Nothing Linear About This

Depending on which Dr. Google you ask, there are either five or seven stages of grief. The original five are (supposedly) denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Sometimes, Dr. Google adds “shock” at the front end, and “testing” between depression and acceptance. As the word “stages” imply, these are apparently phases that one must work through - a linear progression. Having experienced grief over the last 18 months (before and after Sami’s passing), I have found there’s nothing linear about it. While my grief originated with Sami’s diagnosis, I am finding that my own “stage” from one day to the next seems to vary.

To be fair, the labels themselves are descriptive of the emotions I’ve felt since last January (and continue to feel today). The shock of Sami’s diagnosis, and the rapidity with which her condition progressed, remain with me even now. There are days when I simply cannot believe that she’s gone. On occasion, the anger I felt when we couldn’t get answers from our insurance company or from Sami’s medical team will resurface, as well. More than a month ago, I wrote a chronological account of the 207 days between Sami’s first surgery in late January and her eventual passing in mid-August, entirely from memory - telling myself the story of what I’d just lived through (and what Sami had not survived). In many ways, I suppose, my blogs are an effort to tell our story to others - and to try to make sense of what happened. While my depression has not (yet) been debilitating, I do find that some days I simply want to stay in my own little bubble of sadness. And on some days, I’m able to think about the future and about my plans for life without Sami.

Last week, I reached out to a friend for the first time in many weeks and invited him to join me for Taco Tuesday at one of our local breweries. This spring, I’ve often found myself too exhausted from having to be “on” all day at work to have the energy to socialize after work. But last Tuesday evening was nice - we caught up on family news, and I enjoyed being out after work. Last Thursday, I had my annual physical, which confirmed that I’ve been able to keep myself reasonably healthy in this first year of being on my own. But on Saturday morning, inexplicably, I woke up incredibly sad and absolutely exhausted - and had to go to work anyway. When I came home from work, I only had enough energy to fall asleep in my recliner listening to the Giants game.

I fear, at times, that my writing about this experience leaves people with the impression that we had a perfect marriage. I’m old enough (and was married long enough) to know that “perfect” marriages don’t exist. I absolutely know I did things that annoyed the hell out of Sami (and I suspect that many of her friends know this too!). Last week, I laughed at the Robert Earl Keen song “It’s the Little Things” - it reminded me of the petty things that seemed so upsetting to both of us before all of this happened - as REK sings, “It’s the note that you leave on the breakfast table with the list of things to help me plan my day…. It’s the little things that piss me off.” Oddly, remembering the stuff that pissed me off helped me remember that we loved each other in spite of ourselves (to quote another favorite song by John Prine).

The process of selling our family home has caused similarly jumbled emotions for me. I find my tolerance for uncertainty diminished, which I’m sure has annoyed and frustrated the real estate agents I’m working with on both ends of my impending move. Living in limbo - not knowing if or when my house will sell, and whether it will be in time to buy the property I’d like to purchase - is incredibly stressful. Regardless, as the sale of our Auburn home progresses towards closure, I have been thinking about “lasts” for me in Auburn - the last time I’ll mow these lawns, the last time I’ll drink my first cup of coffee while watching the first light hit the backyard trees, the last time I’ll fill the barn with hay. The last time I’ll run into a friend at the feed store or shopping for groceries. I think about whether Sami would be doing the same thing had I been the one to die first. I don’t think she would be - I don’t think she would be feeling the familial pull that I am feeling in moving closer to my childhood home.

Sometimes, I’m not sure what will cause me to shift from one “stage” to another - I might hear a song that reminds of Sami (or that reminds me of some point in her brief illness). I might see a photograph on social media or on my phone. I might be reminded of the things I took for granted (like being able to ask Sami for veterinary advice). I might do something by myself that we usually did together (or that Sami did on her own). Some of these things make me sad; others make me feel like I might be getting a handle on life (in a very small way).

As an example, on Sunday morning, I hauled our mules to a friend’s place in anticipation of my move to Calaveras County (where I’ll need to do some set-up to be ready for them). Mules can be peculiar; Sami’s mule, Boomer, especially so. He’s 22 years old - and I can probably count the times I’ve been able to touch him, let alone catch and halter him, on one hand in those 22 years. He is definitely a one-person mule. My mule, Frisbee, had not been in a trailer since the spring of 2021; Boomer had not been loaded since before Sami got sick - and even then, loading him was a two person job, even for Sami! I lost sleep on Saturday night worrying about whether I could get the mules caught, loaded, and hauled to Lincoln. But with a small bribe (of grain), and some thought given to loading order (Frisbee first), the entire morning went far more smoothly than I expected. In less than 30 minutes, we were ready to roll.

These are the brief moments that make me think, “maybe I’ll be okay.” I think Sami would have doubted my abilities (maybe not, but she’d have given me a hard time about it!) - I thought about how she acted around the mules and tried to channel her energy (and calmness). I found myself wishing I could have told her how it went (and knowing, if it’s possible, that she knew - that she was watching the entire time). Perhaps one of the stages should be “confidence” - confidence that we can do things we couldn’t do before our loss.

In the ten months that Sami’s been gone, I have been so grateful to talk to others who have experienced similar losses. To know that their path, like mine, hasn’t been linear. To know that they still wake up some days with an overwhelming sense of sadness. To know, also, that they continue to put one foot in front of the other.