As the holiday season winds down and a new year begins, I continue to reflect on my experiences over the last year - on Sami’s sudden illness, on her treatment and ultimate passing, on being a father of children who’ve lost their mother while grieving myself, on finding myself suddenly alone. And on what moving forward looks like.
We celebrated Sami’s life with our family and community two days before Christmas. I wrote previously about the stress of worrying whether we’d have enough food and about trying to remind myself that I wasn’t throwing a party (rather, I was creating a time and place for us all to celebrate and remember Sami). As probably everyone but me predicted, my worries were entirely unfounded. Looking out on a completely full hall at the Gold Country Fairgrounds - a hall full of people who loved Sami and who love my family - was both humbling and comforting. Looking at all of the leftover food was daunting! Looking back ten days later, I know that part of the relief I feel is simply having the event behind us, but my sense of comfort is more profound. Sami touched so many lives. The celebration included friends from throughout our marriage, and gave us all an opportunity to reconnect. I’m so glad we held a celebration rather than a funeral - and I know that Sami is, too.
On the day after the celebration, we drove to Monterey Bay. The girls and I felt like we wanted to be somewhere other than home for Christmas; I felt like I needed to be at the ocean, where Sami’s cremated remains had been placed. On Christmas morning, we took our dogs to the rocky coast near Lover’s Point in Pacific Grove. At a sandy beach, I waded into the ocean - several months ago, someone had told me, “Sami’s molecules are still here - all around us,” and I felt the need to be in the ocean. As I submerged myself entirely in the cold water, I felt Sami’s presence physically - I returned to the beach and cried. When I got in the water a second time, a swell engulfed me and lifted me off the ocean floor ever so slightly. I can’t explain it logically, but it felt like Sami was there, embracing me. I decided I wanted to be at the ocean on our anniversary in 2024.
Later that afternoon, we took the dogs to Del Monte beach to play in the waves (which, as it turns out, Mae does not enjoy!). At one point, I noticed Mae looking intently at a woman who was walking past us 50 yards or so away. To me, and at that distance, she resembled Sami ever so slightly - and I wondered if Mae was thinking the same thing. Mae’s reaction made me think what Sami’s absence must be like for our animals - especially for the dogs and the mules. I’m not anthropomorphizing here, but I do know our animals enough to know that they’ve “noticed” that Sami is gone.
Speaking of animals, Lara remarked last week that the mules could probably use some more groceries during the winter months - she thought they looked a little thin. I find that seeing the world (including livestock condition) through someone else’s eyes is always helpful - I upped their hay ration. But it also made me wonder if there are other things I thought I was handling - keeping the house clean, preparing nutritious meals, keeping up with my bills - that I was fooling myself about. I expect I’ll need feedback about these things over the coming year, too.
That brings me to “my” versus “our” - it was always our house, our daughters, our sheep - our life. Some things are now mine, but I still find myself saying “our” - I probably always will.
For me, at least, the “stages” of grief and “moving on” don’t seem to describe my experience. I seem to oscillate between the “stages” - one day I’m angry, the next I’m sad. Some days I can accept being alone, other days I’m depressed by my solitude. From talking with friends who have experienced similar losses, I suspect my grief and its various manifestations will be with me the rest of my life.
And “moving on” is simply bullshit - I don’t want to “move on.” I hope to move forward - to discover who I am now that Sami is gone. But I don’t know how one moves on from 35 years of relationship. For that entire time, part of my identity was “Sami’s significant other.” That is still - and always will be - part of how I think of myself. Moving forward, I’m sure there will be new elements of my identity, but “Sami’s husband” will remain.
Today, nearly five months after Sami’s passing - and nearly 12 months after we discovered something was horribly wrong, I’m beginning to understand what an awesome responsibility I assumed. Making medical decisions for someone else is incredibly stressful - the adrenaline of the crisis moments we experienced masked its intensity. I have no regrets, but I’m finding that the stress of this responsibility is leaving my body and my psyche slowly.
I’ve tried talking with a grief/trauma therapist online. I’ve found these sessions moderately helpful - just talking about the last year with someone who is totally unattached is therapeutic. What’s more therapeutic, at least for me, is working with my hands at something that also engages my intellect. Operating my new Lucas portable sawmill has done me more good than anything else I’ve tried so far. The mill was more expensive than therapy, but I enjoy seeing what I’ve accomplished when I finishing operating it!
All of this self-examination culminated in the physical act of turning my weather journal back to page one yesterday. Christmas without Sami was difficult, but I was able to cope. Celebrating Sami’s life before Christmas was filled with both sadness and joy. But realizing that I’m getting another year, while Sami isn’t, was incredibly hard for me.
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