Over the last week and a half, I’ve found that I’m processing new elements of my grief. I’ve thought about what Sami must have experienced in terms of her own grief. I’ve thought about how grief is different depending on who you’ve lost - and when you lost them. I’ve considered the paradox that my grief is one of the pathways to remembering Sami. And I’ve had a startling reminder of my own mortality.
Part of what has been so difficult about losing Sami is the feeling that we were both robbed. Robbed of time together as we wrapped up our careers. Robbed of watching both of our daughters begin (and thrive in) their adult lives. Robbed of growing old together.
I realized this week that Sami must have experienced tremendous grief as her illness progressed. I know that she must have grieved that she wouldn’t see either of her daughters marry. That she’d never know her grandchildren. That she wouldn’t even get to see Emma compete in logger sports. Or graduate from college.
Losing a partner, because of this, is a unique type of grief, I think. In many ways, I think I inherited Sami’s grief (on top of my own, at losing her). I’m finding that I’M sad that she won’t get to go to her daughters’ weddings, or hold our grandchildren. On top of my own sadness. But I also feel like should honor her grief - that I should take special delight in experiencing these things on behalf of both of us.
In the immediate aftermath of Sami’s passing, I found that I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. Today, I can - I can remember her laugh, the way she’d get annoyed with me when I wasn’t listening. I can remember her puttering on autumn days - raking leaves, or cleaning the barn. Or enjoying a quiet day inside when it was cold and rainy. And while knowing she’s not here makes me sad, the sadness (or grief) also reminds me of her. Of the good things about our marriage.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve also experienced (again) the grief of knowing that my Mom is suffering from dementia. We went to a neurologist on the day after I returned from seeing the girls in Idaho. The appointment was helpful; the doctor gave us all some things we could do to help my Mom. We had a delightful lunch together. But while my Mom could remember my name, she couldn’t remember who I was. I realized that I was at a place in my grief for Sami where I finally had room to grieve for my parents, too.
And then came my planned trip to Eureka for work. I’d planned to drive to Humboldt County on Thursday of last week, to facilitate a meeting on elk management on Friday. I’d been watching the weather forecast - as had my family. My sister texted, “I don’t think you should go to Eureka.” I changed my plans slightly - taking a route that would avoid possible snow, and planning to leave earlier on Friday to make it home before the brunt of the storm hit here. Looking back, I feel like I had an unusual foreboding about this trip.
On Thursday morning, I was awakened by an unsettling dream in which Sami (who in my dream had been cured) had a seizure. I left home around 8am, just when I planned. As I was driving down Railroad Flat Road towards San Andreas, a truck swerved into my lane - far enough that I slowed abruptly and pulled onto the shoulder. I thought, “Huh, was that what I was worried about?!” Later, on I-5 near Woodland, I shifted in my seat and swerved awkwardly. Again, I thought, “That was strange.” After I stopped for lunch in Williams, I headed west on CA-20 towards Clearlake. Just past Bear Valley Road, and above what I later learned from CHP was called “Dead Man’s Curve,” I was driving up a winding grade towards the Colusa-Lake county line in a light rain. A big rig towing an empty trailer was headed down the grade. Going way too fast. The trailer fishtailed into my lane, and in that split second before impact, I recall thinking, “Oh, okay - this is what I was expecting.”
His rear axle smacked into my driver-side front fender. My truck spun around and came to rest pointing east in the westbound lane. The side airbag deployed. I realized I was not hurt, and I scrambled out of the truck, halfway hearing the emergency alert voice in my Tacoma saying something about not being able to connect with emergency services. Not sure why, but I grabbed my phone (and thought to myself, “I don’t have cell service here.”) My first instinct was to check on the semi (which had jackknifed and slid off the eastbound lane) and the other driver, and to slow other drivers so there weren’t more crashes.
As the adrenaline wore off, I started thinking about what could have happened. That my daughters could have been orphans. That I could have been seriously injured. And that I was alone - I had nobody to call, and no way to call them.
Finally, fire trucks and then CHP showed up. A CalTrans worker pulled my truck off the road. When I first talked to the CHP officer, he seemed a little bit nonchalant about what had happened. Then he walked around the driver side of my truck and said, “Oh, I’m really sorry - this must have been really frightening.” About two hours after the accident, I rode back into Williams with the tow truck driver. My friend Leslie drove up from Woodland and took me to meet my sister, who brought me home. I did have people to call, after all.
On Friday, I decided I should probably get checked out medically. When the ER nurse came in to take my vital signs, I told her, “My blood pressure will be high - it’s always high now since what happened to my family over the last 15 months.” It was quite high, and I broke down. I cried. I told her what had happened to Sami, and that I was so worried about not being around for my daughters. She hugged me. She reconfirmed for me that nurses are amazing people who are the glue that hold together our dysfunctional healthcare system.
Tonight, I’m realizing that I’ve been through yet another traumatic stretch. I’ve awakened at 4am each of the last four mornings, reliving the moment when the trucker’s back axle hit my truck. Seeing myself ducking under the side airbag to get out of my truck (a Tacoma, which I loved) to see the driveshaft on the ground and the rear wheel detached from the rear axle. Imagining my girls mourning the loss of a second parent. These last two weeks have also brought an odd sense of detachment - a sense that I’m watching myself from six feet away.
I’m exhausted. I think I’ve reached a point where I can’t get through this by continuing to move. I need to catch my breath. I need to be quiet. I need to be still. I’m thankful that Thanksgiving will give me a reason to be home. I’m thankful, truthfully, just to be alive.
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