Hello Sadness, My Old Friend.... Or the Difference Between Sadness and Despair

Sadness - grief - I've come to realize, is a normal emotion. Despair, at least as I understand it, is sadness without hope of happiness. And at least recently, I'm beginning to understand - even embrace - my periodic sadness. Perhaps because I've also experienced happiness in the three-plus years since Sami died.

These last 10 days have been draining emotionally. Last weekend, we had a living estate sale for my parents. My Mom is in a skilled nursing facility with advanced dementia; my Dad is still living at the home I grew up in but increasingly needs help navigating day-to-day life. My niece and her family are going to buy the house; we're working on downsizing with my Dad. Last weekend, we had a sale at their barn.

My relationship with possessions has changed since Sami's passing and my own move. There were a handful of furniture pieces, kitchen items, and artwork that my folks had that I wanted to keep, but I have neither the room - or the desire - to keep very many of their possessions. I also found myself thinking about what my daughters would want to keep (versus what they'd have to sell when I pass). Nevertheless, I found it difficult emotionally to see the material evidence of my childhood - and my parents' lives - go to other homes. Last Sunday evening, I was entirely drained.

The work week was exhausting - lots of driving, lots of being "on" (difficult for someone who rides the fence between extrovert and introvert). Yesterday, after doing laundry and going for a walk with my dogs, I met my sister and brother-in-law in town to purchase appliances for my Dad's new place. After, I went to the feedstore and the hardware store. I trimmed some of the trees that had caused the California FAIR Plan to threaten to increase my fire insurance premium. I canned some peppers. I went grocery shopping. I did more laundry. In other words, I was (mostly) a functioning adult.

This morning, I slept in - nearly till 6:30! I lazed around - made a big breakfast, did the dishes, did more laundry. I canned more peppers. Took a nap. I felt entirely unmotivated. And sad....

Because for some reason this morning, I had flashbacks to the last road trip Sami and I took in January 2023. I remembered the owl I saw on the day we left for New Mexico - and so I also remembered Sami's aphasia on the trip home. I remembered the anxiety and fear we experienced from February 2023 through her passing in August of that year. I did not feel like doing much today.

But after my nap, I felt more motivated. I did some woodworking, and I serviced my sawmill. And I listened to the last San Francisco Giants broadcast of the year.

I have always loved baseball, but the Giants have been truly awful this year. Today was the end of the season, at least for the teams that didn't make the playoffs. And today was the last time that Giants broadcaster (and former pitcher) Mike Krukow would be a regular. The Giants lost to the Dodgers (as expected); the postgame ceremony with Krukow was amazing. And while listening, I found myself thinking about loss. About the ending of things. About sadness.

I should note - one of the gifts that Sami gave me while she was sick was asking to go to a Giants game in May 2023. We were going to be in San Francisco to meet with her UCSF care team to discuss enrolling in a clinical trial - the Giants were in town, so we went to the game the night before the appointment. Sami wasn't a huge baseball fan, so I realize now that going to the game was her gift to me.

Krukow's broadcast partner for so many years, Duane Kuiper, paraphrased North Carolina State basketball coach, Jim Valvano, who said that every day, you should laugh, you should think, and you should cry (either from happiness or from grief).

As ballplayers I remember from my younger days (notably Bob Brenly and Will Clark) recounted their days as Mike Krukow's teammate, I laughed. As Kuiper, and then Krukow, talked about friendship, I thought. And as Krukow's family, at the end of the on-field ceremony, led the crowd who'd remained at Oracle Park in singing "The Parting Glass," I broke down and cried.

But I also realized that I'm growing more comfortable in my sadness. I realized that I did experience despair during the spring and summer of 2023 - when the seriousness of Sami's illness became clear. When I understood the weight of hoping that Sami wouldn't suffer - and that we wouldn't suffer in caring for her. But today - 37-plus months after I lost my wife of 33 years, I also realize that sadness is an emotion that I will continue to experience. That sadness is, in effect, the result of having been intensely happy. Sadness, I guess, is my friend.

Cellular Memory

Now that I’m on my own, Father’s Days are bittersweet. This evening, as I was doing the dishes, I had a flashback to Father’s Day 2023. We were in San Francisco at the end of a three week stretch at UCSF and St. Francis Memorial. Sami had been treated for ongoing subclinical seizures at UCSF. And St. Francis prepared us for living with Sami’s inability to care for herself. On that particular Father’s Day, I hiked from Ocean Beach to the Golden Gate. And had a burger and beer for lunch while I wrote in my journal. As I recall, I missed our former lives. Little did I know.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were at the front end of what turned out to be the beginning of the end of her life. As I look back at my blog posts and journal entries from that time period, I am reminded of how anxious we all were. Of how the trauma of seeing my wife unable to articulate how she was feeling through the brain fog she was experiencing affected me physically, mentally, and emotionally. Of how seeing the woman who’d run a half marathon eight months before confined to a wheel chair broke my heart. Of how the dysfunction of the medical-insurance-industrial complex frustrated and angered me. Of my inability to articulate my fear, fatigue, and exhaustion to Sami.

Since Sami died, anniversaries have been difficult. Our wedding anniversary (August 4) and the anniversary of her birthday (November 10) are obviously hard; so is the anniversary of her passing (August 13). Knowing our daughters are without their mother is especially difficult every Mother’s Day. Celebrating Father’s Day without Sami makes the absence of our daughters all the more difficult, even though I know they are where they need to be! But these little anniversaries of the turning points in Sami’s six-plus months of living with (and dying from) glioblastoma are also extremely hard. They are reminders of the trauma and anxiety we felt in 2023.

I have found these past few weeks that I’m especially sad and tired. Part of this, I’m sure, is the melancholy I always feel when I return home after spending time with our daughters (Lara’s wedding was an incredible celebration!). But my sadness and exhaustion seem more visceral. I feel as though the cells of my body remember the stress of those June days three years ago. The physical effects of trauma and anxiety seem slow (very slow!) to leave my body.

Over the last several weeks, I’ve struggled (again) with being alone but not wanting to be in the company of others. I’ve felt dull and listless. I struggle to know what will make me happy at the moment; I feel like I’m in a holding pattern of some kind.

In my last blog post, I wrote that Sami had expressed her wishes for our daughters (not directly to me, but at least to a friend). And I wrote that Emma, and now Lara, have fulfilled Sami’s wishes for them. But as I was feeding my animals this morning, I realized that since I don’t know what Sami wished for me, I feel as though I’m in an in-between place. And as I write these words, I’m struck by the fact that I can’t ever know what she wished for me. Hard words, but maybe ultimately freeing?

Two Things at the Same Time

This will probably not surprise anyone who knows me, but the photo album on my phone is dominated by photos of sheep. Me with sheep. Dogs with sheep. Goats with sheep. Sheep with sheep. For the last 20 years, raising sheep has been a huge part of my life. Being a shepherd is at the core of my self-identity. I am nearly always happy when I’m in the presence of sheep.

 

As I’ve written before, another part of my self-identity for more than 30 years was being Sami’s husband and partner. Of being the “Mr.” in “Dr. and Mr. Macon.” Sami and I both had our own lives (our own friends, our own careers, our own interests), but for the 35 years we were together (33 as husband and wife) we were also Dan and Sami. Sami and Dan.

 

I have realized, approaching three years since Sami’s passing, that both identities have changed. I now raise sheep as a hobby – I guess I’m still a shepherd, but it doesn’t feel the same to me. And I’m Sami’s widower. These changes are related, to some degree. I gave up raising sheep as a business to care for Sami and then to accommodate the transition to living solo. Learning to manage a household all on my own seemed overwhelming at first – like I couldn’t care for a flock of sheep while also caring for myself. And so I’ve also realized that I grieve for both losses.

 

Earlier this week, I posted a photo of myself leading my little hobby flock of sheep and goats into a new paddock. It was a beautiful evening in the Sierra foothills – one of those spring evenings where the clouds are rolling in but the sun is still shining. And I was laughing because the sheep and goats were following me with the enthusiasm of grazing animals who know they’re being led to fresh grass. Looking at the photo today, I definitely look happy. I WAS happy!

 

This morning, someone remarked about my smiling photo, saying, “It looks like you’re BACK!” The comment caught me off guard, which I found curious. What does “you’re back” mean? Back from grief? Back from mourning? Back to my old self?

 

I suppose that I can see that from another’s perspective – maybe I haven’t looked or seemed very happy (or at least happy very often) over these last three years. But being “back” doesn’t describe how I feel. I don’t think anyone gets “back” to who they were before they experienced such a profound loss. I don’t think anyone gets “over” grieving – and I’m not sure that I want to “move on.” I do want to move forward. To carry what being Sami’s partner (and what being a shepherd) was like into whoever I will become, for however long I have left. I want to be open to new relationships – friendship and companionship – but I also want to acknowledge that the three decades I spent as Sami’s partner have shaped who I am now. And who I will always be. Just like two decades of raising sheep commercially mean I’ll always think of myself as a shepherd.

 

And so back to my smile in the photo I took yesterday. I was genuinely happy. And I was also missing Sami. I missed telling her that the sheep and goats followed me like dogs. That the sky was beautiful. That it was a lovely springtime evening. I was both happy and sad, as I often am. More and more, I find that I can enjoy the happiness while embracing the sadness. I feel two things in the same moment. Maybe that’s what I mean by moving forward? 

Starting Over

I’m enough of a weather/nature nerd that I’ve kept a weather diary since 2001. The green hard-bound journal, with a page for each day of the year, sits on my nightstand, along with a min/max thermometer. Every evening, I jot down the high and low temperatures for the day, record any precipitation we received in the last 24 hours, and note sky conditions and any remarkable happenings in the natural world (when the first lilac blooms, for example, or when the tree frogs start to sing). I filled up my first journal in 2022, starting a new one three years ago. And on January 1 of each year, I flip all the way back to the front of the journal. I start over.

As I flipped back to the first page in my journal last week, I realized that the pages later in January would begin to document our family’s journey three years ago. In some ways, the anxiety we felt when Sami first experienced the symptoms of glioblastoma is still palpably with me. In other ways, I can’t believe how much has changed in my life since those days in early 2023.

While rangelands have been a common thread in my professional life, changing jobs has been the norm. I’ve worked on rangeland and livestock policy issues (with the California Cattlemen’s Association), rangeland conservation (starting the California Rangeland Trust and working with the Nevada County Land Trust), rangeland economics (as a coordinator for the High Sierra Resource Conservation and Development Council), and finally, rangeland science and management (in various positions with UC Cooperative Extension and UC Davis). I’ve even managed my own livestock on rangeland (first with a handful of cows, later with my own commercial sheep operation). Despite this continuous focus on rangelands, though, I seem to reinvent myself every 5-7 years.

My love of working outside and working with my hands has also evolved throughout my adult life. Last week, while the girls and I were going through boxes of things I’d moved from Auburn, I found the plaque I received in high school for a Bank of America award in applied arts. As I recall, my shop teachers nominated me for the award, which involved making a presentation about why applied arts (like woodworking or welding, for example) were every bit as much an artistic expression as fine arts. Early in our marriage, I was a woodworker, building furniture for our home and as gifts. Eventually, raising livestock (as a hobby at first, later as a business) became my opportunity to work with my hands and be outside. Now, operating my portable sawmill and building things from the lumber give me a chance to work outdoors and an outlet for my physical creativity.

Turning the pages of my weather diary back to January 1 last week made me realize that grieving the loss of a partner is, in a way, like starting over. Despite all of the new beginnings in my professional life, my personal life was marked by the 33 years I was married to Sami, and the 30 years we lived in Placer County. While I went from being the assistant vice president of the California Cattlemen’s Association to becoming the UC Cooperative Extension livestock and natural resources advisor for Placer, Nevada, Sutter, and Yuba Counties over the course of those 33 years, I was always Sami’s husband. I spent more than half of my life in that role. That one constant changed on August 13, 2023.

Since I became a widower nearly 30 months ago, lots of other things have changed in my life. I sold our home in Auburn and purchased another in the tiny Calaveras County town of Mountain Ranch. I transferred to a new job (I’m still a UCCE livestock and natural resources advisor, but I serve a different set of counties, including the one where I was raised). I’ve sold virtually all of my sheep. I’ve purchased a portable sawmill and learned to use it. I’ve tried to learn to live alone.

Over the last week, I’ve been reading The Place of Tides by shepherd/writer James Rebanks (a gift from my daughter, Lara). He says, “[I was] nearly fifty - when you wonder whether you have lived as well as you might, when you have to decide whether to stick or twist, carry on and accept your life, or strike out and make a change before it is too late.”

I realized this week that I’d begun thinking about the next phase even before Sami got sick. In early 2023, I’d agreed to buy out my sheep partner, who was moving to Texas. But with the realization that neither of our daughters were likely to move back to California, I’d also started considering a different side gig (something other than sheep) that would allow us to travel to see the girls more frequently. Sami and I had talked about using the proceeds from selling most of the sheep to buy a sawmill. But we hadn’t come to a decision.

All of which brings me back to this day three years ago. Had you told me on January 7, 2023, that three years later I’d be living in a different house, by myself, doing a new job, I’d have said you were crazy. One of the hardest lessons in Sami’s illness and passing has been the realization that I didn’t know what lay ahead of us on that January day three years ago - and that there’s no way for me to know what lies ahead of me tomorrow. But maybe I’m learning that I have a chance to start over every day. 

Flashbacks

When I walked out my front door this morning to do my animal chores, I heard a nuthatch chirping in one of the trees in my front yard. I was immediately transported back to our house in Auburn in February or March of 2023. To a warm late winter or early spring day when I was home with Sami, following her second craniotomy - I was taking a nap on the deck and heard (and then watched) a nuthatch crawling down one of the mulberry trees towards me. Until that moment, I didn’t know what a nuthatch’s song sounded like, or at least that the song I’d heard before came from a nuthatch. I realized this morning that the sound of a nuthatch is firmly imprinted in my brain - and it will be forever associated with the fatigue and anxiety I felt back in those early months of 2023.

Later this morning, while I was on my walk, I reflected on another walk I’d taken during that same time period. I’m pretty sure the girls were not home - and I’m certain that we were all worried about leaving Sami alone. I needed to walk, but I wasn’t comfortable leaving the house - so I walked two miles doing laps between the house and the barn. And listened to a less-than-comforting podcast about glioblastoma.

These flashbacks, for me, are different from my “normal” memories about Sami. Flashbacks seem to have the capacity to transport me back to an instant - to the sights, smells, and sounds of that moment. And to the feelings I experienced.

In the months immediately following Sami’s passing, the only things I could recall were flashbacks to these episodes during her illness. At the time, I wrote that I couldn’t really remember the sound of Sami’s voice - or much of anything from before she started having symptoms. Thankfully, the happy memories of our 34 years together are easier to recall today. 

But the flashbacks still come. Sometimes they are music-related - I’ll hear a song that reminds me of our trip home from New Mexico, when we started to realize something was wrong. Sometimes these flashbacks come when I’m at a doctor’s office (I’ve written previously about my experience with “white coat syndrome”). Sometimes they come when I visit our old hometown (as I did yesterday).

While I’m grateful that the happy memories come easier to me today, I still find that these flashbacks can knock me on my heels (or perhaps on another part of my anatomy, somewhat higher than my heels, but also on the back side of my body). And in these times, I find that I need to withdraw. To look inward. To give myself a break and sit with the physical and emotional reminders of what it meant to be Sami’s caregiver. I did that today.

I guess this is part of what I object to when I hear that grief is a feeling that we “get over.” I have an essay hung on my refrigerator by Dr. Dennis Klass, given to me by a hospice counselor. It says,

“Time can lessen the hurt; the empty place we have can seem smaller as other things and experiences fill our life;....we can learn to remember the good and hold onto that. But we can’t ‘get over it,’ because to get over it would mean we were not changed by the experience.”

In some sense, these flashbacks are very difficult, at least for me. They take me back to what was (at least so far) the hardest time of my life. But they also help me remember that the experience changed me. They force me to stop and think about how.

A Few Observations from a Half Marathon

Last Sunday, I ran (walked and jogged, actually) my first half marathon in Monterey. My first formal athletic “competition” since high school, and my first distance race since sixth grade. My daughters Lara and Emma, my sister Meri and one of her daughters Sara, and my good friend Roger joined me. And I had 2 hours and 57 minutes to think about what doing the same half marathon that Sami completed before her cancer diagnosis in 2022 meant to me. At least when we weren’t talking or I wasn’t complaining about how much my legs hurt over the last four miles, I had time to think! And I’ve been thinking about it ever since we crossed the finish line. Not sure any of this will be of interest to anyone but me, but here’s what completing a 13.1 mile “race” means to me (at least from the vantage point of two days after).

First, I realized that I am more dedicated to my fitness when I have a goal. We registered for the race in May, and I started training (mostly by walking 5-6 days a week) just before Memorial Day. I knew that I needed to average 16-minute-miles to finish in 3 hours and 30 minutes (the course limit); I also knew that when I was in decent shape, I would be able to walk a bit faster than that (despite my very short legs!). I also realized that my personality is such that keeping track of my progress (yes, I actually made a spreadsheet) was critical to maintaining my dedication. From the day I started formally training on May 26 through the end of race day on November 9, I walked 808 miles (both in training and in day-to-day life).

Second, I learned what probably every other runner already knows - that training on hills at some elevation (my house is at 2,600 feet above sea level) makes jogging (I can’t say that I actually ever ran on Sunday) at sea level on a reasonable level course much easier cardiovascularly. Even though we jogged roughly half the race, I never really felt winded.

But walking the hills around my house (even walking distances up to 9 or 10 miles) didn’t prepare my leg muscles and joints for 13.1 miles of walking/slogging (what my sister calls the slow jog we adopted as our “faster” pace). By the time we’d covered 9 miles, my hips were complaining. At mile 10, my quads, knees, and ankles joined them. The last mile was the most difficult - Roger videotaped me crossing the finish line from behind, and I was waddling like a duck!

But I finished. We all did.

Sunday evening, after we’d taken a dip in the cold Pacific (which helped relieve my soreness), I felt an odd sense of pride in finishing and sadness that the thing I’d worked all summer to complete was over. Strangely, I experienced a similar feeling after Sami’s passing - profound sadness, mostly, but a sense of accomplishment that we had been able to care for her until the end, and a sense of relief that her suffering was over. I trained for 167 days. 197 days passed between Sami’s first surgery and her death. The first trial was far more difficult and far less satisfying to complete, but the mix of emotions was similar (if less intense).

And finishing (like caring for Sami) was a group effort. Emma and Lara finished ahead of me; Meri and Roger finished with me. Sara finished the course, too - even though the race had ended. My brother-in-law Adrian walked the last 5 miles or so with her. And Sami’s sister Suzi, as well as my other niece and her family (Hanna and Wyatt, and Ada, Arlo and Boone), cheered us on.

During the race, I was struck how the slower group that we were with became a community during the 13.1 miles. We’d pass people slogging; they’d pass us again when we walked. We’d cheer each other on. We’d clap for the friends and families holding signs of encouragement or playing music to keep our spirits up. Roger and Meri encouraged and supported me when I began to fade in the last third of the race. Several miles into the race, we caught up to the two women who were pacing the runners at 3 hours (a 13:45-minute-mile) - they wore mitres, which we all laughed about! We’d be within 100 yards of them for the rest of the race. We joked and talked with them every time we caught them - and every time they caught us. And with their help, we crossed the finish line in 2 hours 57 minutes and 17 seconds - considerably faster than I’d expected.

This support system made me wonder about Sami’s experience during the half marathons she ran (three of them, including Monterey Bay twice). She was in far better shape than I am now, and she was also more competitive by nature. I’m sure she visited with the runners around her, but she didn’t have friends and family by her side for the entire race. I’m not sure I’d be mentally tough enough to do what she did.

This morning, even though my thighs are still a bit sore, I’m excited to keep training. I proved to myself that I slog for greater distances than I thought possible. I learned that having a goal is important to keeping myself fit. I want to continue to find time in every day to exercise - and I want to add strength and flexibility training to my routine. And I want to run another race - I’m shooting for the Old Mill Run in Columbia on my 59th birthday next spring. And I hope to do the Monterey Bay Half Marathon again.

 

Perspectives

I’m not a professional herding dog trainer - not even close. But I have trained the last several border collies I’ve used in my sheep business, and I have worked at understanding livestock handling and behavior - especially with sheep. One of the things I’ve observed with starting a young dog on sheep is that at first, most of my dogs want to work much too closely to the sheep. As a result, the dog can only see a very small part of the flock. Part of my job as the trainer, then, is to help the dog back off - to help the dog realize that he or she has more control over the entire flock if they work from further away. In other words, with greater distance comes more perspective.

Distance can be physical or temporal - measured in space or time. The further back my dog can work and still exert control over the sheep, the more effective he’ll be. The further away I get from the traumatic events of 2023, the more I see them with clarity. I don’t know if I understand what happened any more definitively than I did 25 months ago, but I am able to think about some of these events in a new light.

Before delving into several of the ways my perspective has evolved, I should say that I’ve come to realize that one does not “graduate” from the grieving process. There is no “certificate of completion” - as I’ve written before, my relationship with grief continues to evolve. But grief is not something I’ll move past. Indeed, my grief is not something I want to move past. Moving forward with my grief seems to make more sense. And so I suspect my perspective on Sami’s illness and death will always be evolving.

Over these last two years, I’ve found that reading about grief and loss has mostly been beneficial. Of particular help have been A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis, No Death, No Fear by Thich Nhat Hanh, and most recently, This Ordinary Stardust by Alan Townsend.

Dr. Townsend is the Dean of the Franke College of Forestry and Conservation at the University of Montana. As I was blogging in real time about Sami’s glioblastoma diagnosis and treatment in the spring of 2023, he reached out to me to share that he had lost his wife Diana (who was also a scientist) to the same disease several years before. His book is an account of her illness and the aftermath of her passing. I won’t attempt to summarize his writing, but I highly recommend it.

The book came out last spring, and when I received my copy, I found that I wasn’t ready yet to read about someone else’s experience with losing a partner. About ten days ago, I finally picked it up - and I finished reading it one evening this week. In many ways, Alan and Diana’s experience was very similar to mine and Sami’s - and so I found much of it difficult to read. I found myself reliving our experience. I frequently found myself crying and putting the book down. But as I reflected on the book after I finished it Wednesday evening, I realized that Alan’s story helped me gain some important perspective on our own journey with brain cancer. I’m sure more revelations will come.

At some point between Sami’s first and second craniotomy in February 2023, she told me that if she decided she didn’t want any more treatment, I needed to let her make that decision. I agreed, but she also said something about taking her own life. Since she was a large animal veterinarian with access to powerful euthanasia drugs, I knew she had the ability to act on that idea. We secured the drugs (and I bought a gun safe to replace the locked cabinet where I stored my hunting rifles), but I found the thought of Sami ending her own life terribly upsetting at the time. Later, when she was in the hospital at UCSF, she said something to a nurse or a resident about these thoughts. That evening, we had to have an observer in the room with us all night, just in case. The next day, a therapist interviewed her and determined that she wasn’t going to act on the idea - she simply wanted some control over what was happening to her. Looking back now, I realize that Sami was fearless in the face of certain death (there is, after all, no cure for glioblastoma), but the process of dying - of losing her physical and intellectual capacity - was terrifying. I realize now that she wanted some say in how long she’d need to live with the tumors in her brain, and the debilitating symptoms they caused.

I also realize now that she began the process of dying when she had the first major seizure in late May 2023. A week after that seizure, we were in San Francisco, where her medical team determined she was having ongoing subclinical seizures - seizures we couldn’t see, but episodes that were further eroding her ability to walk and speak. Episodes that increased her brain fog. I suspect I knew at the time that her physical and mental toughness were masking the severity of her symptoms - that while we knew how sick she was, her medical team had no frame of reference. They couldn’t really comprehend what a badass she was - and that she knew better than anyone what was happening to her.

The last two weeks of her life, I think, represent the most difficult stretch of my life, too - at least so far. In many ways, the two weeks she spent in hospice care are still a blur - I can still remember specific images and experiences, but mostly I remember my own exhaustion. And my fear that Sami would linger - that I wouldn’t have enough stamina or fortitude to take care of her. In this regard, I am so grateful to our daughters for sharing these difficult days with me. After reading Alan’s book, I was able to see those last two weeks differently. Today, they don’t seem any less difficult, but I do think now that Sami wanted to live until her whole family could be with her (and knowing Sami, so we could be with each other once she’d left us). Wednesday evening, as I finished Alan’s book, I remembered the afternoon of August 10 or 11, when Sami and I were sitting side-by-side on her bed. By that time, both of our daughters were with us, as was Sami’s sister and my own sister and brother-in-law. I put my arm around her, and she rested her head on my shoulder - it was the last time we embraced each other. Early in the morning of August 13, 2023, she slipped away, in our bedroom, with all of us around her. I can’t bring myself to say it was beautiful, but today, I’m grateful that we were there for her. That we were there together. For each other.

Finally, in the winter after Sami passed, I participated in several virtual workshops associated with a social science research project I’d been collaborating on with a colleague from Idaho. One of the sheep producers who participated had young children, and we talked about the realities of livestock production. Like my daughters, her children had participated in the realities of ranch life. The fact that we raise animals for meat (which requires death) while caring deeply for the animals in our care. I couldn’t help it. I asked if she thought ranching gave us a different perspective on life (and death). She answered, “Yes. I think caring for our animals - knowing that their lives sustain ours - prepares our hearts for harder things.” As a veterinarian, Sami had sat with friends who had to make difficult end-of-life decisions. As a rancher, I’d had to make some of those decisions myself. Those decisions are never easy; but my direct participation in them helped prepare me for the biological and existential realities of what our family experienced.

During these last 25 months, gaining this perspective hasn’t been a linear process. I’ve tried some online group grief therapy, which hasn’t been terribly helpful. I’ve tried some one-on-one counseling (both in person and virtual) - some of which has been enormously beneficial, some of which was not. For me, I’m realizing, reading, quiet contemplation, and vulnerability (through my writing and through conversations with friends) have been the most helpful ways for me to understand my grief. I have also realized that there is no single path through grief - that while grief may be the most universal of human emotions, we each experience it - and cope with it - differently. Distance, at least for me, has provided perspective.

The Life We Built

 

On Sunday, I’ll make the two-hour drive to Auburn to participate in the Gold Country Fair’s Livestock Awards Ceremony. The Junior Livestock Committee is commemorating Sami by naming a perpetual trophy for Master Showmanship in her honor, and I want to be there to help present it to this year’s winner. I haven’t been to the Gold Country Fair, where Sami was on the board of directors, since she passed away; Sami’s last fair was in 2022. As a director, Sami took on the organization of the master showmanship competition during her time on the board. For those of you wondering what the heck master showmanship is, it is a livestock showmanship competition where the competitors qualify by winning the showmanship contest for the species they bring to the fair. In showmanship, the judge evaluates each competitor’s ability to present their animal and their knowledge of the species and the industry. In master showmanship, these competitors show all of the species of livestock. Both of our daughters competed in master showmanship during their 4-H and FFA careers, and so I’m expecting Sunday afternoon to be bittersweet.

This morning, as I was driving through the foothill communities of San Andreas and Angels Camp on my way to talk about grazing in vineyards at a breakfast meeting in Murphys, I heard one of my favorite new songs from the Turnpike Troubadours (On the Red River), which talks about growing up in ranching family in a rural community. Perhaps it was because I was thinking about going back to the community where Sami and I raised our family (and where we still have so many friends), but the song made me think about the life that we built during our time in Placer County. Some of what we accomplished was intentional; some of that life just happened because of where we were and who we were. But when I look at the young women our daughters are today, I’m incredibly grateful for the friendships and experiences that were part of being a ranching family. Flying Mule Farm / Sheep Company was never terribly successful from a financial perspective, but I’ve learned there are other ways to measure “profit.” And yes, that’s difficult for an agricultural economist like me to admit!

In some ways, at least as I was driving to work this morning, that “old” life seems to have ended when Sami passed away. Part of this feeling, I’m sure, comes from having sold our place in Auburn and moved to Calaveras County last year. But part of it, I think, comes from acknowledging that while Sami and I both had our own lives, own interests, our own friends; but as a couple - as a family - we were part of a community that we helped nurture. That we helped to build. 

My journey over these last two-plus years has given me an odd sense of perspective. I’m still here, and yet part of me died when Sami died. Without Sami, that part of my “life” seems behind me now; looking back at that life can often feel surreal. The before and after line that I described in a recent blog seems to divide that life from the life I’m leading now. While that makes me a little sad this afternoon, I also have a sense of accomplishment - that we (and our children) were able to be part of that community.

As I’ve written before, my move to Calaveras County feels like moving “home” in some sense - I have lifelong contacts in Calaveras and Tuolumne Counties (where I grew up). I’ve spent the last year renewing these friendships and making a few new ones. I’ve spent the last year working to become part of a new community. Today, I realized that becoming part of a community without a partner - without Sami - feels very different. I’m certain that part of this difference stems from my grief - I simply don’t have the energy to be around people as much as I once did. But it also feels different not to be known by part of the community as “Dr. Macon’s husband” - just as Sami was known to some as the “sheepherder’s husband.”

An old friend who visited me shortly after Sami’s death remarked in wonder about the support our Placer County community gave us during and after her illness. Folks mowed our lawn, moved the irrigation water at the ranch, checked on the sheep, built fence. Brought us food. Just called or texted to check in on us. He told me, “That’s not the kind of community I live in.” Even today, friends from that “old” life remain friends, checking in on me, asking about the girls. Despite my sense that everything has changed, the life that we built is still part of the life I live today - even in a new community.

On Monday, some folks from Mountain Ranch who I’ve counted as friends for more than 30 years, invited me to their ranch for their annual dove and polenta lunch. I saw other friends I’ve known through the ranching community, and met some new people I hope to get to know better. And tonight, for the first time, I’m going to make myself go to the monthly Mountain Ranch community potluck dinner. Being part of my community, I’m realizing, is part of who I am - even though everything is different. Community, I realize is part of the life I will continue to build.

Before and After

Photo by Daniel Lee Brown

The first two weeks of August will forever be a week of anniversaries. Sami and I were married on an extremely hot day in Sonora on August 4, 1990 - as I recall, the thermometer on the bank in Sonora read 108F when we drove past it on our way to our reception at the Mother Lode Fairgrounds. And Sami passed away early in the morning of August 13, 2023. August 2025, two years after Sami died from glioblastoma, has been difficult. Last week, I realized that my life has been divided. Into “before” and “after.”

This year, in August, I’ve experienced moments of profound sadness. Our anniversary was a rough day for me. August 13 was hard, too - but I was busy getting ready to go to a conference, so I avoided some of the grief. The challenges of this particular August have been intensified by my ongoing care-giving responsibilities - this time for my parents. As I approach the last week of my least favorite month, I feel like I’ve been scattered. Unable to concentrate. Unproductive. I’m looking forward to September.

Last month, I listened to an audio book by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, called No Death, No Fear.  He talks about how we all manifest ourselves in different ways, that we don’t really “leave” when we die - we just manifest differently. I’ve found this helpful. I’ve found that Sami still manifests herself in a variety of ways in my life. In the notes and recipes that are in my new kitchen. In the way that I look at problems. In the animals I care for. In my pride at the fact that I’ve made my bed, washed my clothes,... adulted… most days since she left me.

But I’m realizing that Sami also manifests herself in the physical world. I’ve written about the hawk that followed me on the walk I took on August 13, 2023, on the afternoon after Sami died. Red tailed hawks have always been significant for me, but the hawk that watched me walk on that saddest of days will make me forever associate red tailed hawks with Sami. As will my experiences since that day.

Since then, I’ve found several hawk feathers - don’t tell anyone, but I’ve collected them (which I suspect might be illegal). Both my daughters have had hawk feather tattoos - and I’ve had some ink applied too (a soaring hawk on my left shoulder, between my head and my heart). More significantly, red tail hawks have appeared at several important points in my life in the last 24 months.

In late June of last year, I was in escrow on a property in Mountain Ranch. I wasn’t terribly excited about it, but I was feeling pressure to find a place, since our home in Auburn was also in escrow. After giving a talk on vineyard grazing at Ironstone Vineyards, I met my realtor at a newly listed property between Mountain Ranch and Railroad Flat. I really liked it - the house was too big, but nice - and the property was perfect (a combination of grassland, conifers, and black oaks). But switching properties carried the risk of losing my deposit on the first property. I told my agent I needed to sleep on it.

That night, I dreamed about the second place - a place I’d only seen once. And I dreamed that I saw a red tailed hawk sitting on the gate post. I called my agent the next morning and told her I wanted to try to get out of the other escrow, and put an offer on the new place. The place where I’m living now. And I didn’t lose my deposit.

At some point in the last year, I had my last session with the grief therapist provided by hospice. I found these sessions helpful; this last session was difficult, because I finally felt like I needed to talk about some unresolved issues between Sami and I. I was sitting at the table in my new kitchen, looking out at the grassy hillside above my house. As I was struggling to talk about these difficulties, a red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky onto its next meal. I broke down.

Two weeks ago, I was talking to a new therapist, looking out the same window. We were talking about making time to reflect on what the impending anniversary of Sami’s death would be like - and about strategies for coping with my feelings about it. And another (maybe the same?) red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky.

My rational brain knows that I live in the midst of red tailed hawk habitat. That I’m likely to seek hawks where I live. But my emotional brain takes great comfort in seeing them. When I’m driving and I see a hawk perched on a power pole, I say, “Hi, Sami!” When I see a hawk catching an updraft, and soaring effortlessly, I think about what it must have felt like for Sami to leave her cancer-riddled body and fly. I find that these thoughts make me both happy and sad. Or maybe I’m trying to say, they make me think about before and after.

Duality

Monday, Sami and I would have been married for 35 years. I took vacation last week (mostly to work around my place, but also to see Steve Earle play in Tahoe with my sister and brother-in-law - which Sami would have loved!). I decided to take our anniversary off as well. I felt like I needed a day to myself.

After sleeping past 6am (which I never do!) I decided to wash Sami’s truck and our gooseneck horse trailer, both of which I’ve decided to sell. Cleaning the cab of Sami’s truck hit me pretty hard - I found an old pair of her reading glasses, and a pair of her sunglasses, in the center console. But I decided that I needed to be sad - I needed to spend a day simply remembering our life together. While I washed the truck, I listened to music that reminded me of Sami. I cried some, and cursed some, but got the truck clean enough to send photos to the auction company who’ll sell it for me. Then I started on the trailer.

Cleaning the gooseneck that we’d purchased nearly 20 years ago felt like the final end to my sheep business. An end to our mule-showing days. An end to taking the girls’ lambs and show equipment to the fair. In other words, Monday was a pretty sad day.

Tuesday, I awoke early to drive to the UC Blodgett Experimental Forest for two days of data collection. I’d intended to take my camp trailer (which meant I could also take my dogs), but my fancy new Toyota Tundra wasn’t communicating with my trailer brakes - so I left the trailer and the dogs home. And started off my day extremely discombobulated (to borrow a word that Sami liked to use). The work day ended up going well, but I found myself exhausted and ready for bed before 8 pm.

One of the lessons I seem to be learning in the more than 31 months since we discovered Sami had a brain tumor, is the concept of duality. That two (or more) seemingly contradictory things - or emotions - can be true at the same time.

Seeing Steve Earle with my sister and brother-in-law last week was amazing - I’ve listened to him since I was a freshman in college, and our trip to western Nevada was wonderful! But I was also sad that Sami wasn’t there with us. Watching Emma graduate from college in May was an incredibly proud moment - but also sad in Sami’s absence. Similarly, learning that Lara and her boyfriend Micah will be getting married next May is an equally joyous occasion. And knowing that Sami wished for these things to happen is bittersweet.

Today, driving back from Blodgett Forest, I realized that I was looking forward to being home in Mountain Ranch. I really love my new place - when I started looking to move last year, I wrote that I wanted a place with pine trees, grass, and a front porch - and I succeeded in finding that place! But I also miss Auburn - I miss the house where Sami and I raised our family. I miss the community that I was part of for 30 years. I wish Sami could see this place, but I know that I’d never have moved here if she hadn’t died.

Looking back on August 2023, I find that I’m still reliving the trauma of Sami’s brief time in hospice, and of her eventual death in the bedroom we’d shared for 33 years and nine days. Holding Sami’s hand that night of August 12 and early morning of August 13 was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I also feel a measure of - I don’t know - blessing? Pride? Honor? To have been present when she drew her last breath. As Jason Isbell writes, “I worked hard to the end of my shift.” Or at least it feels that way to me.

As I’ve written before, the phrase “move on” does not seem to describe the grieving process for me. I do feel like I’ve moved forward with my life - I’ve changed jobs, moved to a new community, found new friends. But I’ve also found that as I’ve moved forward, I’m better able to look passed the anxiety and trauma of Sami’s illness and passing. Sadness and happiness, in other words, can both be true. At the same time.

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.