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.

The Geography of Grief - and Memory

An exploration of the physical reminders of loss...

One morning last week, as I was preparing to join a virtual meeting from my dining room table, I decided to brew a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I reached into the cupboard and pulled out a mason jar of ground coffee, which Sami had labeled. Her handwriting stopped me in my tracks. I realized that even in my new place, there are physical reminders of Sami. Reminders that bring me up short, that make me wistful. Or sad.

Last month, I had meetings in Davis on two consecutive days. Rather than make the two hour drive home on the first night - and back on the second morning - I stayed in town. On the second morning, I went for a walk through town and campus before breakfast. The city of Davis has changed since I was a student there nearly 40 years ago; much of the UC Davis campus remains familiar. Especially the Quad. As I walked through the Quad early on that February morning, I remembered eating lunch with Sami when we first started dating in 1988. I felt the physical sensation of walking through campus holding her hand. Of lying in the sun on the grass with my head in her lap.

In my new place, I have a digital picture frame on the sideboard that I see when I walk in my front door. The sideboard was from Sami’s parents; the picture frame was a gift to Sami after she got sick. Friends and family shared photos with Sami - as did I. One of my favorites is a photo I took of the two of us at Sterling Lake in the Sierra Nevada east of Auburn in September 2022. We both look incredibly happy, and my memory of that day is that we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. And I realize, whenever that photo comes up in the frame, that Sami likely already had a brain tumor.

Some of these geographical reminders are difficult. While I’ve driven to (and from) Idaho since Sami passed away, I’ve not been ready to drive to New Mexico. Our trip to Las Cruces in January 2023 marked the beginning of our journey with glioblastoma. While I’ve visited Monterey several times since Sami ran the Monterey Bay Half Marathon in November 2022, both visits have been emotionally difficult. 

In the 19 months (tomorrow) since Sami left us, I’ve found that these physical reminders - places and objects - don’t always affect me in the same way. Sometimes, they’ve made me inconsolably sad. Other times, they make me nostalgic and happy for the life we had. Some things, like the jar of coffee, will be used up eventually. Other things, like the places we enjoyed going together, will always be there - and will probably always be bittersweet for me.

Grief seems like a journey through an unfamiliar landscape, in many ways. Sometimes a song, a scent, a place, will remind me of Sami. At the risk of seeming trite, sometimes I’m reminded of the Ted Kleszewiski quote about hitting a baseball:

“How hard is hitting? You ever walk into a pitch-black room full of furniture that you’ve never been in before and try to walk through it without bumping into anything? Well, it’s harder than that.”

In the 10-plus years I played baseball as a kid, I was never a great hitter. But navigating grief seems much much harder than hitting a baseball. I’ve stubbed my toes frequently. My shins are bruised.

But sometimes - more now than 19 months ago - memories bring smiles. A place we both enjoyed can bring me happiness. An object that Sami touched can make me smile. Seeing Sami’s handwriting (on a recipe, or on an envelope) brings back good memories. Maybe the actual journey through these memories - through my grief - helps me navigate more confidently. Maybe I’m feeling my way through a new geography.