Graduation and Grief

Last week, I drove to Idaho for the last time in Emma’s undergraduate career. Once again, I broke the trip into two days each way - I’m simply not able to drive 15 hours straight anymore. Not sure I ever could do that, to be honest! At least not by myself. Going up, I stayed the night in Jordan Valley, Oregon. Coming home, I took a different route, staying in Burns, Oregon. In between, I got to see Emma graduate with a degree in rangeland conservation. I got to see Lara and Emma together. I got to enjoy the company of my sister Meri, and her daughter Hanna and her family. I got to see Emma’s logger sports friends and their parents. I got to barbecue tri-tip, leg of lamb, and Basque chorizo for Emma’s logger sports family. At least for me, the weekend was an incredibly happy moment in time.

But the weekend was also bittersweet. We all missed Sami, even though we didn’t discuss it much. During the graduation ceremony when University of Idaho President Scott Green encouraged the graduates to acknowledge their moms (on the eve of Mother’s Day), I teared up - knowing that neither of my girls could do so. One of Sami’s wishes when she knew she was dying was for Emma to graduate from college. I felt the weight of that accomplishment as I watched Emma cross the stage and receive her diploma.

As I’ve experienced during previous trips, leaving the girls was much more difficult than heading out to see them. I’ve always been sad leaving them - when Lara first started college at Montana State University, I wrote that leaving her in Bozeman made me feel like I had a Lara-shaped hole in my heart. I felt that again when I left Moscow on Monday morning. And I felt the Sami-shaped hole in my heart that will always be there. I realized that Emma’s graduation was the first significant milestone that I’ve experienced without having Sami here to share in the celebration.

On Tuesday morning, as I was getting back on the road in Burns, Emma and her boyfriend Karson drove to Fort Collins, CO, where Karson is finishing an engineering degree, and where Emma will start a seasonal range technician job this week. I reflected on my own recent experience with moving to a new home and a new job - how seeing my old life in my rearview mirror was both exhilarating and frightening. And sad. I was glad to be coming home to my new place that evening, but thinking about Emma’s move brought back some difficult memories. Crossing Carson Pass instead of Donner Pass reminded me that I was living in a different place than when Emma started college.

I talked to Sami on my drive home - and not just when I saw redtail hawks. I thought about how my sorrow factored into my new relationships - how hard it might be to my new friends to hear me talk about my relationship with Sami. I thought about how my capacity for caregiving remains low. I missed the girls. I missed Sami.

After we’d all finished our travels, Lara told me she’d put aside her sadness while we were together. I realized I’d done the same - I wanted to celebrate Emma’s accomplishment. And to be happy while we were doing so.

But I also realized that (again) that grief demands my attention eventually. Driving back to work on Thursday, I was incredibly sad. On my 20-minute commute, I realized that I would have preferred to stay home. In bed. Responsibility - maybe resilience? - is a powerful antidote. Or maybe a coping mechanism. I went to work. I was sad all day, but I also got caught up on emails.

As I begin a new week, I’m again exhausted. I’m reflecting on what Sami and I had both hoped for our children - and what I still hope for them. But I’m also cognizant of what it means to be their only living parent. I’m cognizant of my own loneliness (again). I’m aware of how my own capacity for friendship, care, and empathy has evolved.

Just a Piece of Land

Today, I moved most of the rest of my belongings from Oak Hill Ranch. My landlords, Rich and Peggy Beltramo, from whom I’d leased irrigated pasture since 2008, had graciously let me store much of my ranch equipment at their place since I moved last summer. On this rainy foothill day, more like late February than late April, I finally feel like most of my stuff is here. But I didn’t fully appreciate how hard it would be to close this chapter on my life. Oak Hill Ranch, after all, is just a piece of land where I got to graze my sheep, right?!

I think I first grazed livestock at Rich and Peggy’s in 2008. I had leased irrigated pasture from Rich’s niece, who lived next door (on what most folks in Auburn called the Parnell Ranch), earlier that spring. Since there were no fences between the properties, the cows that I was grazing soon made their way to the Beltramo’s. And that evening, when Rich called and said, “What the hell are these cows doing on my place?!” I learned (again) that family (and neighborly) communication is often lacking.

But since that first encounter, my relationship with Rich and Peggy has been incredible. They grew to love my sheep. And especially my dogs! I grew to appreciate Rich’s mechanical knowledge and abilities with equipment; and Peggy’s knowledge of gardening and love of animals. We’ve become close friends; so much so that they opened their home to me when I was still bouncing between Placer and Calaveras Counties last summer and fall.

In many ways, our family became part of Oak Hill Farm - and it became part of us. The girls spent many days with me - pulling cocklebur, moving sheep, building fence. We would camp at the ranch during lambing season. We’d cut firewood and pick apples and persimmons there in the fall. Sometimes they’d complain about having to work, but they grew as connected with this landscape as I was - so much so that Emma asked to have her senior pictures taken at the ranch the spring she graduated from high school.

I didn’t realize at the time that 2022 would be my last full year running sheep at what my family came to refer to as “the ranch.” Oak Hill Ranch was a significant part of our operation - it was our irrigated pasture ranch. We’d usually move the sheep from our lambing grounds (at a slightly lower elevation) to Oak Hill in late March or April. We’d have some sheep (and sometimes, all of our sheep) on the ranch through November. We weaned and sold our lambs off the ranch; we flushed the ewes there before turning the rams in in late September. We irrigated about 15 acres, which meant most of my days from mid-April through mid-October started with 45 minutes of moving water (on a “normal” day - sometimes water problems made this chore twice as long - or longer).

In 2023, while Sami was sick, my friend Roger Ingram took care of a significant portion of the irrigating and sheep management. Last year, we grazed sheep at Oak Hill through the winter and into lambing, but I didn’t irrigate in 2024. Once we sheared the ewes and weaned the lambs, we turned over the lease to a friend who runs cows.

And so to today. Today was harder than I expected - not because loading my trailer was difficult, but because I realized (once I got home here to Calaveras County) that my ties to this piece of land have been mostly severed. I realized tonight, as I was unloading my ranch equipment, that I will miss this piece of land - and the people who own it - immensely. I realized that much like selling our place in Auburn, today’s final load of equipment represented the end of my connection with this farm. I realized, I guess, that today represented the final admission that everything in my life has changed.

This evening, I’m sad. But as I’ve written previously, I’m also realizing that my sadness is related to the immense happiness that working this piece of land for 17 years has given me (and that being married to Sami for 33 years provided). I’m sad because I know how much this piece of land - and the work that we put into it - has meant to my family. I’m sad, too, to have driven away from the pastures that I tended for so long without seeing my sheep grazing as I drove off. But despite my sadness, I returned home happy to look up the hill from my new house, and see my new sheep grazing. I’m happy to bring the lessons I learned from that piece of land (and from my friends who still own it) to my new place.

I find that I’m sometimes envious of my friends whose families have managed the same piece of land for generations. But then I think about that first generation - that person (or people) who said, “we’re going to try to ranch here.” Perhaps the economics of the 21st century make it difficult, if not impossible, to make this start in California, but in my sadness this evening, I also feel a certain measure of pride. I’m proud that I was able to form such a connection with the land, and with my community. I’m proud that the days my daughters spent pulling weeds and working sheep helped them become the incredible young women they are today. And I’m grateful that Sami supported (or at least humored) my dream of earning at least part of my living from the land. From that little piece of land on Mount Vernon Road in Auburn.

My Evolving Relationship with Grief

While I experienced grief throughout Sami’s brief illness in 2023, her passing in August left me feeling hollowed out. Devastated. Empty. I went through the motions of going back to work. Of settling her estate. Of trying to continue living. But as I look back at that stretch of time from my current vantage point, I realize that the details are fuzzy at best. I do not have any clear recollection of that first autumn and winter alone.

Today, 612 days after Sami died, I feel like my relationship with sadness has changed. There are still days when I’m profoundly and inconsolably sad (several Saturdays ago, for example), but increasingly, my grief also evokes happy memories of our lives together. Sometimes it’s a photograph of Sami, or the two of us together. Sometimes it’s the line from a song she enjoyed, or more frequently, from a song that reminds me of her. In some respects, sadness seems to be a friend that visits from time to time in a way that fills me up rather than hollows me out.

As I consider this evolution, I realize that my grief has always had elements of both despair and happiness. Early on that August morning, when Sami left us, I was blessed to be surrounded by our family. We sat on the deck of our home in Auburn in the middle of the night and shared happy memories about Sami. Someone looking in on us might have struggled to reconcile our laughter and smiles with the loss we’d just experienced - but in that moment I think all of us felt the need to focus on what we’d had rather than what we’d lost.

That said, the grief and loss were still raw for me at that point. I can also remember later that week, as I left Emma in Idaho for her to start her junior year in college and returned to an empty house, that I alternated between crying and wanting to cry. And screaming into the void.

Those moments of despair come less frequently today, but they still come. Earlier this month, on the Saturday after I returned from watching Emma compete in logger sports for the last time as a college student, I was intensely sad. I realized that Sami would never get to experience what I’d just enjoyed. I remembered that one of Sami’s wishes was for Emma to complete her undergraduate degree (which she will do next month), but that Sami wouldn’t be with us on that happy day. I struggled to get out of the house and start my day.

This week, though, the girls shared a new album by one of our favorite bands, the Turnpike Troubadours. The first song on the album, “On the Red River” concludes with the line:

“Death doesn’t leave with the best part of you.”

The lyric took my breath away - I nearly had to pull over on my drive to work on Monday morning. But as the day went on, I realized that I am increasingly able to see past the trauma of Sami’s illness and passing, and remember the life that we had together - the life that we were able to provide our daughters while they were growing up. That part of our lives together remains. By the end of the day, I was in an entirely different (and much happier) mood.

As I’ve written previously, grief is perhaps the most universal of emotions. But while all of us have experienced grief (or will experience it at some point), our path through grief is very individual. Part of my own evolving relationship with grief, I think, has been the result of some of the formal therapy (individual and in groups) I’ve done in the last 20 months. But much of this change has come from re-engaging with old friends, and making new friends. Much of it has come from talking about these things with friends who’ve also experienced grief. And much of it has resulted from conveying my experiences and feelings through this blog - and more importantly, from the response of those of you who’ve read my posts. Thank you.

Chapters

I got to see Emma compete in her last logging sports conclave last week in Fort Collins, Colorado. The University of Idaho A team won the entire event, and I got to watch Emma be part of a community (from U of I and from the other western colleges who compete) that has been so important to her during her college experience. But, as is always true for me, I was melancholy when I left to drive back to the Denver airport. Going towards my daughters is always easier than leaving them. On Saturday morning, I was as sad as I’ve been since the depths of winter, but I wasn’t really sure why.

But as the day went on, I began to realize that I was again experiencing anticipatory grief. This time, I was thinking about the mixed emotions that I would experience watching Emma graduate from college next month. I am incredibly proud of both of my daughters for the strong young women they have become. I’m happy that Emma will graduate in four years, despite what our family experienced halfway through her college experience. But I’m also devastated that Sami won’t be here to see the end of this chapter of our lives, and the start of Emma’s next chapter.

Even though Sami never lived in the house I now call home, there are reminders of her everywhere - in the photos on the walls, in her handwriting on little notes that I’ve kept, in the leftovers from meals that she cooked and later froze in 2022. In the boxes of tea and instant coffee that she purchased and enjoyed. I’m also reminded of Sami every time I see Lara and Emma - not just of Sami’s physical appearance, but through a certain gesture or turn of phrase. Depending on my frame of mind, these reminders can bring a smile. Or tears. Often both.

While I continue to believe that we never “move on” after losing a partner, I am beginning to realize that the narrative of our lives does move forward, if we choose to keep living. Those of us left behind open new chapters - as we must. But much like my favorite books, I find that I also want to reread previous chapters. Sometimes these chapters are difficult - lately I’ve been reliving the last two weeks of Sami’s illness. Sometimes these chapters are joyful - I’ve also been thinking about the trips we took together to visit both Lara and Emma in college. Like any story, these previous chapters inform the chapters ahead.

Finally, a friend recently sent me an article about how much time it takes to develop a meaningful friendship - something like 80 hours of time spent together. I’ve come to realize that even though I’ve written about my grief extensively, much of my energy has been inward focused. Introspection has helped me process what we went through, but sometimes I wonder if it has sometimes kept me from being much of a friend. In the last month or so, I have tried (very awkwardly at times) to invest in friendship again - with old friends and new ones alike. But in this new chapter of seeking new friendships, I sometimes feel conflicted - as though developing new friendships somehow betrays the relationship I had with Sami. Even so, I am beginning to see that these new relationships have begun to ease my sense of isolation. I sleep better at night. I seem to be able to concentrate better during the day. I am beginning to focus - just a bit - on future chapters. 

The Summer of 2023

Yesterday afternoon, I participated in a focus group organized by the UC San Francisco Neuro Oncology Caregiver Support team. Since Sami’s passing, I’ve wanted to find ways to help others who are going through the trauma that our family experienced in 2023. I hope I contributed to improving the support program. I wasn’t quite prepared, however, for reliving the summer of 2023.

Looking back, I realize that I began to grieve on that night in January 2023 when an emergency room doctor in Auburn told us Sami had a “mass” on her brain. We were scared, obviously, but I think I also began to grieve over the loss of what we expected our lives to be like. And I suspect Sami began to grieve over what she knew she might miss - growing old(er) together, certainly, but also watching Emma graduate from college. Watching both girls get married (at some point). Grandchildren (although I think I was more excited about this prospect than Sami!).

But looking back, the late spring and summer of 2023 were the most intense days of our journey; indeed, they were the most intense days of my life so far. As I read my journal entries and blog posts from that time, I realized that we were hopeful, anxious, and terrified. With the perspective of nearly two years, I now also realize that Sami had begun to die. That the seizures that she began to experience in mid May were signs that the two surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments had failed to slow the growth (regrowth?) of her brain tumor.

Yesterday’s conversations forced me to relive the three weeks we spent in San Francisco in June 2023. I revisited the anxiety, anger, and frustration of looking for answers to what Sami was experiencing. And I relived the regrets I sometimes continue to experience - that we spent those weeks in a hospital, when we could have been home - or visiting the places we loved to go together. I relived the day earlier in the spring when we found Sami stacking hay in the barn in preparation for the next day’s feed delivery - after she’d had two brain surgeries. I was so mad. So was she - mad at me for making her stop doing something she enjoyed doing.

After the focus group, I immediately went back to work - meeting about a paper I’m coauthoring with a colleague and setting up my sawmill at a new location. Much like my approach during Sami’s illness and the immediate aftermath of her death, I threw myself back into activity - as a coping (or perhaps avoidance) strategy. But as happened during the summer of 2023 - and has happened in the 19-plus months since Sami passed - I eventually had to slow down last night. As I sat on my new deck with my dogs after finishing my work day, I realized I was sad and exhausted. The feeling of being emptied out entirely, which came frequently in the early days of my grief, returned with intensity. And yet despite my exhaustion, I found sleep to be difficult.

All of this was a reminder (again) that grief is not a linear “process” - that one does not “move on” from loss and trauma. In many ways, I do think I’ve moved forward (and I’ve certainly moved geographically), but the loss and trauma that we experienced in the summer of 2023 will always be with me. My grief, in times like this, will require that I simply sit with it. As someone told me early in my mourning process, Sami had to live through this experience once; I will live through it again and again - for the rest of my life. As I was reminded yesterday, grief will visit me for the rest of my life. To the extent that grief is also memory, I don’t find it quite as unwelcome as I did initially, but days like yesterday are still difficult. 

Unmoored

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.