Note from Jenny: Sam's sister Sarah sent me this to post for Sam's birthday week. Please join us in celebrating by checking out the #32forSam page!
This year has been adjusting to the realities of losing Sam. Last year’s Christmas was in Seattle with my sister stationed out of an obscure Airbnb. Kate was staying elsewhere as she had a small trace of a cold and my brother feared of any possibility of infection. This exacerbated well-worn sibling dynamics between Kate and my brother. Resultantly, Kate, Mom, and I spent most of that trip lingering over cups of coffee at a café in an adjacent neighborhood that served Swedish pancakes and blueberry french toast. Since Sam’s first diagnosis, he took risks that blossomed into a beautiful and meaningful life. He was driven by his work and Alaska adventures. He loved Jenny, Birkie, his parents, and his grandparents. He had a special place in his heart for Grandpa Sharky. They were besties from the very beginning. Sam idled his youth on Grandpa Giles’ fishing boat until, as Grandpa pointed out, Sam found girls. Presumably this was sometime in early high school. I recognized right away that everyone in Sam’s world experienced Sam’s death differently. His death blew apart Jenny’s life. It hit my parents like a hurricane that required extracting a life that once was and rebuilding from the pieces that were left. For my sister and I, we were hit like shrapnel from a proximal storm. It didn’t affect our daily lives in the way it did for Jenny, my parents, and Sam’s closest friends and co-workers. I’ve felt this year like the wound from his death has been festering deep inside of me, too deep from the surface to feel but I know it’s there. It’s as if I knew there was growing infection inside me and I wanted the pain to rise to the surface so I could feel the feels appropriate to the magnitude of the loss. This week the needle I needed to hit the hurt nabbed it just enough to catch the spot and all the feels flooded to the surface. It was a small comment, a friend remarked that she didn’t talk to her family too terribly much. She said, “Take my brother, for instance, I only talk to him two or three times a year.” Boom, there it was, the needle. This comment hit me directly in the hurt for two reasons. The first reason is that I too only talked to Sam a few times a year. Sam was fully engaged in his life. Even though I didn’t talk to him often, I always knew what he was up to and I always found a strong sense of pride and shared identity in how he pursued his passions and made a difference in the world through his work. The second reason it hit me hard was because I couldn’t make those calls anymore and will never be able to again. The needle point puncture of festering infection felt cathartic. Finally, the weight of my emotion mirrored the magnitude of the loss. Sam’s birthday is a week on Monday. He would have been 32. Since the phone comment, I have been a leaky faucet of emotion missing him. My mom says it comes and waves. There will be a little comment or memory and it hits. Christmas was hard not for the obvious reasons but because when my sister walked into my parent’s place in Florida, Sam’s clothes, shoes, and fishing lures were in the closet and the desk awaiting his return. It was a ghost of healthy Sam. The last time Sam was there, he was living a vibrant, healthy life. No one had any indication his disease would return and unfold like it did. Today I am on a plane heading for Mexico. I am doing a weeklong sailing seminar with NOLS that ends on his birthday. When Sam died, I asked Jenny for a jacket of Sam’s that I could take on my travels. It is packed in my little duffel awaiting a new adventure. It is a physical representation of how I take him with me wherever I go and how his spirit is still alive and moving forward in me, as it is in its unique ways in all the people he touched. I miss his spirit and his tenacity. I miss the silly sibling dynamics that used to drive my sister batty. I miss not being able to make those calls 3-4 times a year. I miss his passion for work, love, and life. I carry these things with me, stronger and with more conviction that ever before. I miss you, Sam. I am so proud of the life you lived and I carry you with me wherever I go. Happy 32nd birthday. I love you, Sare I took this photo on a rare Saturday in Seattle when Sam was not in the hospital. I quietly listened to podcasts on my headphones and hoped he'd wake up soon so we could go for a walk with Birkie. I'd been awake for hours, but knew he needed to sleep. I love to look at this photo. When I look at it I feel like I can smell his skin, hear his breathing and feel the warmth of his body next to mine. I always wish I were back in this moment when I see it. And then, I wish I could take those damn headphones off and just be present.
It's so hard to do when our lives are busy and when everything is moving around us so fast. It's even harder to do when we wish things would change and we spend our mental energy looking forward to them being different. As I've tried to move forward this summer, I've begun to realize what he taught me about being present. Sadly, I think I learned it too late to get to apply it to my relationship with him, but I'm working on it now. Like many things, it's a bittersweet lesson, but I'm grateful. This is reposted here from Trout Unlimited's Voices from the River blog series. The original post can be viewed here. by Jenny Weis
The only thing that made sense to do on our second marriage anniversary was to go fishing. A voracious lifelong angler, my husband, Sam, introduced me to fly fishing. He supplied me with the rod, reel, and meticulously organized bead box I used today. The net I used to land the rainbows, Dolly Varden, sockeye, and white fish was a gift I’d given him for Valentine’s Day three years ago. Heartbreakingly, four months ago, Sam died of leukemia. He was only 31 years old. In his absence, Sam’s fishing buddy, Eric, was the one to row me downstream today in his new boat, which used to belong to Sam. (Sam would be thrilled for him to have it now.) The notoriously turquoise river was brilliant against the rich green backdrop of the Chugach mountains. A weekday, the banks were quiet without the usual traffic of Southcentral Alaska’s busiest river. We could hear the glacial silt tapping along the hull of the boat – one of Sam’s favorite sounds. The sun came through the clouds now and then to warm us up, and the fish were biting. All the things that could go right today, did. But still, all I could think was, “Sam should be here right now.” That’s what I thought when I stepped into Eric’s beautiful, wooden drift boat that they’d spent a winter restoring together a few years back. It’s what I thought when we saw a brown bear cleaning up some sockeye salmon scraps on the river bank. It’s what I thought when I caught and released each fish with a smile and a high five. Knowing it was going to be a tough one for me, Eric was determined to make today the best day he could. He succeeded. He was ready with a flask for a sip of whiskey in celebration of the first fish of the day – Sam’s tradition. We talked all day about best and funniest fishing moments we’d had with Sam. He even humored me in shouting “F*CK CANCER” in unison, our voices momentarily filling the river valley before being quickly swallowed up by the rushing water and wind in the trees. In the familiar way we’ve both done with Sam many times in the past, we fished, floated, and contentedly ate up BBQ sandwiches in the car on the way home, making comments like, “not a bad way to spend a Monday, eh?” While Sam was fighting cancer, I felt guilty so often about getting away from the treatment-world to go have fun. Though he and I knew it was good for me to have a break from caretaking, the thought of Sam daydreaming from a hospital bed about fishing or simply being out in the world always broke my heart. In those days, I’d laugh at a joke or smile, and the happiness would fade quickly as I thought back to him, sick. To put it bluntly, during his treatment, I was worried constantly that the worst would happen, and Sam would die. For all of us who loved him, we never felt completely happy during his long treatment with the relentless weight of that fear on our shoulders. Over the last four months, we’ve had to grapple with the fact that the worst did happen and pick up the pieces of life without him. However, Sam gave us a gift as he died: he simply wished for us to be happy. (Well, and a few other gifts like a beautiful wooden drift boat and meticulously organized and well-stocked fly fishing closet begging to be used.) Now that he is gone, I know my only duty is to laugh at jokes and smile genuinely. There’s no more worrying or fear of death, only finding joy in life. Though painful, days spent on the river like today are a way I honor what he taught me, and continue to live as we did together when he was healthy, and as I know undoubtedly he’d want me to. So you can see why fishing was the only thing that made sense to do today. But still, he really should have f-ing been there. Jenny Weis is the Alaska Program communications director. She lives in Anchorage. On Monday, Sam and I would have been married for two years. As they've been much of the summer, my emotions are mixed. I'm happy to mark and celebrate our partnership. But I'm also heartbroken and a little unsure how I'll handle it without him. I know usually anniversaries are meant to celebrate the marriage and not the marriage DAY, but our marriage happens to be documented in great detail on this website. Maybe I'm focusing on the day we got married because it was such a bright spot in the midst of a few really, really hard years. (Here's the blog post I wrote about it back in 2015. ) Anyway, before I head out to "celebrate" the only way I know how: listen to music in Hope and fish the Kenai River this weekend (likely the very thing we'd be doing together if he were here), I wanted to share this story from Annie Young and a little bit about the day we got married with you. Wedding Day and Marriage Day by Annie Young Pete and I got married in October 2009. It was a typical wedding in Milwaukee and I was a typical bride (well- maybe a little crazy but still MOSTLY typical). Although of course for Pete and I it was such an important day- one that I had waited 5 years for. ️ I wanted it to be perfect while still trying to be flexible and fun. I enjoyed planning all the details. We invited all of our family and friends to celebrate such a special occasion. And of course this included the Weis family. I didn't realize or understand until years later how special it was that Sam came to our wedding. He was in the midst of his first battle with leukemia. I remember Pete calling me in 2008- we were engaged- to share the diagnosis. He was over a year into the treatment by the time October 2009 rolled around and while contact had been steady, visits were limited due to cancer, law school, separate cities... The fear of catching a virus or infection from an unknowing friend or stranger was terrifying. So social interaction wasn't high priority. But there he was at our special day. I can remember exactly where they sat for dinner- to the right of the head table, near a window. I am guessing that he was probably there just to see with his very own eyes that Pete was actually going to get married. Well, Pete did. (even though pete initially forgot our marriage certificate... a whole other story) We said "I do" at the church and went to the reception that evening. We made it through dinner with drinks and dancing to follow. Pete and I were doing our best to enjoy, walk around and thank all the guests for coming! I noticed at one point Pete talking with a group of people and I ventured over to see my new husband (such a fun word to say...). It turned out he was talking with Sam and the Weis family. I came up next to him and he turned around with one of the most excited faces I've ever seen in my life. I assumed it was because of the day, his wife, our marriage! But no... instead he said: "So Sam and I were thinking that we would go to Real Chili really fast and come back. What do you think?" You see the Real Chili was Sam and Pete's favorite spot. And while I know Pete was excited about the fact that we were husband and wife, he was also beyond thrilled to have Sam there. A friend that easily could have stayed home. And clearly I was going to be with him day and night, but Sam was only there for a couple of hours!!! He was inspiring others to live by the phrase carpe the effin diem long before he named his blog. And my husband was hoping to seize that moment with a bit of Real Chili. In hindsight, I know Pete wasn't sure when an opportunity like this- a special outing with his best pal- would come around again. However I didn't have much time to think it all through...I said: "Pete, please don't leave our wedding reception to go to Real Chili with Sam" (Kate remembers all of this in vivid detail!) They stayed. Years later Sam would even agree that it was probably the right call to stay. And that he wasn't really sure if Pete was serious and even then he wasn't sure that he would actually asked me. Fast forward 6 years to August 2015. Sam was fighting cancer again. Pete and I were headed to Madison. Sam and Jenny were getting married and they had this idea that Pete should be the one to marry them. It was going to be outside but it was literally pouring down rain. If that had been my wedding 6 years earlier- I would have freaked out, moved everything inside. The rain didn't stop them. They just got a tent. I was truly in awe- the love between the two of them brought a whole new meaning to "in sickness and in health." I don't remember much of what was said because I was terrified that our 3 year old son was going to pull the tent down at any moment or our one year old daughter was going to start screaming. I just remember feeling like it was somehow perfect. Like somehow all this "stuff" that seems so important isn't always necessary. And sometimes we just have no control. The true meaning of being flexible and embracing the moment kept coming into my mind over and over again. Towards the end, the rain had backed off to a sprinkle. We were headed to eat donut cake. I remember this picture snapped of the two of them walking to their car after it was official. They were smiling, laughing, loving each other. It captured what Sam and Jenny did best, finding the joy and love in any situation. I will never forget those smiles and that look. It's a large reminder to keep it all in perspective. Over the years and watching Sam on his adventures with Pete or with Jenny, I've slowly learned to relinquish control- at least a little. I am still the planner and organizer in our family, but Sam taught me to live just a little bit more in the moment. To look for the hope. To keep my cool. To play one more game of Candyland. To hug my kids just a little bit tighter. To send a text to a friend just because. To head out for an unknown adventure (still tough for me not to know all the details... but if I know 8 details and pete keeps 2 a secret- that's a win.) To find the good in an imperfect situation. To play and laugh in the rain. If I could do it all over today- I think I would have sent them to Real Chili. Without further ado, about 50 seconds of our 2-minute Marriage Ceremony...Sammy, marrying you was my favorite thing I've done. I love you.
Our block is quiet this summer. Turning past John and Elaine’s house at the intersection toward ours, Sam’s never standing in the garage working on bikes with music on when I get home. It’s been a cold summer with lots of rain. I’ve certainly had fun and stayed busy, but constantly wondered what we’d have done together this year and been nostalgic about past summers with Sam.
There’s nothing like Wisconsin Northwoods summers. Specifically, Northwoods Fourth of July. The weather is hot and humid, begging you to jump in a lake and spend the day on the dock or boat listening to country music, spin casting for sunnies and bluegill, and drinking PBR. In the evenings, Sam and I would eat dinner with his family on their patio. The menu was always pretty much the same: brats, potato salad, watermelon, and the best, freshest, midwest-grown sweet corn in the world. After that, we’d drive over to Grandma and Grandpa’s house and watch fireworks from the pier over Crescent Lake. Sam celebrated this way throughout his formidable childhood years, minus the PBR (I’m pretty sure anyway). I think he’d have preferred to be out on a camping trip or some other new adventure as an adult, but once he showed me the joys of the Northwoods Fourth, I was hooked and wanted more of the same each summer. He obliged and, amidst eating brats or retelling muskie fishing stories with Grandpa each year, I knew he really didn’t mind keeping the tradition. Two summers ago, we were devastated when Sam and I first learned that our Alaska neighbor, John’s, wife, Elaine, had died. We couldn’t imagine John without Elaine. Neither of us had any idea what to say to John the first time we saw him except that we were terribly sorry and to please let us know if he ever needed anything, knowing our words weren’t enough. I’d see John come and go from his house and try to imagine the loneliness and the difficulty of a transition to being alone after spending a lifetime with your partner. In May, when John gave me his well wishes after he’d heard about Sam, his words were few. I think he knew we’d soon have an understanding - that, from now on, we’d be on the same team. We’d watch out for one another on our quiet little block. Summer has been good, as summers go. But sad and hard without Sam. (Maybe I should have something more original to say.) Any time I do a new thing, it’s a new thing without Sam. Now that his parents are back in Wisconsin and I’m here, my heart feels like it’s in two places. I spent this Fourth of July hiking a marathon-length trail in Denali State Park amid breathtaking views, connecting with friends, and scaring away bears. Meanwhile, I imagined Sam’s family enjoying the Northwoods and eating brats and sweetcorn, wishing so badly I could be there with them cherishing years past. I biked down the summit of Thompson Pass and cried as I flew through Keystone Canyon because Sam wasn’t standing at the pull-off at the bottom making fun of my endorphin high and taking my picture. I’ve walked into the garage and hopelessly sighed at all his gear that begs to go on adventures but doesn’t fit me. I’ve cried in my car a LOT, and tackled more administrative tasks that arise when your person dies than I ever knew existed. I ran a half marathon and day dreamed that Sam would be standing on the side of the trail cheering for me, but he of course wasn’t. When someone says something that reminds me of Sam but it’s not the time or place for outward grief, I’ve learned the skill I never wanted to know existed of coaching myself out of breaking down and back into conversation. I’ve hiked miles upon miles, silently and while singing, and while talking, remembering the times throughout our years where Sam and I hiked in silence, in conversation, and in song. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how many unexpectedly beautiful moments often follow the hardest ones. I’ve honored the unofficial summer theme of #GoBecauseYouCan and been more aware and in awe of all the things my healthy body can do. I’ve stood in a river and wondered, when it really comes down to it, why did it take him so long to get his fishing gear packed? I’ve eaten terrible sweet corn that flew too many miles to get to Alaska, and daydreamed about summer in the Northwoods. Yesterday on my way home from the dog park and grocery store I was thinking about all this. OK, yes, I was also crying in my car. Meanwhile, I felt proud that I have done so much this summer both in sadness and in genuine joy. I felt proud that a grief counselor told me she thinks I am “doing well.” I also felt proud for staying in motion without Sam because I know without a doubt that’s what he would want me to do. I pulled onto our block, past John and Elaine’s house and had just finished trips unloading the groceries onto my kitchen counter when my doorbell rang. I opened the door and there was neighbor John, who handed me two ears of sweet corn. “These were growing on the stalk in Indiana four days ago. Nothing like fresh sweet corn,” he said with a smile before turning back home. I am sitting to write this post on the spot on the couch where Sam sat when he was so sick. I have been avoiding this spot - our entire living room actually. When I'm home, I'm in the kitchen or Birkie and I hang out (hide out?) in our room. But tonight it was time to conquer the couch. When Sam's pelvis was broken, he couldn't move without pain so we spent a LOT of time on the couch. Our bed was too painful for him to get in and out of and uncomfortable for him to sleep in. We had a hospital bed delivered for him, but he hated that too. So he wound up sleeping, sitting upright, on the couch, in this spot where I sit now, almost the entire 25 days we were at home in Alaska. It's a long couch, so I brought pillows from our room at night and laid next to him so we could "sleep" here together. (we couldn't actually sleep much.) It's really, really hard to sit here. I think I'm learning though that thinking through this all so vividly is just part of it. It makes me feel close to him, sitting here, and then simultaneously it is so painful. But pain is part of the richness of life. I think that's what I'm learning. Anyway, I didn't sit down to write about this spot on the couch. I am here to write about a thing I did on Friday. Sam and I picked out matching wedding bands with two evergreen trees on them and the moon shining down on the trees (the moon is a teeny little diamond). I loved the symbolism of the two trees standing there together through it all like trees do in the woods. I ordered my ring while we were engaged and we planned to order his later when we had our wedding (I have no idea why we did not order both of them at the same time). But then our "marriage day" was somewhat spur of the moment due to a twist in his treatment plan. So that day, we went to the jeweler on State Street in Madison and he picked out a silver band, which is what he wore. I still wear my wedding ring, but someday I will take it off. Another young widow, Norah McInerny, described in her book about the day she took hers off and how she tried not to make a big deal about it because there are so many things that can be big deals when you are a new widow. But of course, it was still a big enough deal to mention in her book - how could it not be? Because of this drama, I decided to break my "no big decisions for a year" rule to get our wedding band tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Just like the design, it has two evergreens on the left, which now represent Birkie and I. Then there's the moon - Sam - shining down on us. Then there's another tree added on the right representing whatever comes next. Sam shines down on that too. I had a fairly significant meltdown the day I got my tattoo. A tattoo is no replacement for a husband and it only has as much meaning as my soul can delegate to it. So that day when I hoped that my tattoo would make me feel closer to Sam and instead it was just a tattoo, I cried a lot.
I'm good and not good at weird things. I keep my shit together all day at work, and then lose it at the grocery store because of the mundane conversation held by another young couple scooping a bag of roasted almonds out of the bulk aisle. I'm wishy-washy. I felt so confident that starting to let go of Sam's clothing was the right thing to do for a friend's garage sale last week, and now I cannot wait to get the stack of items that did not sell back so I can hug them all. I can spend hours in our house, and then cry when I sit in this certain spot on the couch. Despite these ups and downs, the tattoo was something I thought to do right away after Sam died and never wavered. It's no replacement, but it's a really, really nice reminder of him. I'll take as many of those as I can get. Even if they're sometimes painful, they're rich too. Grief makes you do stupid things. This ring stain is from a cup of juice I set on my bedside table the day Sam died. It wasn't a good day, but it was the last day he was here.
Today, some friends and I prepped a bunch of his clothes and "non-valuable" stuff to sell in a dear friend's garage sale this weekend. It sucked a LOT. (Who wears men's size small in Alaska anyway?). I parted with dozens of things he loved. But I can't/won't wipe up this damn cup stain. "Pain demands to be felt. It won’t be rushed. It won’t be pushed away or minimized. There is no set timeline for grief. There is no bible verse or life truth that can lessen pain’s grip. No matter how much we may try to push it away or pretend it isn’t there, it manifests itself. There are no tricks or tips to lessening the agony. Pain is moving through darkness, one tiny step at a time with faith that eventually a ray of light will break through. We honor our pain with tears and time. We honor our pain by acknowledging its heaviness and hurt. We honor it by recognizing loss and the hole it leaves behind...” [quote continued below] Dear Sammy, It has almost been a month since I have seen, touched, or talked to you. These past few months - while your body was failing and then since you died - have been so, so hard. Much harder than I thought I was capable of dealing with. On the other hand, just as there were during the few weeks toward the end when you were so miserable and I was terrified about you dying, there have been beautiful moments sprinkled in throughout this month, too. I know that beauty is what you’d want me to dwell on, and I am doing so as much as I possibly can. I want to be honest with you about how terrible your death is, but I don’t ever want you to feel bad for having to die. I know your body was holding your spirit back - we all do - but I have to tell you a little bit about what it’s like with you dead* because it might help make you remember how incredibly loved you are. (*I know the word ‘dead’ can read like a thud. We rarely say it aloud in reference to one person. People often pick ‘gone’ instead of dead, but ‘gone’ doesn’t fit because you are still so present. Dead is the best descriptor, so I’m going with it. I hope that’s ok.) At first, I tortured myself by replaying the 48 hours before you died in my brain over and over. Thinking about the hours when you were preparing to leave this earth is like stabbing my soul. I finally wrote it all down in detail so I wouldn’t forget all the terrifying and beautiful things that happened that Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. When I did, I was able to stop obsessing so much about your final hours. It was hard to let that go because I felt so close to you as you died, but I needed to because they were the most painful hours of my life. I’m grateful to have moved past replaying that time so much because it freed up brain space to allow me think about you and your life more completely. Since you died, I have constantly searched for meaning, Sam. I have not asked why you had to suffer and die because I know you weren’t too worried about why. But I have asked myself what I took away from living life with you and also from witnessing the full spectrum of the dying process. It has left my brain in a constant stream of metaphors and pondering. I am always thinking about lessons that I may or may not have learned in regards to grief, or the meaning of life, or the importance of love from you. Sometimes these reflections are interesting for a few moments, and then I realize how little they help or matter because you are still dead. Truthfully, the only noteworthy result of basically 600 hours of thinking about you, so far, has been a firm appreciation of how special our love for one another is, and how much I miss you. Neither of those are profound - they are just incredibly present. Painfully present. Those two thoughts and you - your face, your smile, your essence, your spirit - are always on my mind and heart. You are on my mind when I’m alone, which has been almost never (#extrovertproblems), and you are on my mind when I’m participating in a conversation about something “completely unrelated.” It is always you. It’s beautiful and miserable, thinking of you so much, Sam. In between missing you and being grateful for your love, to a lesser extent, I’ve thought about how much you became a part of me. I’ve thought some about the importance of prioritizing our time here on earth for doing meaningful things and having new experiences, rather than continuously falling back on the comforts of what we already know. I’ve thought about how much my muscle that gives me ability to handle difficult things has been stretched and wondered if it’ll eventually break. I’ve thought about how glad I am that we didn’t let one another stay mad about trivial things for very long. I realized that you taught me the importance of stopping what I was doing and “turning in” to fully participate in a shared experience, no matter how trivial or what I was doing at the time, and how that lead to connection. I’ve thought about the perspective you gave me about things humans tend to perceive as problems in life that are not actually problems. Anyway, when I’m not thinking about you actively - when you move from first position in my brain to second or third (it’s never really much farther than that), I start feeling sad right away. I don’t think you’d like this much because I know you didn’t want me to be sad all the time. I’ve talked to some other friends who have experienced a sadness kind of like mine, and they said this ever-present heartache takes time to remedy. I guess I’m telling you in case you’re worried that I’m being sad too much of the time. It sounds like it will get better, ok? These friends have shared a lot of things that have given me comfort knowing that the crazy thoughts and despair that goes through my head aren’t uncommon or permanent. Talking to them about their grief makes me hurt for them and for others grieving who can relate, and it also makes me feel so incredulous about how big of a gaping, black hole grief causes in our lives that we haven’t figured out how to fill. Everyone mentions the emptiness, or the hole, or the absence when they talk about dying - especially when our most special person dies. They talk about how you don’t ever fill the emptiness. How there really are no solutions. It makes me sad to think about all the people walking around pretending to be normal while we have giant holes of loss cut out of us. It makes me feel a little bit better to know I’m not the only who has had to figure out how to survive with with part of me missing. My Sam-sized hole is a massive crater right now. I can’t live with a crater this big forever, but the thought of my Sam Crater shrinking is pretty terrifying too. Does that mean I will have lost part of you? See? I’ve fallen into metaphor land again. This happens a lot. Black holes do that! What else should I say to you about the first month without you here? Oh! I forgot the best part: Thanks to what you told me, I think I’m doing pretty well, Sammy. Since you died, I’ve hiked to beautiful places and had fun. I’ve been taken care of, and have hugged more friends and family members in the last 30 days than I have ever hugged before. Your celebration of life was beautiful, Sammy. We told stories about you and got to spend time thinking about how special you are and how much you accomplished. I sometimes still talk about you or us in the present tense, but I decided not to care about that too much. Birkie has kept me company. We celebrated her third birthday with party hats and sweets last week. I’ve had meals with friends where we talked about silly things and laughed. I've learned how to miss you and laugh at the exact same time. Weird, huh? You did an incredible job of being open about your thoughts on dying and telling me 800 times that you wanted me to be happy and carry out a full life after you left. I’m so glad and feel so lucky that I got to talk to you about this. I think that helps me carry my Sam-size crater around. We didn’t know about “the emptiness” when we used to talk about life after you died, but you telling me that I’m allowed to be happy in a world that doesn’t have you in it was a gift. Sam, this letter could go on forever. My inner monologue is now a long letter to you all day, each day. Maybe you’ve heard some of the things I’ve told you? As you can probably tell by the circling nature of that monologue and this letter, I haven’t determined much since you died except, again: I really, really miss you. And I love you. Always will. Yours, Jenny “...We honor pain by allowing it to wash over us like a tidal wave, and in its own time it recedes a bit. That first ray of light breaking through the darkness is fresh air and we breath it in as deeply as we can. We breath in hope. And hope is the balm that soothes the pain. Just as we can’t expedite pain, hope also won’t be rushed. It comes in its own time. It comes as we honor the pain."
-lisa leonard I've been thinking about things I learned from Sam. One biggie is how to "turn in." All the members of his family are experts at it.
I’m not quite sure how to summarize “turning in,” so here’s an example: Let's say the family was all on a car ride together (not uncommon). If someone saw an eagle out of the window, that person would say something about the eagle and reliably, everyone would stop what they were doing to ‘turn in’ and experience the eagle together for a few moments. The Weises do this better and more often than most families I’ve spent time with no matter how big or little the object demanding their attention may be. They all ‘turn in’ reliably whether they were asked to do so about the weather, or Hadley’s resemblance to Kate and Sarah, or the ice dunes on the lake, or about re-telling an old family story for the Nth time and trying to remember every detail that goes with that particular story together. I think doing this makes them more connected. I realized that through small moments throughout our years together, Sam showed me how to “turn in,” too. When I had dinner on the stove, and was unloading the groceries, and stressing about work, and needed to return a phone call to someone all at once, Sam would often make me stop, turn in and have a hug and enjoy the quietness of a moment of loving connection even when things were hectic. Sam made me ‘turn in’ and watch funny looking clouds in the sky, or replay a song over and over so we could contemplate the meaning of a verse, or circle back to a bridge we’d just biked over to see if there were any trout swimming below. It created connection and, I now realized, those connections fed our love for each other. I have a tendency of rushing from point A to point B, and Sam showed me all the magic that there is to be experienced when we take the time to turn in and acknowledge everything else that happens around us but is not immediately in front of us. Debi, Jim, Kate, Sarah and Sam: Thank you for teaching me to turn in. I'm distracted from work so I'm taking a break to share something I've learned. First of all, if you are wondering how to talk to me (or anyone else close to Sam) or haven't talked to me/us because you don't know what to say, let me take the pressure off. Please just know that I've been in your shoes. I've had the same struggle with other friends and honestly, I barely even know what to say to myself! Today I'm thinking about how saying anything is better than nothing. ("Here to help," "Sorry for your loss," "My fave memory is..." etc.) I know your intentions are good so don't worry too much about saying the wrong thing, ok? Anyway, here's an excerpt from a poem a number of you sent me. I vehemently disagree with parts of the poem, and I love other parts like the two stanzas here:
I know there is a fear that speaking of someone who died might make the griever sad, so it’s best not to bring them up. Maybe that is true for some people, but in my short experience with grief, I'd say the opposite. Talking about Sam fills me with joy. Here's more from an article I read: "Hearing his name makes me smile and floods my mind with happy memories of a life well lived. It makes the grieving sadder when everyone around [me] refuses to say [his] name."
I'm slowly starting to understand the whole, "there is no moving on, only moving forward" mentality. The idea of moving on sounds awful, but forward is something I can do and that Sam prepared me to do. Continuing to talk about Sam makes that easier. To friends who have lost someone close: I'm sorry if I didn't say anything to you. I was scared. And to be honest, I'm not 100% sure my experience prepares me with what to say, but I know I don't want to say nothing. If you feel comfortable, I'd love to hear others' experiences with grief and what was helpful vs. not. I am very much still trying to figure it out. |
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