Two Months Gone

Two months ago today, in the very early morning, Samia, my wife of 33 years passed away. I know each of the “firsts” that our family experiences going forward (the first holiday season, the first anniversary of her glioblastoma diagnosis, the first birthday) will be difficult; for some reason, this particular milestone is especially difficult for me.

For the last several weeks, I have been reliving the last 10 months. Part of this, I’m sure, is simply my reflective nature; part of it, though, has to do with work. Each year, we are asked to document the research, extension programs, and service activities we’ve accomplished during the previous fiscal year (for UC Cooperative Extension, this runs from October 1 through September 30). I’ve been going back through my calendar to make sure I’ve included all of my work - looking at the timeframe from late January 2023 (when Sami had her first surgery) through mid-August has been full of difficult reminders of how quickly our lives changed. This morning, my brain flashed back to sitting next to Sami in the neuro intensive care unit at Sutter Roseville after she’d come out of her second craniotomy in February. She held my hand all night, eventually rubbing the back of my hand raw with her thumb. It was one of many sleepless nights for me; this morning, I recalled how tired and anxious both of us were - and that we both still had hope that treatment might buy us some time together.

Several weeks ago, my friend Carol Arnold told me, “Sami had to live through this just once; you’re having to live through it again and again.” And I have - I’m not second guessing myself (for the most part), but I am reliving much of the experience. And this has intensified over the last month as the shock of Sami’s passing and the activity associated with its immediate aftermath give way to going back to work. And adjusting to living alone.

Jackie Davis, another friend and rancher, reached out to me this week after an evening cattlemen’s meeting. I’ve known Jackie since I was in college and he was managing Napa Valley Polled Herefords (more than 35 years ago). He asked me how I was doing - I said, “up and down, good days and bad.” He told me that his wife had died in a car accident in 1978 - something I had never known. He said, “Even today, all these years later, I still sometimes wake up really sad about it. It will always be with you.” Today, 2 months after Sami died, I find this oddly comforting - first, that a friend would be so open about how hard this all is; second, to know carrying my grief forward is normal and healthy.

Moving forward in other ways can be challenging at the moment. I feel like I’ve been reasonably successful at accomplishing specific tasks at work and at home. I’ve been able to take care of much of the estate and inheritance issues that arise when anyone passes. I’ve been able to teach workshops, collect data for grazing research projects, and catch up on most of my administrative responsibilities at work. But I don’t feel like I’ve been able to be particularly creative. I don’t feel like I can concentrate for very long. And some of these tasks are rough - today, I sold Sami’s car. I’m happy to check this off my list, but seeing her spot in our driveway empty reinforces my feeling of loss.

Moving forward when others have moved on is also difficult, as is dealing with people and situations that I found stressful even before all of this happened. I certainly don’t expect even my closest friends to think about the fact that today marks two months since Sami died, but sometimes I struggle with everyone else being “back to normal.” And I find that I have little patience for the relationships in my life that have always been challenging - they are especially challenging for me now.

Something else that Jackie Davis told me this week has resonated. I asked him how he got through the initial stages of his loss. He said, “I would wake up and not feel like doing anything. And then one of the cowboys would call and say, ‘Hey - we gotta get these cows bred,’ or something similar. So I just worked. And worked and worked.” I know I’ve found similar solace in activity, but I’m also realizing I’m pushing so hard into the yoke of work, that if the yoke were removed, I’d fall. I find that I’m exhausted by Thursday morning each week. While I know I eventually need to slow down and simply be sad, I find it hard to not be active. Another colleague remarked that I may be overscheduling myself at the moment. He’s probably right!

I’ve been trying to think about the things that bring me joy at the moment, as I’m going through the motions of moving forward. Preparing a meal from meat I raised (or from the deer I harvested) is one of the highlights. Talking to my daughters and my sister and brother-in-law, too. Going for walks with Mae the wonder dog - or even better, watching Mae gather and move the sheep. Hunting was a pleasure - and with a second deer tag in my pocket, the anticipation of more hunting before the end of the month. Milling lumber - and making plans to purchase a real portable sawmill - is enjoyable. Hearing rain on the roof during the night, and waking to a drippy, wet world. Seeing a redtail hawk. And recognizing, finally, that I can be both intensely sad and lonely, and enjoying life, all at the same time. That’s where I seem to be, two months in.