Small Reminders

I continue to find that some days seem to pass with just a generalized sense that life has changed - that Sami is gone. Some days, like these last few, seem to bring sharper (if small) reminders of her absence.

Early yesterday afternoon, I presented our UC Cooperative Extension annual report to the Placer County Board of Supervisors. Since I’ll be transferring to another office this fall, and since UC will be hiring a new administrative county director this year, this was the last time I’ll perform this task. Jim Holmes, the longest serving supervisor, and a friend of more than 15 years, thanked me for my service to the community. In many ways, my presentation felt like the end of an era - the end of my day-to-day role as a member of the Placer County agricultural community.

On my way back to the office, I stopped at the feed store to pick up a booster vaccine for my new puppy. Greg Kimler, the owner, made sure I was getting the right booster, and we talked about Ky’s rabies vaccination. A woman was at the register next to me, and Greg said, “She could do it!” She laughed and said she didn’t have any rabies vaccine with her. After I paid, I introduced myself and asked what kind of veterinary medicine she practiced (turns out, she was a large animal veterinarian here in Auburn). When she heard my name, she realized I’d been married to Sami, and she told me that her practice had taken over a number of Sami’s clients. She added, “Sami’s clients really loved her - they tell us that all the time.”

Yesterday’s third small reminder came as I checked in for an eye doctor appointment. The receptionist asked, “Can we still release your medical information to your wife, Sami?” I said, “No, she passed away last year.” After the obligatory “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she asked, “Is there someone else I should add to your record?” I couldn’t think of anyone, which made me feel very alone.

Some memories, though, are happy. Last night, as I was taking care of the livestock (all of the sheep are home this week for shearing), I recalled the day last April when my UCCE colleagues organized a “workshop” on fire tools and brush burning in our back pasture. We talked about chainsaw safety and pile burning, and were able to clean up an old gray pine that PG&E had dropped and left. But what I remembered last night was that Sami spent the entire day with us. I went back and looked at the photos in my phone - Sami wore her broad-brimmed hat and one of my old sweatshirts, and stayed with us through the day. I realized it was the last full day she spent outside - shortly after that day, she completed her chemotherapy and radiation, and less than 6 weeks later, she went into the hospital after experiencing ongoing seizures. Last night, I realized how much that day outside meant to both of us - to be outside on the little patch of land where we raised our family, with our friends around us. The trauma of the ensuing months had blocked that happy memory.

Today, again, I missed Sami the veterinarian. My old dog, Mae, has been snoring and snuffling a great deal. This evening, I took her to the veterinarian, and discovered a lump on her neck. I feared the worst; fortunately, she had a relatively simple salivary gland cyst, which the doctor drained. But I realized that Sami would have noticed Mae’s symptoms much sooner than I did. And she would have treated Mae herself, most likely. Tonight, I wonder what else I’m missing.

I took last week off from work, and mostly did whatever I felt like doing when I awoke each morning. I did some woodworking projects with lumber I’d milled. I did yard work and planted some of my garden. I moved sheep and enjoyed my new puppy. I camped and hiked on my birthday. I read books that my daughters gave me for my birthday. And I thought about Sami and the nature of my grief. The pause in my “go-go-go” attitude about work was helpful, I think - I’m not any less sad, but I found that I was able to think more deeply about what we experienced, about our loss. The “firsts” are expectedly difficult - the first Christmas without Sami, the first birthday on my own - bring my grief to the surface. But time also seems to be helping me remember the bright spots that happened even in the midst of Sami’s illness. The trip we took to Truckee to see last year’s record snowpack. The walk we took when we both needed to sneak into the brush to go to the bathroom (which we teased each other about). The week that we spent remodeling our front porch and planting flowers in front of the house. These good times disappeared from my memory while we were dealing with crisis after crisis last summer. I’m glad they’re coming back.