My Summer Check-in

My little abode - July 20, 2026

There must be something about July for me. I’ve realized over the last week or so that I seem to need to check in with myself about this time of year. Perhaps the heat of mid-summer and long daylight hours make me reflective. More likely, July leads up to some of the most difficult anniversaries for me - Sami and I would have been married 36 years on August 4. Nine days later, I’ll pass the third anniversary of her death. My last two July check-ins (Checking in with Myself in 2024,  Checking in Again in 2025) have been somewhat disorganized (at least looking back on them now); I suspect this entry will be an equally chaotic collection of the thoughts and emotions tumbling around in my head over these last several weeks. Perhaps organizing these words into a blog post will help me organize my thoughts a bit more coherently. We’ll see….

As I re-read my last to check-in entries, I realize that a common thread is exhaustion. Whether it’s the heat, the work, the emotional stress of the approaching anniversaries - or (mostly likely) a combination of all of these, I seem to feel drained during the last half of July.

Sometimes my exhaustion feels like simple laziness. I wonder if, at 59, my energy is permanently diminished (the answer is probably yes!). I think about the things that I should be doing around my place, or in my job, and wonder if I’m just lethargic. Other days, I look around at what I’ve accomplished in setting up my new home, at what I’ve done in my professional life in the last year, and I think, “I have every right to be tired - I’ve been really damn busy!” In some ways, I think I’m still adjusting to managing a household on my own. To caring for a piece of land that, while still very small, is twice the size of the property Sami and I managed together in Auburn. Some days, I can cut myself some slack. Some days I feel like a slacker.

While I am very grateful to have been able to move closer to family to help care for my parents, I’ve also realized over these last few weeks that there has been no let-up in the anxiety and stress that comes with being a caregiver. Although I’m much closer now than I was in Auburn, most of the work of caring for my parents has fallen to my sister. That said, the sense of “what crises will I need to manage today?” has been unrelenting since we learned of Sami’s cancer in January 2023. I have come to think of it as baseline stress - it’s always there.

I suspect anyone who loses a life partner naturally thinks about their own mortality. I think about missing important milestones in the lives of our daughters. About failing to accomplish the things I still hope to accomplish - or experience the things and places I still hope to experience. Since Sami’s illness, I’ve tried to take my own health more seriously. I walk (or jog - very slowly) most days. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. I try to do something outside every day. I’ve tried to be more conscious about my diet - my meals are very simple, but mostly made from scratch. And this year, I finally relented and took my doctor’s advice about taking cholesterol medication. I’m so grateful to have been able to celebrate Emma’s graduation from college and Lara’s marriage to Micah; I hope I get to celebrate many more milestones in their lives! And maybe a few milestones in my own life!

I have begun to appreciate that my life’s experience in animal agriculture has given me, perhaps, a rare perspective on the biological realities of life and death. As a friend told me several years ago, raising livestock - knowing that some of the animals in our care will die no matter what we do - prepares our hearts for harder things. This is not meant to trivialize death. Further, death is not the opposite of health. Having directly participated in both bringing new life into the world and in providing the release of death when it was humanely necessary, I feel like my life’s work in raising sheep prepared me for those final moments with Sami, holding her hand as she took her last breath. And I’ve been thinking about that a great deal in these last few weeks.

Life and death happen all around us. Every day. In the last 12 months, I’ve celebrated birth, and I’ve mourned loss (as each of us has). I’ve realized that I’m not frightened by death itself, but by the process of dying.

That’s enough introspection on my own mortality, I suppose…

As our wedding anniversary approaches, and after celebrating Lara and Micah’s beautiful wedding in May, I’ve also been pondering the nature of wedding vows. Of the meaning of the word “forever.” I was fortunate to be married to Sami for her entire adult life. I have realized this summer that I was her “forever.” My forever has yet to be defined. I’ve also realized that I am now the sole repository of memories of those years when our family was just Sami and me. I’ve been thinking about the things we did together - both before and after we were married - that only we knew about. Some of these memories will remain private; some are things that I have shared - or will share - with our girls. But I’ve realized that these memories will only reflect my perspective - how I wish I could ask Sami what she remembers about that picnic on Putah Creek, or the camping trip at Ice House Reservoir (or a hundred other things I remember).

Several months ago, I asked a new acquaintance what was good or enjoyable about being 59. She answered that she felt like she was at a point where she was free to decide what SHE wanted to do - without as much worry about obligations or expectations. Her answer made me think about my own perspective on reaching this age. I feel like I am finally beginning to understand that change takes time - that my own impatience doesn’t necessarily bring about change more quickly. Paradoxically, I suppose, I understand that time is a necessary catalyst for change, even though I have less time left. I find that I’m more comfortable letting change happen on its own timeline. I’ve also - finally - begun to trust my intuition. If something - or someone - seems off to me, it - or they - probably are. If I feel as though I can trust someone, or if I sense some degree of compatibility or friendship - I find that my instincts are usually right. For me, at least, this has not always been the case - for most of my life I have been a master at second guessing myself.

Finally, I read a piece of clickbait recently about why some Finnish men seem to have lower rates of dementia. The article, which turned out to be based on legitimate research, found that men who completed something with their hands most days - woodworking or cooking from scratch, for example - tended to have significantly lower rates of dementia. I immediately thought back to my experience in high school shop classes. While I pursued an academic-focused education and career, I carried the lessons from teachers like Mr. Sterni, Mr. Clyde, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Buetler into my adult life. I’m not much of a mechanic (sorry Mr. Smith!), but I get so much satisfaction from working with my hands. From transforming a board into something useful - or now, from transforming a tree into a board with my portable sawmill. And that sense of cyclical completion, I realize now, is what I have so loved about raising sheep - the tactile and creative relationship with the world around me.

These blog posts are largely letters to myself - but I can’t tell you how much it means to me that my friends read them, too. In that regard, they are letters to you, as well. I appreciate your feedback, your friendship, and your generosity. I don’t know if the quality of my writing is sufficient for a longer work, but I take great satisfaction from the act of creating - and from your responses. Thank you.

Grief, Memory, and Geography

Over the last week, my work has taken me to several places in the Sierra Nevada that Sami and I visited. Last week, I participated in a Forest Service meadow monitoring training in the Lakes Basin Recreation Area between Sierra City and Graeagle. I camped with my dogs next to Snag Lake, near Gold Lake Highway. This week, I’m collecting data for an ongoing targeted grazing research project at UC Berkeley’s Blodgett Research Forest east of Georgetown. After a warm day of crawling through deer brush, I took my dogs swimming up Wentworth Springs Road at Stumpy Meadows Reservoir.

These excursions remind me of earlier trips to these regions with Sami - in some cases, even before we were parents. I can remember driving Wentworth Springs Road headed for Ice House Reservoir one Memorial Day weekend when we were first married, in the early 1990s. As I recall, we learned that the campground at Ice House was full, and decided to head for the Sonora Pass area. I can also remember a trip past Stumpy Meadows with our friends John and Sandy Schwartzler - and their American Cream mules - in the early 2000s. We drove the mules on logging roads all afternoon. It was one of my first experiences driving a team!

Somewhere around 2000, we took our vacation at Elwell Lakes Lodge in the Lakes Basin country. We stayed in a cabin and spent our days hiking and fishing. I think Lara was nearly 3 years old - I can remember packing her on my back when she grew tired of walking. And I remember catching brook trout on a little lake on the west side of Long Lake. It was a great trip - and our first real vacation as parents.

But these trips happened more than 20 years ago now. These memories are both happy and hazy. And at this stage in my grieving process, I find myself wishing I could ask Sami what she remembers about them. Did we really stay at my parents’ house on that night we found no room at Ice House (and were my parents gone, as I seem to remember)? When we drove the mules, was Emma old enough to walk? Did Lara get to help drive them for a bit? Did our first trip to Lakes Basin lead to a second camping trip? And did we experience an earthquake while we were playing at a nearby lake? And what lake was it?

I wrote recently that I was struggling with not having big conversations about Sami’s wishes for me and the girls after she got sick. But I’ve realized that what I really miss, in many ways, is being able to reminisce about these happy experiences. I miss seeing these memories through Sami’s eyes. I miss laughing about how we both remembered different things about these happy times.

Much like music, the geography that Sami and I once enjoyed together can be bittersweet for me. Traveling routes alone that we once traveled together can make me both sad and happy. In my little corner of the planet - the Sierra Nevada and Sierra foothills between Quincy and Yosemite - I’ll often go around a bend in the road, or drive up the main street of a little town - and remember something that we experienced together in that place.

But I’ve also realized - just today - that I’m doing things (finally) by myself that Sami would not have enjoyed doing together (at least at the age we’d both be now). Several years before she got sick, Sami said she no longer enjoyed camping if it meant sleeping on the ground. I’ve always loved to camp - and still do. And this spring and early summer, I’ve camped both for fun and for work - 3 nights in the last month. I hope I continue to find new things (or rediscover old things) that I enjoy doing on my own. I suppose this is part of the grieving process as well.

Memory is an interesting phenomenon. I’ve always thought the smell of fresh cut grass in the spring meant baseball; in the fall, it meant football. Music has always transported me back to the place - and the emotions - where I first heard a particular song. And the geography I return to, I’m learning, reminds me of experiencing it for the first time with Sami. At least this evening, these memories don’t bring the intense sadness they did when I first traveled after Sami’s passing. At least this evening, they bring a mix of melancholy and happiness. Maybe that’s moving forward with my grief….

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?

Conversations We Never Had

Nine days ago, I returned home from an eleven day trip through the Southwest. Our oldest daughter, Lara, married her partner of five years, Micah Funk, in Las Cruces, New Mexico. On the trip down, I caravaned with my sister and brother-in-law - Lara wanted home-raised lamb as part of their wedding meal (along with the chickens she and Micah raised and processed). Emma, our youngest, was Lara’s maid of honor. She and her boyfriend Karson drove through the night on the Tuesday before the wedding to help with preparations. Both Lara and Emma sewed their own dresses. Lara and Micah grew dried flowers for the wedding, which were displayed in bud vases Lara made. We spent the days before the wedding helping Lara and Micah get ready. And the wedding itself was incredibly beautiful - and unique in the way both of my daughters are unique. I can’t quite describe it beyond that.

The wedding was on Friday; on Sunday, I left for the second half of my trip (a meandering route through the Southwest, culminating in two days at the Grand Canyon). As has always been the case since I’ve been alone, leaving my daughters was incredibly hard. As happy as I was during the week of the wedding, I was equally sad on the drive to Albuquerque - I think I cried during a good part of the three-hour trip.

My route through northern New Mexico, southern Colorado, the Four Corners, the Navajo Nation, and (finally) the Grand Canyon, was beyond description. I’ve read fiction and nonfiction works about the landscape I drove through; even the best writers couldn’t prepare me for the beauty of the landscape. And while I realize this is a trite expression, the Grand Canyon took my breath away. Like everyone with a cell phone, I took lots of photos - but I found that I didn’t want any photos with me in the foreground. The immensity of the Grand Canyon made me feel appropriately insignificant.

But the drive home was difficult, despite the beauty. Lara and Micah had graciously invited me to make a toast after dinner at the wedding. As I considered what I wanted to say, I thought about those who were not able to be in Las Cruces to celebrate the wedding. My Mom and Dad, whose health prevented them from traveling. Lara’s maternal grandparents, Sami and Barbara, and her uncle Sherif, who passed away some years ago. And Sami. Especially Sami.

Shortly after she was diagnosed with glioblastoma, Sami told me, “I always assumed I’d outlive you.” During the course of our marriage, we talked generally about our wishes about our own mortality. We both hoped - even more after Sami’s parents died - that we’d be able to be at home until the end of our lives. Towards the end of Sami’s extended stay at UCSF and St. Francis Hospital (when we had begun to realize that she wouldn’t recover), we had a very emotional discussion about whether she wanted to go back to a hospital once we returned home. She did not - and I did not want her to. And, as it turned out, she was home until the end. She passed in the bedroom we’d shared in our home in Auburn.

But we didn’t talk about our wishes for one another. We didn’t acknowledge, as Jason Isbell writes, that it was “likely one of us will have to spend some days alone.” We joked about it - the old joke about the husband who asks his wife if she’d remarry if he died:

“Would you let him live in our house?” he asked.

“Yes - I love this neighborhood, and it’s nearly paid for.”

“Would you let your new husband sleep in our bed?”

“Probably,” she answered, “It’s a nice bed.”

“Would you let him use my golf clubs?!” he asked, worried now.

“No,” she said, “He’s left-handed.”

Since neither one of us golfed, we usually changed the punchline to:

“Would you let him ride in my saddle?!”

“No,” she said, “He rides English.”

After she got sick, Sami told her friend and colleague Michele that she hoped Emma would graduate from college (Emma studied from home during the spring semester of her sophomore year at the University of Idaho, and graduated on time - and with honors - in May 2025). And she hoped that Lara and Micah would get married. On May 15, 2026, both of the hopes that Sami articulated for her daughters came to pass.

But what were her hopes for me? For that matter, what would have been my hopes for Sami, had I preceded her in death? We never talked about it. I can’t speak for her, but I know the possibility that one of us would be left alone never really occurred to me until the spring of 2023. Would she have wanted me to seek another relationship? Would I have wanted her to do so? I think I would have, but I never had to consider the question. I don’t know that Sami ever thought about it, either.

Looking back, I know that part of why I never asked Sami any of these questions was because they made me feel as though I was giving up any hope for Sami's recovery. I felt like I needed to stay hopeful - to focus on a future with Sami rather than the (as it turned out) inevitable future without her.

I find myself now in a place where I would like companionship. I think I’m ready for a relationship - maybe. But I also know that the grief I carry with me can be a barrier. At least for me, and likely for any potential companion. If I’m honest, I also worry about what other people will think - my family, my friends. Sami.

All of which brings me back to the idea of marriage. I was so incredibly fortunate to be married to Sami for 33 years. Our marriage was not - by any measure - perfect. We disagreed. We argued. We hurt one another at times. But we persisted. We molded our personal lives to each other - driving through the arid Southwest, I kept coming back to the idea that our relationship was like that between a river and its banks. We shaped each other - and now that Sami is gone, I’m unsure of my own course going forward.

 

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? 

Solitude and Loneliness

I’ve never been bothered by being alone, at least until recently. During most of my life, I’ve often found solitude in being in my own company. But I’ve realized recently that solitude involves choice - when I choose to be alone, I find that being alone is enjoyable. Fulfilling, even. But as I’ve written before - and as Sturgill Simpson says better than I could - I’m alone [now] in a way that I’ve never been before. And as a result, I find that the line between solitude and loneliness is blurred for me. I realize that I can find solitude - and loneliness - even when I’m with other people.

I’ve been thinking about these concepts frequently this week - not entirely sure why. My first thought was that solitude is a choice, loneliness is not. I can choose to go off by myself; being alone (because Sami died) is not a condition I chose. But I’ve realized over these days of mulling this over that “choice” doesn’t quite capture the difference. At least not in the sense that I can choose solitude but loneliness is imposed on me.

Just over two years ago, I made the decision to sell our place in Auburn and move back closer to my childhood home. I’m close with my sister and her family, and they still live in Tuolumne County where we grew up. My mom had been diagnosed with dementia, and I felt like I needed to be closer to help with her care. And to be honest, I felt like I needed a change of scenery after Sami’s illness and passing. The familiarity of the home we’d shared for more than 20 years was no longer entirely comforting.

I realized when I made the decision that leaving the community where we’d raised our girls would be difficult. Leaving the friends who were part of our farming and ranching community, and the colleagues at my local cooperative extension office, would be hard. Leaving the landscape where I’d raised livestock for 20 years would (and did) make me sorrowful. But I knew that being closer to my family would be positive. I knew that I was going back to a community where I still had ties. I looked forward to living in a smaller, more rural community. I looked forward to the change of scenery.

Largely, most of these expectations have become reality. I am glad I can be closer to my family. I’m glad I can help my sister care for my parents. I have enjoyed renewing old friendships. But I’ve also become aware that changing my environment has not alleviated the loneliness I felt in the year I spent in Auburn after Sami died. I’ve realized that I’ve not sought out local friendships. And I’ve realized that I’ve been a difficult person to get to know.

I’ve recently been told by several friends that I’m a hard person to read, too. They are probably right - as open and honest as I feel like I can be in my writing, I’m not an open book when it comes to talking in person. When a friend first told me this, I thought, “Well, of course - I’m still processing what happened to Sami.” But that’s probably not entirely true. I think I’ve always been quiet and introspective about serious matters - which is probably confusing when I’m also trying to make people laugh in social situations. I seem to oscillate between using humor to diffuse tension and withdrawing to think about difficult decisions.

I joked (via text) with some friends the other night that I was becoming the quintessential “Norwegian bachelor farmer” of Garrison Keilor’s stories - I even sent them a photo of all my laundry hanging on the line, and said, “My neighbors are probably tired of seeing my underwear drying on the clothesline!” But the next morning, I felt the weight of caring for my little 6-acre property, of keeping house, all by myself. I know I can rely on family and friends to help when I need it; you’d think that learning to accept help while Sami was sick would help me accept it now. But I do feel alone. I do feel responsible for the house and the animals and the property. Maybe that’s what loneliness is.

Sami would probably agree that I could be hard to read. As I’ve said before, I miss having someone NOT to talk to after a day at work. I miss the quiet companionship that Sami and I enjoyed. I miss hearing someone puttering in the other room. I miss being the first one in the house to wake up, knowing that someone else was there. Maybe that’s what solitude is?

Last Times

I know this is probably a function of the time of year, but I’ve been thinking about the significance of “last times” this week. I suppose “the end” seems like more of an autumn idea, but late winter and early spring will probably always be associated with the onset of Sami’s brain cancer for me. And with the last times that we did things together.

In my life, I’ve often known when I was doing something for the last time. The last day of school. My last football game in high school. Graduation days (high school and college) The first day of a new job was always preceded by the last day of the old one. The last high school soccer game that Lara or Emma would play. I have videos of the last times I worked several of my border collies, Mo and Ernie (who actually belonged to Lara and Emma, respectively). With Mo, I knew he needed to retire - he simply couldn’t handle the physicality of working sheep any longer. My friend and partner Roger Ingram captured drone footage of the last time we used Mo to move the sheep into their first lambing paddock. Ernie, on the other hand, developed cancer in his mouth. We had the tumor removed surgically, but it grew back within six weeks. That fall, I knew I needed to retire him, too - before he couldn’t eat anymore. And so I took him to Oak Hill Ranch to move ewes onto fresh feed one last time.

Each of these last times make me somewhat melancholy - I miss the days of sitting in the bleachers at Placer High School watching the girls play soccer. I miss Mo and Ernie’s presence, ability, and quirkiness. I miss (now that I realize how simple they were) the days of high school football and college fun. But despite my melancholy, these are largely happy memories.

I’ve realized, though, that sometimes we don’t know when we’ve done something for the last time until we look back. And that’s what has occupied my mind over these last few months. Sami and I enjoyed our last Sierra picnic in September 2022. We took our last trip to see Emma in college that November. We drove to New Mexico together for the first - and last - time in January 2023. Had I known these would be a few of many “last times,” would I have savored them more? I don’t know. I do feel like the trauma of Sami’s illness and passing has made me more conscious of my own fleeting time among the people I love. Of my own opportunities to enjoy “firsts” as well as “lasts.”

I wrote recently about reliving the trauma of Sami’s glioblastoma (Days Like This). Looking back at the summer of 2023, I realize now that I was experiencing so many “last times” - I can distinctly remember the last time Sami laid her head on my shoulder. The last time I held her hand. The last time I saw her physically. These “lasts” bring on something more intense than melancholy - they are profoundly sad memories, even two-and-a-half years later.

But as I write this essay, I also realize that I will still experience some “firsts.” Having gone through these “lasts,” I hope I can embrace the joy and excitement of new things. I hope that I can be fully present in every experience my future life holds - no matter how long that future is. And I hope that the “lasts” I’ve already experienced will eventually transform into - I don’t think “happy” is the right word - comforting, maybe? - memories.

Twinges of Sorrow

I’ve been thinking about milestones lately - events that have a before and an after. Key stages of my life. And how these milestones change as we age. And as we grieve (or at least as I grieve). Milestones that Sami and I would have celebrated together become milestones that are still celebrated, but with a twinge of sorrow. At least for me.

I think my first experience with this was my first trip to watch Emma compete in logging sports in the fall after Sami died - an event that coincided with what would have been Sami’s 54th birthday in 2023. We’d planned to go to Moscow, Idaho together that fall. And while watching Emma compete (and lead the University of Idaho team as club president) was an amazing experience, I was also incredibly sad to be there alone. Celebrating alone was hard.

My daughters and I have passed other milestones since that 2023 trip. Emma turned 21 the following summer, and graduated from college in May of 2025. Lara and her boyfriend Micah got engaged later that summer and will be married this May. Emma just landed her first career job. We’ve celebrated all of these events together; in some ways I think we celebrate more fully because we realize now that none of us know what lies ahead. None of us know whether we’ll continue to be able to celebrate together. But each of these milestones make me miss Sami. Each milestone is more emotional for me alone than it would be if I were still sharing it with Sami.

As I was thinking about all of this on my drive to work this morning, I also realized that I’m at an age (and a stage in life) where I don’t really know how many milestones I have left in my own chronology. While I enjoy my work, I do hope to be able to retire in seven or eight years - and I suppose retirement will feel like a milestone. But for some reason, birthdays feel minor to me - maybe turning 60 in 2027 will feel more significant. But for now, I prefer to celebrate my daughters’ milestones and successes. I’m so lucky to be their Dad; I wish Sami could be here to celebrate with us as their Mom. My own milestones seem insignificant.

I wonder if these feelings are unique to grieving for a partner? I know that my family and friends are happy for these accomplishments (and for my own milestones, like birthdays), but I also know they can’t fully appreciate them because my girls - our girls! - aren’t “their” girls. They helped make “our” girls who they are today, but they didn’t have a front row seat - or day-to-day responsibility. They can’t celebrate like Sami and I would. I don’t expect them to.

And I think this probably makes me difficult to approach sometimes. I share my happiness about these milestones; my sorrow is often private. My sorrow makes me look inward, which is partly responsible for my frequent introversion, I suspect. I also suspect that my introversion confuses friends who also hear me say I’m lonely - why would someone prefer to be alone when they’re lonely?! These continued twinges of sorrow must make me a complicated companion.

Swamped

I won’t lie - these last several weeks have been difficult for me. Maybe as difficult as any stretch in the last couple of years.  I’ve been sad. I’ve been lonely. My family and friends would probably say I’ve been grumpy. Part of the difficulty, I know, is that this stretch of time has been an anniversary of sorts - three years ago, we were living through Sami’s first symptoms and eventual diagnosis of glioblastoma. The memories of those weeks come flooding back to me. Part of it, too, has been returning to some of the things I used to enjoy - like teaching new shepherds about lambing. And part of it, I suspect, has just been the normal cycle of grief. I like the analogy of grief as a series of waves. They’ve been smaller waves until recently, but in these last two weeks, I feel like my boat has been swamped.

Part of my loneliness and grief, I think, stem from the recognition that I don’t really have anyone to confide in or to vent to when work - or life - are difficult. And part of it, if I’m honest, is envy - envy of those around me who do have a partner to whom they can confide. As I write this, I realize that there are people in my life who would be more than willing to let me rant and rave. But for some reason, I don’t feel comfortable doing that. And I miss Sami - not sure if it’s cause or effect.

When I can detach myself from these emotions, I’m intrigued by the cycles I seem to experience. The holidays were wonderful - the best Christmas since I’ve been alone. I’ve always found January to be a let-down month, and I suspect that this feeling is intensified now that I’m by myself. I also know that doing the things that I used to do in January (like go to the American Sheep Industry conference) feel different now. I think about returning from Fort Worth to Las Cruces in 2023 - and about the wonderful visit we had with Lara and Micah. And about the trip home (with Sami’s first symptoms). And about the fact that just a week after that conference, Sami had her first brain surgery.

Just 11 days ago, I was invited to give a talk about grazing management during the Nevada Farmers Forum in Reno. For the first time, I talked about the reason that I don’t currently have sheep in a workshop setting - I briefly talked about Sami’s illness and my move to Calaveras County. I still don’t know whether it was the right thing to do, but I’m increasingly feeling like I need to incorporate my personal life experience into my professional work. Losing Sami, and caring for her in the process of her dying, is a profoundly defining moment in my life. I guess I feel like in addition to being a scientist, a sheepherder, and a father, I’m also a widower. And a caregiver. And maybe it’s appropriate to share all of those things. I don’t know.

I do know that the lack of companionship when I return home from meetings - or just from a normal work day - seems especially difficult at the moment. The silence - in the morning when I wake up, and in the evening when I make dinner and go to bed - seems profound. Oppressive, even. And I suspect that I seem either needy or aloof to my friends.

As I’ve withdrawn, I feel as though I’ve become self-focused - narcissistic might be another way to put it. My social life has largely revolved around work - I haven’t engaged with my neighbors or my community, and often, I don’t engage with colleagues outside of work. I want to, but I also know that my professional life requires me to be “on” - and so my “off” time is mostly at home. Sometimes I feel like it should be the opposite - maybe I need to withdraw at work so I can be engaged at home.

Three years after Sami was diagnosed, I’m realizing that my grief will always be with me. I’m realizing that sometimes it will be beneath the surface - but sometimes it will be the only thing I can think about. Some days I’m floating. Some days, I’m swamped.

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. 

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.