I'm not sure how long this lasted, but there was a period after Sami died where I couldn't remember the sound of her voice. Or the sound of her laughter. I wondered at the time if those recollections would ever return (they have, thankfully); it was terribly unsettling to think I wouldn't be able to remember how she sounded, or even what she looked like before the brain tumor and chemo/radiation therapy took their toll.
Looking back, this period corresponded with Sami's disappearance from my dreams. I suppose I was probably in shock - I know that I was numb at the conclusion of her brief illness and passing. When she eventually did return to my dreams, those initial dreams were disconcerting, both in their content and in waking up to realize I'd dreamed about someone who was no longer present in my physical world.
More recently, I seem to have "normal" dreams about Sami and our life together. She appears in scenes that are familiar to me. I can hear her talking, mostly about things we always talked about. In my dreams, I'm transported back to the home in Auburn where we spent most of our lives together. But several weeks ago, I had perhaps the strangest - and most comforting - dream since she passed away in 2023.
The setting is unclear to me now, but I think I dreamed we were still in our home in Auburn. And while it seemed to be after she'd died, she was back - which we both found comforting. I do recall realizing - and saying to her - that I knew the glioblastoma would kill her eventually (again?), but I was so happy she'd returned. And I said, "Now we can talk about what you hope for for me after you die." And then I woke up.
But waking up wasn't bad - I awoke with the feeling that Sami was okay with where my life (and our daughters' lives) have gone since she left us. Previous dreams have left me with odd premonitions (like the dream I had before I was in a car wreck in 2024, for example). This dream left me with a profound sense of calm.
Another interesting (at least to me) part of my journey through grief has been the recurring importance of red tail hawks. In talking with others about - and reading about - grief, there does seem to be a connection between the natural world and the loss of our loved ones. I listened to an audio book about grief by the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hahn last year where he talked about the conservation of energy and the manifestation of our human forms. Sami's energy is still in the world that I walk in - it has simply taken a different form. Her energy is in my memory of our lives together; it's also in the way that I do daily tasks - ways of being and doing that I learned from her. Her energy, for me, is also in the red tail hawks that live in my foothill environment.
On that day after Sami died, when I first saw a hawk and began to associate it with Sami's presence, I suppose I've become more open to noticing things that happened regardless of my awareness. I've written about dreaming that I saw a red tail hawk perched on the gate post of the property I ended up buying in Mountain Ranch. Twice now, during virtual sessions with therapists when we were discussing a particularly difficult emotional challenge, I've seen a red tail hawk drop out of the sky onto the ground on the hillside above my house. And several weeks ago, when I had successfully harvested a deer and was sad about not sharing the experience with Sami, I saw a red tail hawk catch a rodent and perch in a tree at the top of my property to consume its meal.
Logically, I understand that these are just hawks being hawks - I'm creating meaning for these occurrences that has little to do with the natural world. But perhaps grief opens a window into the nature of energy and meaning and relationship that can't be opened otherwise. And perhaps this window transcends the observed world and the dream world. I don't know. I do know that my recent dream about Sami - and my recent observation of the hawks in my environment - have brought me some degree of comfort.
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