1000 Days

Around the time I turned 50, I remarked to my brother-in-law (who is slightly older than me) that I thought I’d know more by the time I was that old. He laughed and said, “I just didn’t realize how much I’d forget!” Now that I’m well into my extremely late 50’s (I’ll be 59 in April), I occasionally have the feeling that I’ve figured some things out. But mostly I just keep blundering through - figuring out life as I go. Burley Coulter, my favorite character from Wendell Berry’s novels, puts it this way: “I never learned anything until I had to.”

Just over 1,000 days ago, Sami began struggling with speech. She apparently had several seizures, as well. Nearly 900 days ago, she passed away. One of the things I’ve had to learn in the last 1,000+ days (and that I find I must continue to learn) is how to carry on with day-to-day life in spite of my grief over losing my partner of 33 years. And just as I woke up one day and realized I was well past middle age, I woke up this weekend and realized that nearly three years have passed since Sami’s glioblastoma symptoms first manifested.

My grief began on that evening in the emergency room in late January 2023 when the doctor came in and told us that the CT scan he’d ordered showed a small mass on the front of Sami’s brain. The next day, after her first craniotomy, we (or at least I) had a glimmer of hope - we’d acted quickly, and Sami’s surgeon was confident that he’d removed the tumor. When she ended up back in the hospital two weeks later, and we learned from another neurosurgeon that the tumor had - what, regrown, not been entirely removed, we’ll never know - our grief and our anxiety returned.

Over the last three years, I’ve realized that the “stages” of grief inaccurately portray grieving as a linear process. According to this “model” one must experience denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance, before moving “on.” But I’ve also learned that Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, who famously described these elements of grieving, was not convinced that they were stages. My experience suggests that grief is a cycle - I’ve moved in and out of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance since that day in late January 2023. I suspect I will for the rest of my life. And while I hope to move forward, I doubt I’ll ever move on from grieving for Sami and for what our old age might have been together.

I’ve also realized over the last year or so that Sami was also grieving throughout her brief illness. At one point, she told me she thought she’d outlive me (she said it laughingly, but she was serious). In some ways, I think, the cancer in her brain progressed so quickly that she didn’t have time to go through all of the “cycles” of grief. She certainly seemed to experience denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Who could possibly experience acceptance of something like that?

Last weekend, I finished The Place of Tides, the latest book by James Rebanks (who, coincidentally is a sheep farmer. Like Wendell Berry. Like me). He writes, “There is no end to learning…. I had imagined that there was a moment when you felt wise, that you had learnt it all…. We are all just children. We never know enough, not even the half of it.” I’ve long felt this way about learning and experience; I now wonder if grief is the same. That once we’ve grieved for the loss of someone, we’ll always feel that grief. It will change as our lives change, as we have new experiences. But we’ll never know enough not to grieve. At least that's how it feels to me.

Over these last three years, the pain of losing Sami has (mostly) become easier to bear. In that autumn after Sami passed, I heard someone describe the pain of grieving as a box with a large ball in it. The box also has a button that causes pain. Early in the grieving process, the ball is quite big, and it frequently hits the pain button. As time goes on, the ball of your loss remains just as big, but the box of your life grows - and so the ball hits the pain button less frequently. That seems to be true for me.

Last weekend, I was sad and lonely (as I often am after having a wonderful time with our daughters). For the first time since Sami died, I didn’t feel withdrawn on Christmas, which felt good. On the other hand, we went through some of Sami’s belongings - sorting what we wanted to keep, what we wanted to donate, and what we needed to dispose of. That affected me more than I expected. Going through her things brought back the sense that we were robbed of the opportunity to grow old(er) together - and so I guess I was angry, as well as sad and lonely. Sometimes the cycles of grief seem to overlap.

Early on in my grieving, I felt as though most of the people around me knew what our family had just experienced. Like my grief (and the reason behind it) was obvious. As time flows on, I meet new people who have no idea of my backstory. Sometimes I wish there was a “grief shirt” I could wear so I wouldn’t feel compelled to awkwardly tell a new acquaintance, “hey, my wife died recently.” Perhaps the Jewish tradition of rending one’s clothes when a loved one dies acknowledges our need for others to see our grief.

Today, 1,000+ days into this season of my life, I find that I often feel an odd combination of wanting people to know what happened but struggling to bring it up in conversation. Obviously, I write about it frequently (too frequently, perhaps, but I find sharing my written thoughts therapeutic). But last summer I decided not to attend my 40th high school reunion, simply because I didn’t want to tell the same story about why I was there alone over and over again.

I’ve come to think that when your partner dies, something dies in you, as well - and your grief feels doubled. I guess this is true when anyone close to you dies, but it seems especially true when it’s a life partner. And grieving, I think, is partly a process of rebirth. Of discovering who you are going forward, while honoring who you were before. 

Mixed Emotions and Difficult Weeks

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.

Checking In with Myself

In the eighteen months since the onset of Sami’s glioblastoma symptoms, I’ve come to realize that my writing is partly (mostly, maybe?) a way for me to check in with myself. The jumble of thoughts and emotions that have come as part of living in limbo for the last year and a half periodically coalesces into something halfway coherent - or at least something that I need to put into written words to begin to understand. And part of this process of discernment, I’m beginning to understand, is putting these words out into the world. Whether anyone else ever reads them, the act of sharing my writing helps me release what’s been bottled up inside.

Grief, lately, has seemed like a deep well, or maybe a spring. The water level is sometimes static; other times, I can feel it welling up through my chest and into my throat. Sometimes the water overflows. Writing, in some ways, relieves the pressure of grieving.

These last three weeks have been chaotic. After my house sold for more than the asking price less than a week after it was listed, the close of escrow was delayed nearly a month by complications associated with the California Fair Plan insurance scheme. Escrow finally closed yesterday afternoon. I’m also in escrow on a property in Calaveras County (close to my new job, and closer to my family). Hopefully, I’ll have enough overlap in the timing of all of this to get moved by the second week of August.

But with my house closing, I’m confronting the reality of leaving the community where Sami and I spent most of our married life. Therapists and books have told me that making a big decision in the first year after such a loss might be a mistake. I don’t know. Being closer to my family - and being able to help my Mom and Dad navigate their own health issues - is important to me at this stage. Last month, a friend who had recently moved following the loss of her husband told me the move had been helpful. “I was able to leave the hard memories at the old house,” she said, “but the happy memories came with me to my new place.” I hope I find similar peace. But with the reality of moving approaching, I confess that I’m worried about whether this is the right path for me at this stage of grieving.

Over the last several weeks, both Emma and Lara have been able to come home to help me with packing. We’ve had a wonderful time together, but packing up our old lives has been difficult, too. This morning, I realized that they have both now visited the home where they grew up for the last time. I’ve never experienced this; my folks still live in the house I left when I went to college nearly 40 years ago. I’m anxious to have the girls visit me in my new home, but I know it won’t be the same for any of us. And I know I’m a bit afraid of moving to a community where nobody will remember Sami, where nobody will know what my family has gone through.

On Independence Day, I went to a baseball game in Lincoln, planning to stay for the fireworks. The extreme heat, along with the huge crowd, were too much for me; I left after the sixth inning. Driving home, I realized that Lincoln was no longer the sleepy little town it had been when Sami and I moved to Placer County 30 years ago (I bought my first ram from the ranch that was located where the Home Depot sits now). I recalled our first Fourth of July in Penryn in 1994 - we’d driven to the top of Clark Tunnel Road (at that time, a gravel road that connected Penryn with the Newcastle Highway) and watched three or four fireworks shows in the valley below us. Today, that road runs through the Bickford Ranch housing development, and I suspect it’s been paved. Curious about the magnitude of the changes in Placer County in the last 30 years, I came home and looked up the county’s population. In 1994, about 192,000 people called Placer County home. Three decades later, that number has more than doubled. By contrast, Calaveras County (where I’ll be living) has only grown by about 10,000 people in that same 30-year time span.

Like most cliches, “change is inevitable” is at least partly true. But the pace and magnitude of change in Placer County have been weighing on me, even before Sami’s passing. During the spring, as I was traveling to Calaveras County to look at properties, I found myself enjoying the drive on Highway 49 south of the American River - fewer people and fewer cars! Similarly, I found myself dreading the drive westbound on Interstate 80, and generally avoiding Highway 49 through Auburn. While moving my home and my work to Calaveras County is mostly about being closer to family, I’m realizing that I’m also looking forward to living in a smaller town. Even so, leaving our friends here in Auburn will be difficult. Moving away from my support system might be a mistake.

Several weeks ago, I reread The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig, a story about a widower raising three boys on a Montana homestead in the early 1900s. The story is narrated by the oldest boy, and I came across this passage:

“... surely I looked at life a lot more warily after it took Mother from us. In Father’s case, he had our symptoms to tend to as well as his own. In short, none of us was over Mother’s death, but we had adjusted to the extent we could to that missing limb of the family.”

Our family’s experience has certainly made me more wary, and Sami’s loss, in many ways, does feel like an amputation - I still reach out to grasp a hand that isn’t there any more. This summer, I have occasionally struggled with my roles, too - as the father of grieving children, I wish I could take away their sadness and pain. I also wish someone could do the same for me. Some days, I find it incredibly difficult to give comfort when I can’t seem to find any for myself.

Going through the 23 years of accumulated things in our house has brought all of us a mix of laughter, wistfulness, and tears. Earlier this week, I went through Sami’s dresses and found a light blue dress she’d worn to our niece’s wedding eight years ago. As I took the dress off its hanger, I could imagine the feel of the fabric over Sami’s hip as we danced at the wedding, and the well of grief overflowed momentarily. The next day, I consigned Sami’s show saddle and bridles, as well as her show clothes, to a local tack store, and sold her horse trailer - which felt like closing another chapter on Sami’s role in our community. But later, we all laughed about the half dozen used Chick-fil-A containers Sami had saved in a kitchen cupboard. Sami had always insisted that she wasn’t a hoarder, but the evidence this week suggests otherwise! 

Ultimately, I don’t know if moving and changing jobs within the first year of my grief is the right thing to do. I feel like I’ve been living with incredible uncertainty since the morning in late January 2023 when I drove Sami to the emergency room for the first time. My sense of limbo has continued through the aftermath of Sami’s death. Trying to learn to live by myself, trying to be a supportive father and a grieving widower, selling a home and buying another, have all been discombobulating. I feel knocked off kilter. While I know that more changes are inevitable, I hope I find some sense of stability (and purpose, even) in a new home, a new community, and a new job.

End Note: As I post this on Saturday morning, Lara and her boyfriend Micah are driving back to Las Cruces. Emma is in Moscow, Idaho. Both girls have now left this house for the last time. After more than a week of hot, sunny weather, we have cloud cover in Auburn this morning. The low sky makes the empty house seem even quieter than usual. And the water level in my well of grief seems higher than it’s been for some time. I find myself thinking about other “last time” experiences - the last time I’ll sleep in this house, the last time I’ll walk out the door, the last time I’ll cook a meal here. All of these things will happen in the next four weeks. I want the new chapter in my life to start, but I’m awfully sad about this chapter ending. At least on this quiet, cloudy Saturday morning.

Random Thoughts at the End of May

May 24, 2024 - I normally use my blog posts to share information, perspectives, and ideas - and I usually try to organize my essays better than this one. I apologize for this disorganized post - thanks for bearing with me.

For more than 20 years, I’ve kept a weather journal. I’ve recorded high and low temperatures, precipitation, and significant natural events (like the first Oriole of the spring, or the day I see Sandhill Cranes in early fall, or the date that the first lilac blooms). On days when I’m not home, I try to record where I was. And, occasionally, I record other significant events - things that happened in our family’s life.

Last night, when I recorded the day’s weather, I saw my entry from May 23, 2023. In addition to the weather observations I made a year ago, I wrote simply, “seizure.” 

Seeing the word took me back to last May. Emma and I had just returned from moving her into her new apartment in Idaho, and Lara and Micah were still staying with us in Auburn. On that morning, I recall getting out of the shower when one of the girls came running into our bedroom to tell me that “Mom is having a bad seizure.” They had already helped keep Sami safe and called 911 by the time I was able to join them in the living room, a minute or two later.

Looking back, that singular episode was confirmation that Sami’s glioblastoma was progressing - only I didn’t fully realize it at the time. We’d learned the week before that an MRI at UCSF had shown another “flare” on her brain, which meant she wasn’t eligible for a clinical trial. After they checked her out at the emergency room in Auburn on the morning of her seizure, they sent her home - but over the next week, she grew progressively weaker and had more difficulty walking. By Memorial Day 2023, we decided we needed to go back to the ER. She was unable to walk to the car.

When we arrived at the ER in Roseville, the doctor told us we should be thinking about hospice care immediately - which was terribly upsetting to all of us (especially Sami). We finally talked to her medical team at UCSF, and the nurse practitioner told me, “We’re not ready to say we can’t help Sami any more - she needs to come here.” Early the next morning, Sami was transferred to UCSF.

Ultimately, the team at UCSF figured out that Sami was continuing to have subclinical seizures. With a change of anti-seizure medication and an additional cancer drug, we left San Francisco three weeks later exhausted but a bit more hopeful.

But looking back, I’m not sure UCSF was able to help much after all. In mid-July, we learned that Sami had two new lesions on her brain. At the end of July, she suffered another significant seizure. By mid-August, glioblastoma had taken her life.

If I had known a year ago today what lay in store for Sami, I don’t think I’d have changed anything we did last summer. But last night, as I read last year’s journal entry, I realized that Sami’s seizure marked a transition to a new stage of Sami’s cancer - a transition I hadn’t completely understood when it occurred.

In February 2023, after Sami’s second craniotomy, I listened to an episode of the podcast, “Terrible, Thanks for Asking.” Podcast host, Nora McInerny, lost her partner to brain cancer. In the episode, she interviewed a man who’d lost his partner, too - and they talked about “death with dignity” laws. 

After her first surgery, Sami had made us promise that if she didn’t want to continue chemo and radiation treatments, we had to let her make that decision. And at some point, she must have said something about being more “proactive” in ending treatment - I don’t remember what she said, but just before her second surgery, I purchased a gun safe for my hunting rifles (which had been in a locked cabinet) and for Sami’s veterinary euthanasia drugs, because I was worried that Sami might do something drastic. Ultimately, by the time Sami asked her medical team about California’s End of Life Option Act (which allows terminally ill patients who are of sound mind to receive medical aid in dying), we were told that the process would take longer than Sami likely had left. Reflecting on all of this today, I am beginning to realize that Sami longed for some control over her life (and ultimately, her death).

This spring, I’ve struggled with a sense of sorrow that Sami wasn’t able to articulate her hopes for the girls, or for me. I guess I had hoped that once we all knew she was dying, and that her passing was imminent, we’d be able to have deep conversations about what our lives together had meant to all of us, and about what we hoped our futures would hold. From the distance now of more than nine months, I am beginning to think that Sami’s sorrow and fear were not entirely due to the fact that she knew she was dying. Sami was such a strong and independent woman for her entire adult life - I think much of her sadness and distress came from a fear of having to depend on us for even the most basic functions of living. I think she feared being a burden. And I think this helps me understand her desire to control the nature of her passing, which was so hard for me to comprehend in the moment.

May 2024 has been a difficult month for me - I’m sure in part because of the mental processing I’ve just described. The month of May also brought the first Mother’s Day without the mother of my daughters - difficult for all of us. In addition, I listed our home for sale - and accepted an offer (it’s now in escrow). I started looking seriously at homes in Calaveras County, where I’ll be working come October. I learned of the loss of a colleague and also of a neighbor to cancer. I gained greater clarity about what my mom is going through, and about the realities of helping my parents navigate this new chapter in their lives. I sold most of my sheep, which I described to a friend as feeling like I had finished a really great book that I didn’t want to end. I realized (again) how much Sami and I used one another as a sounding board and a reality check - and how much we shared the load of day-to-day living. Coming home to an empty house remains difficult.

Which brings me to a few thoughts about friendship. A friend who’d lost her husband several years ago called me when she learned I’d listed our home for sale. She told me that selling her home (which her family had lived in for more than 40 years) had been difficult but helpful. She felt as though she’d been able to leave the painful memories of losing her husband at the old house, and that the happy memories moved with her to her new home.

Personally, I find that I sometimes need reassurance that I’m still able to function - that I haven’t totally let myself, our house, our critters, or our property descend into total dishevelment. I wonder, at times, if my friends are checking in on me to reassure themselves of the same thing (and to help out when needed)! Time and again, my true friends have held me up - they’ve made me laugh and let me cry. They’ve let me be alone when I’ve needed solitude. They’ve been gracious when my social batteries are drained and I can’t bear to be around anyone, and in some ways, I suppose I've self-isolated over this last month. But my friends keep inviting me to do things even when I say no. I’m incredibly thankful, and I hope they keep asking!

I’ve also realized that some people I thought were friends have not been helpful. Some have not reached out at all; others have acted as if it is time for me to “move on.” Slowly, I’ve been letting go of the hurt and anger associated with these “friendships.” Maybe that’s what moving on means.

And finally, I have to say that I’m so grateful for having a new puppy. Even though the house is empty, Ky’s energy and joy make coming home easier. I cannot watch Ky and not smile!

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.

Regrets. Or Lessons?

Over the last week or so, I’ve been trying to write down everything I remember about last year, without referring to notes or old blog posts. I’m finding the process of remembering to be helpful, to some degree - I don’t think anyone knows (or at least shares my same viewpoint) on what I experienced. Caregiving, ultimately, is a very personal experience, I think, as is terminal illness. Writing about what I remember seems cathartic.

In this process, I am realizing that I have had a number of regrets about some of the things we did during Sami’s illness - as well as some of the things we didn’t get to do. I wish we’d gone to the ocean one more time. I wish we’d have gone to a concert - we both loved live music. Basically, I wish we’d had more time together.

In the process of writing down my memories, I recalled a day last spring (late April or early May) when we had ordered a hay delivery. After I fell off a stack of straw in 2007 or 2008 (and broke both of my arms), Sami took over most of the hay-stacking responsibilities. I’ve always hated heights; breaking both arms made my acrophobia more intense. I think Sami liked stacking hay, just like I like splitting and stacking wood - the combination of physical activity and obvious accomplishment (who doesn’t like seeing a full barn or a full woodshed) made her happy. Stacking hay, for both of us, confirmed her physical strength, as well.

The night before the hay was supposed to arrive, we (Emma, Lara, and I) realized Sami wasn’t in the house. I noticed the barn door was open, and went out to investigate. Sami was rearranging the hay to make room for the delivery - as I recall, I found her standing atop of a stack four bales high.

I should back up. On the Saturday before Easter 2023 (and before I found Sami stacking hay), we drove to Sonora to celebrate with my family. Sami was about two weeks into her 6-week chemo/radiation treatment, and hadn’t had any serious side effects yet. When we arrived at my folks place, I noticed Sami’s hands were trembling. As we greeted family and walked towards the house, I realized Sami was having a seizure (the first she’d had since her surgeries). She recovered reasonably quickly, but I think we all (Sami included) were sobered by the experience. And worried.

So on the day I found her stacking hay, I was angry. I scolded her. I probably yelled something like “What the HELL are you doing?!” Which I regretted instantly. Which I still regret today.

But hindsight has started to turn my regret into enlightenment. Last May, I was hopeful that treatment would buy us more time together. Today, I’m realizing that none of us - sick or healthy - know with any certainty how much time we might have together.

My regret is that I didn’t simply pitch in and help Sami rearrange the hay. I wish (now) that I’d realized how happy Sami was doing something that she’d always been able to do. I wish (now) that I’d realized that falling off a 4-bale stack wasn’t the worst thing that could (or would) happen to Sami.

Which brings me to the lesson I’m trying to learn. My anger with Sami, I think, was more about my needs than hers. I wasn’t ready to let her go (I’m still not, I suppose). That said, she needed to feel in control, to feel useful. As one of her caregivers, I could have given her that gift. I can’t go back and give that to her tonight, but I can share what I think I’ve learned. Doing something that we love, something that gives our lives purpose or meaning (even as “simple” as stacking hay), is important. Supporting our loved ones, when they are doing something that gives their lives purpose or meaning, is equally (if not more) important.

52 Weeks

A year ago today, Sami and I left Las Cruces a few minutes before 7 a.m., headed for Reserve, New Mexico (for a lunch meeting) and ultimately for Flagstaff, Arizona (our halfway point on our drive home from visiting Lara). The desert sunrise was notable; I still have a photo on my phone, taken from Lara’s front steps. Sami slept off and on as we made our way through Silver City and along the Gila River, which she often did during long trips. While we ate lunch, snow started falling, making the drive into Arizona slippery. Driving a road I’d never driven before, through the snow, required all of my concentration; I finally relaxed a bit when conditions improved north of Alpine, Arizona.

As I relaxed, I began to notice that Sami was having difficulty finishing sentences. She’d start to say something and then trail off before she could finish her thought. As the afternoon wore on, I grew frustrated with her - she seemed so distracted. When we arrived in Flagstaff after dark, we checked into our hotel and walked next door to grab dinner. I asked her what was going on - what was wrong. “Nothing,” she insisted, “I’m just tired.”

We pulled out of Flagstaff early the next morning. Interstate 40 was icy, so I drove first. We switched seats in Kingman, and Sami drove us into California. The weather cleared, but the wind was blowing - we joked that the wind was pushing the truck around, making it hard for Sami to stay in her lane. Somewhere between Needles and Barstow, I got behind the wheel again, taking us through Bakersfield. By the time Sami started driving again near Tulare, it was late afternoon. She was still having trouble finishing a thought, and trouble staying in her lane of traffic on Highway 99. We called Emma in Idaho, putting her on speaker phone - Sami didn’t say much.

We reached Merced and a confusing stretch of roadwork after dark. Sami exited the freeway and asked me to drive. We had trouble figuring out how to get back on the freeway; Sami was confused by what Google Maps was telling us to do. I, of course, grew frustrated again.

Sometime after 8 p.m., we pulled into our driveway. Since we’d been gone more than a week, the house was cold. Sami said she’d unload the truck if I’d work on getting a fire going in the wood stove and feed the animals. She stopped unpacking about halfway through, telling me she was tired. I grumbled my way through unloading the rest of the truck. We went to bed.

The next day (Wednesday), I went back to work. Sami stayed home to put things away and return phone calls. She still had difficulty finding words (a condition we would soon learn was called aphasia). On Thursday morning, we both arose around 5 a.m. Sami said she felt nauseous. I left to move sheep. When I returned home around 8:30, Sami was sitting in front of the wood stove. She said, “I just passed out. I thought I was going to be sick, so I went into the bathroom. I came to on the floor. I don’t know what happened.”

I insisted that she try calling her doctor. When she couldn’t get through, we decided to go to the emergency room. After running a series of tests, the doctor thought she had some type of aortic aneurysm, and since she’d fainted, the doctor suspended her driver’s license.

That evening, Sami had a fair board meeting she didn’t want to miss. I took her to her meeting, picking her up when it was over. We talked about the meeting, and Sami noted that she’d had difficulty writing (she was right-handed). We both thought that was odd.

Friday morning, I had to leave for work early. By this time, all of us were very worried. Lara and I talked while I was driving to work, and we made Sami agree that we would check in on her every half hour or so while I was gone. When I got home that afternoon, we finally heard from Sami’s doctor, who found the neurological symptoms (aphasia and writing difficulties) concerning. She told us to go back to the ER, and she called ahead to talk to the doctor. As we walked from the parking lot, I remarked that Sami seemed to be dragging her right foot. Later that night, the doctor told us a CT scan had revealed a mass on Sami’s left frontal lobe. He had referred her to a larger hospital for an MRI as soon as possible. By 10:30 the next morning, Sami was being prepped for what was to be the first of two brain surgeries. Just 202 days after we started home from New Mexico, Sami passed away from glioblastoma.

Even a year later, this six day stretch of time seems so clear - and so surreal. When we got into the truck on that January morning, I was excited to see new country, and nervous about the snow in the forecast. When we arrived in Flagstaff, I was relieved to be off the icy roads and annoyed with Sami for being so distracted. Annoyance gave way to anxiety and uncertainty, as we began to realize that something was seriously wrong. And then my memory grows a bit fuzzier; the two weeks between her first surgery and her second are far less clear, as is the rest of 2023.

Sami recovered from her first craniotomy and returned home. Lara and Emma returned to their homes, too. And then Sami felt worse - just 16 days after her first surgery, she was back in the hospital. And just 18 days later, she underwent a second craniotomy. My next clear memories are of the second surgeon telling us she had glioblastoma, and of sitting next to her in the neuro ICU after she’d come out of surgery on February 15. She held my left hand all night, rubbing the knuckles raw with her thumb. We were both so scared.

Looking back at all of this a year later makes me think how naive I was. On that Monday morning, we both expected that life would simply go on as it had been going. We were in our mid fifties and (we thought) in decent health. Sami was training for a half marathon in March. I was looking forward to lambing season in mid February. We were both figuring we’d settle back into our work routines upon returning from a wonderful trip.

Today, 52 weeks later, I find myself searching for lessons. Cliches like, “take life a day at a time,” and “live every day like it’s your last,” resonate to some degree, but they fail to acknowledge the magnitude of what our family experienced. I also find myself thinking about how Sami experienced those weeks after we returned from our trip. As much as I try to put myself in her shoes, I know I’ll never truly understand what she was feeling. And I find myself wondering who and where I’ll be 52 weeks from today. I guess that might be one of the lessons of this past year - none of us really know.