Memory is Strange

On long driving trips, Sami and I would alternate driving. And whoever was driving when we stopped for fuel would put the gas on their debit card. Sami took the “protect your PIN” advice seriously; she would hide her PIN even from me, which I of course teased her about! Nearly two years after her passing, I think about this every time I put fuel in my truck. This memory makes me smile! It also makes me wistful.

In the immediate aftermath of Sami’s death in August 2023, I found that I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice. Or even how she looked before she got sick. I certainly couldn’t remember the feeling of her touch. I suppose the trauma of her cancer, and all that it entailed, made these happy memories difficult to bring to mind. I could look at old photos of her - of us - and feel like I couldn’t recall the emotions that the images should have evoked. I was numb.

This trauma, in many ways, has been more difficult than my grief. Several weeks ago, I found myself immobilized by the memory of the night that Sami decided to enter hospice care (she passed just two weeks later). My concern for the well-being of my folks made me recall this old anxiety - I cancelled weekend plans in case I was needed.

Today, though, the happy memories come easier. I find myself remembering camping trips and date nights. I smile when I see photos of Sami bottle-feeding lambs or holding puppies. I laugh to myself when I see funny pics of us together. And there are other physical reminders in my house. Handwritten notes that help me recall her neat handwriting. The “Samia Z. Macon, DVM” sign that she took from Loomis Basin Large Animal Clinic when she went out on her own (and which now hangs on my toolshed). Our wedding china. The “Protect your PIN” message when I fill my truck.

Sadness is still part of my life. I miss Sami every day. I miss sharing the ups and downs of our days in the evening; I miss being the first person up in the morning. I miss the sound of the tea kettle on the stove - Sami rarely drank my “real” coffee, preferring instant coffee instead. I miss preparing meals together. I see her enjoying my new house - even though I know we’d have never moved here when she was alive. Somedays, I find her absence palpable. The space that she inhabited in my life - and I in hers - are a void. I miss her touch. I miss the great wads of her long hair in the shower drain. I miss waking up next to her.

But I also feel like I’m learning to embrace sadness. Today, my grief doesn’t feel debilitating. Sure, the tears still overflow from time to time. But the sadness is part of remembering, too. I find that I can be both happy about the time we shared together and sad that it was cut short. As I’ve written previously, I’ve come to embrace my sadness like an old friend - like a visitation from Sami.