I’m lonely - why would someone prefer to be alone when they’re lonely?! These continued twinges of sorrow must make me a complicated companion.

Adventures of a Foothill Cooperative Extension Agent

Had our first targeted grazing short course webinar Tuesday night. I decided to host it from home, since it was supposed to snow.

I was prepared! Laptop and cellphone fully charged.

The webinar started at 6. Power went out at 6:40. Finished by kerosene lamplight, iPhone hotspot, and battery power.

Fixed leftover soup on the woodstove and went to bed.

Later that night...

Got up to put wood on the fire. Noticed large canine tracks on my porch.

Thought, "Ah shit. Wolves."

Cuz that's where we are at the moment in the Foothills.

Then I noticed the sheep tracks.

Bodie and the ewes went for a nice walk in the snowy woods!

Mae found them across the road in the morning.

So my question is this...

How do I write this up in my next promotion package?! 

Swamped

I won’t lie - these last several weeks have been difficult for me. Maybe as difficult as any stretch in the last couple of years.  I’ve been sad. I’ve been lonely. My family and friends would probably say I’ve been grumpy. Part of the difficulty, I know, is that this stretch of time has been an anniversary of sorts - three years ago, we were living through Sami’s first symptoms and eventual diagnosis of glioblastoma. The memories of those weeks come flooding back to me. Part of it, too, has been returning to some of the things I used to enjoy - like teaching new shepherds about lambing. And part of it, I suspect, has just been the normal cycle of grief. I like the analogy of grief as a series of waves. They’ve been smaller waves until recently, but in these last two weeks, I feel like my boat has been swamped.

Part of my loneliness and grief, I think, stem from the recognition that I don’t really have anyone to confide in or to vent to when work - or life - are difficult. And part of it, if I’m honest, is envy - envy of those around me who do have a partner to whom they can confide. As I write this, I realize that there are people in my life who would be more than willing to let me rant and rave. But for some reason, I don’t feel comfortable doing that. And I miss Sami - not sure if it’s cause or effect.

When I can detach myself from these emotions, I’m intrigued by the cycles I seem to experience. The holidays were wonderful - the best Christmas since I’ve been alone. I’ve always found January to be a let-down month, and I suspect that this feeling is intensified now that I’m by myself. I also know that doing the things that I used to do in January (like go to the American Sheep Industry conference) feel different now. I think about returning from Fort Worth to Las Cruces in 2023 - and about the wonderful visit we had with Lara and Micah. And about the trip home (with Sami’s first symptoms). And about the fact that just a week after that conference, Sami had her first brain surgery.

Just 11 days ago, I was invited to give a talk about grazing management during the Nevada Farmers Forum in Reno. For the first time, I talked about the reason that I don’t currently have sheep in a workshop setting - I briefly talked about Sami’s illness and my move to Calaveras County. I still don’t know whether it was the right thing to do, but I’m increasingly feeling like I need to incorporate my personal life experience into my professional work. Losing Sami, and caring for her in the process of her dying, is a profoundly defining moment in my life. I guess I feel like in addition to being a scientist, a sheepherder, and a father, I’m also a widower. And a caregiver. And maybe it’s appropriate to share all of those things. I don’t know.

I do know that the lack of companionship when I return home from meetings - or just from a normal work day - seems especially difficult at the moment. The silence - in the morning when I wake up, and in the evening when I make dinner and go to bed - seems profound. Oppressive, even. And I suspect that I seem either needy or aloof to my friends.

As I’ve withdrawn, I feel as though I’ve become self-focused - narcissistic might be another way to put it. My social life has largely revolved around work - I haven’t engaged with my neighbors or my community, and often, I don’t engage with colleagues outside of work. I want to, but I also know that my professional life requires me to be “on” - and so my “off” time is mostly at home. Sometimes I feel like it should be the opposite - maybe I need to withdraw at work so I can be engaged at home.

Three years after Sami was diagnosed, I’m realizing that my grief will always be with me. I’m realizing that sometimes it will be beneath the surface - but sometimes it will be the only thing I can think about. Some days I’m floating. Some days, I’m swamped.

PTDS

During the fall of 2013, I went to work part-time for a large-scale sheep outfit in Rio Vista, California. We’d had a germinating rain in late September, but the grass got a false start - we didn’t have any more rain until November, as I recall. After Thanksgiving, we had a cold snap in Rio Vista (I woke up one morning in my trailer without hot water or a working furnace) and a bit of snow in Auburn. And then it quit raining until late January. We fed most of our year’s supply of alfalfa hay to the sheep while they were lambing in October and November.

When I took the job, I was able to bring my own 200 +/- ewes to Rio Vista as well. Even with the rain we finally received in January 2014, feed was scarce - and so I decided that we needed to sell some of our sheep to conserve grass for the operation’s ewes. Sorting through our sheep - and deciding which ones were going to go to the auction in Escalon - was probably the most difficult agricultural decision I’ve ever had to make. And as the drought persisted, I came to a mutual agreement with the ranch I was working for. They’d had to sell sheep, too - and we all decided that they couldn’t afford to keep me employed. In mid-February 2014, I hauled our remaining flock back to Placer County - just before we started lambing. From that point forward, our sheep operation remained a part-time enterprise. And I began to work full time for the University of California.

By the following winter, I was working as the herdsman at the UC Sierra Foothill Research and Extension Center in Browns Valley. We still had our sheep, but the drought persisted. That winter, I spent much of my time moving cattle around the research ranch, chasing grass. That summer, I hauled water to the cows so that we could utilize forage in pastures that had feed but lacked stock water.

These experiences stayed with me - much of my master’s degree research focused on how California ranchers responded to our 1000-year drought. As a cooperative extension advisor since 2017, much of my program has focused on helping ranchers prepare for, respond to, and recover from drought. But this winter, I’ve confirmed that I have a condition called “Post-traumatic Drought Syndrome,” or PTDS.

The symptoms of PTDS include anxiety during extended winter dry periods. As I write this, we haven’t had any precipitation in Mountain Ranch in more than three weeks. While I know we often get dry spells like this during the winter months, the lack of rain in our 2-week forecast makes me increasingly nervous. This week, I drove to Reno and confirmed that we don’t have much snowpack in the high country, either.

I remember reading about some research from Australia during our big drought that reported Aussie farmers often kept multiple weather apps on their phones. During dry stretches, they’d check each app until they found one with a more favorable forecast. I find that I do the same thing. At the moment, all of my apps don’t show any moisture for the next 10 days. On day 11, they show a chance of rain, but that chance is always at least 11 days out.

Currently, I only have four sheep - two breeding ewes and two lambs that I’ll harvest next week. I am planning to purchase a handful of feeder lambs and goats (probably a total of 20) in March to help manage the fire danger on my property. PTDS - and the potential for summer/fall wildfire - has changed the way I look at raising sheep. For the foreseeable future, I’ll buy feeder animals in the spring, and sell them when I run out of grass. I won’t keep many sheep year-round.

I know we’ll get more rain, and I know the grass will grow. I also know that I no longer rely on these things for even a portion of my livelihood. But having managed through the Big Dry of 2012-2016, I find that I’m feel the mental and physical manifestations of anxiety. I still suffer from PTDS.

Enough

I have lived in rural or semi-rural parts of California for most of my 58+ years. I’ve been privileged to live in some beautiful places and in some wonderful communities. I’ve also been privileged to have been born white and male.

Privilege is an interesting concept - and I know that some of my friends would dismiss the notion that being a white male has provided me (or them) with any advantage. But I think it’s impossible to know what hasn’t happened to me because of my gender or the color of my skin. Which is why empathy is so important. And which is why I find the current social and political conditions in the United States so troubling.

On my walk this morning, I remembered the 2020 song by Tyler Childers, “Long, Violent History.” The lyrics, written after the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, could equally apply to the violence playing out in the streets of Minneapolis (and other U.S. cities) this weekend.

It's the worst that it's been since the last time it happened

It's happening again right in front of our eyes

There's updated footage, wild speculation

Tall tales and hearsay and absolute lies

Been passed off as factual when actually, the actual

Causes they're awkwardly blockin' the way

Keeping us all from enjoyin' our evening

Shoving it's roots through the screens in our face

Now, what would you get if you heard my opinion

Conjecturin' on matters that I ain't never dreamed

In all my born days as a white boy from Hickman

Based on the way that the world's been to mе

It's called me belligеrent, it's took me for ignorant

But it ain't never once made me scared just to be

Could you imagine just constantly worryin'

Kickin' and fightin', beggin' to breathe

How many boys could they haul off this mountain

Shoot full of holes, cuffed, and laid in the streets

'Til we come in to town in a stark ravin' anger

Looking for answers and armed to the teeth

30 aught sixes, papaw's old pistol

How many, you reckon, would it be, four or five?

Oh, would that be the start of a long, violent history

Of tuckin' our tails as we try to abide?

Oh, would that be the start of a long, violent history

Of tuckin' our tails as we try to abide?

For me, Childer’s video liner notes about the song (and his fans’ reaction to it) is equally eloquent - and important. You can view it here.

Over the past several years, I have felt homeless politically. The modern Republican Party has never felt like a comfortable fit for me; lately, neither has the modern Democratic Party. Over the last three presidential elections, I’ve voted for what seemed to be the least bad option. I should note here that I’ve never voted for Donald Trump.

Yesterday, I watched the events in Minneapolis with horror . I should say up front that I strongly disagree with the federal government’s tactics around detaining illegal immigrants, which seem designed to instill as much fear and inhumanity as possible. I see echoes of the Roosevelt administration’s internment of Japanese Americans during World War 2, with extra helpings of violence and cruelty.

The shooting deaths of Renee Good and now Alex Pretti - US citizens who were exercising rights guaranteed by our Constitution - cross a dangerous line for me. Somehow, the current administration has decided that dehumanizing citizens who disagree with its policies and tactics is what the majority of us want.

I have seen videos of both shootings, and have drawn my own conclusions. I understand that others may see the same footage and come to a different perspective. What concerns me most, however, is that the administration does not seem interested in an independent investigation of either death. It’s enough, it seems, that these individuals were protesting the administration’s policies. In other words, they got what they deserved.

Disagreements have always been part of our political discourse. Through most of our history, we’ve settled these disagreements in the voting booth - and just as importantly, in my mind, through conversations with our neighbors. We seem to have lost our way at present - or at least our current leaders have lost their way. I believe in due process and the rule of law - for all people, regardless of their heritage, their skin color, their gender - or their immigration status.

And so as I come back to the idea of my privilege, I do know that writing these words at the picnic table by my fire pit does not carry the same risk that others are facing in protesting the administration’s policies. I probably risk losing some friendships, but I can live with that. I’ve had enough - I need to speak out.

 

On Empathy, Anxiety, and Being Alone

Last night as I was winding down from a long day, my phone scrolled through some photographic memories from the last 5-6 years. One of the photos was from the American Sheep Industry conference in Fort Worth, Texas - taken on January 18, 2023. As I looked at the photo, I realized that just 10 days later, Sami would have the first of two brain surgeries. I was struck by how quickly our world changed during those 10 days.

This morning, my sister called to tell me that my brother-in-law’s friend and coworker had been having difficulty finishing his sentences (similar to Sami’s early symptoms). He’d had an MRI yesterday, and was in surgery for a brain tumor this morning. The anxiety we felt on that January evening three years ago came flooding back.

But as I sat with my thoughts, I also felt deep empathy for this man and his family - people whom I’ve never met. Nobody’s path through this is exactly the same, but having now experienced losing a partner to glioblastoma, I have at least some sense of how his wife must be feeling this morning. Even with friends and family around, there is a sense of having to face this awful thing alone.

For me, the loneliness returns when I learn of other people going through this trauma. My immediate inclination after talking to my sister this morning was that I needed to share this awful news, and how I was reliving our experiences, with someone. But there’s really no one to share it with. I thought of texting our daughters, but I didn’t want to make them relive the winter and spring of 2023. I thought of telling a close friend, but I didn’t know how to begin. “Hey, a guy I don’t know has a brain tumor, and it’s really upsetting me,” doesn’t seem to be something I am comfortable sharing with anyone. Not because my friends aren’t empathetic; I simply don’t feel close enough to anyone this morning to lay the burden of my anxiety and sadness on them.

I’ve been feeling melancholy for the last week or so. Part of this, I know, is the normal post-holiday letdown I feel every year. January, I think, has always been my least favorite month. Part of it, though, is also a longing for my old life. Last weekend, I helped with a lambing school at UC’s sheep research facility in Hopland. I had a great time, but looking at the slides of our sheep, of our pastures near Auburn, made me miss those times. The time before Sami got cancer. The time before I moved to a new house. The time before I was alone.