Following Elias

True Sadness and Beauty

'Cause I still wake up shaken by dreams
And I hate to say it but the way it seems
Is that no one is fine
Take the time to peel a few layers
And you will find
True sadness

 

True sadness
True, true sadness

 

--Avett Brothers "True Sadness"

 

When the world feels too heavy for my hands to hold, I tend to dig my fingers in the ground, tend a small patch of earth.

 

I can't fix all the fractured hearts around the globe, but I can make amends to my garden beds.

 

I can weed, prune, transplant, feed and water my flowers.

 

Water.

 

With our low-flow well, our family depends on rain for our gardens, needing to preserve our limited water supply for drinking, dishes, showers, laundry.

 

We live in a rainforest. Water collection should be easy.

 

Until the rain stops.

 

Until we see temperatures in the seventies and nothing but sunshine here in Seward, Alaska, and all our tubs, buckets, and tanks remain low or empty.

 

Seeds don't grow. Leaves turn brown.

 

Walking through my gardens, I feel despair not relief. And there is already far too much grief in the world right now.

 

Like the Avett Brothers' song says: "No one is fine."

 

I think deep within each of us live multiple gardens, some parched with neglect, others lush, verdant, thriving.

 

Sometimes we only see dead leaves, shriveled petals, patches of soil where nothing grows.

 

Yesterday, a neighbor and friend sent me a text: "Good morning. The garden is finally at a planting stage! You had mentioned you might have extra Columbines. Is that still the case? Or any flower plants that you don't want?"

 

I invited her over, and as we walked through my perennial gardens instead of seeing neglect, she saw beauty.

 

"Your garden is so magical," she said. "You have so many little surprises."

 

I dug up Columbine, Iris, strawberries, my mystery ground cover plants and succulents, filling a tub with babies to bring from my home to hers. 

 

"I feel so grateful," she said.

 

"It's so dry," I said.

 

"Thank you," she said.

 

"We need rain," I said.

 

"These are beautiful," she said.

 

"Maybe Tuesday," I said.

 

"I love this little one," she said

 

"Hopefully its heavy rain and not another mist that just spits on the gardens," I said.

 

"I want a garden like this," she said.

 

Sometimes I wish we could step out of ourselves, view our lives from others' eyes, see how magnificent we are, how glorious.

 

Sometimes I want us all to to disarm our masks and expose our inner gardens, the jagged thickets and the divine petals.

 

Sometimes I wonder if we could truly see all the stories--all the suffering, rejection, loss, healing, victories, hope-- our neighbors carry, if we would ever hold a grudge again.

 

Or make enemies. Or fuel feuds. Or start wars.

 

We are all creatures in pain who need each other.

 

My friend drove her new plants down the hill to her house on the beach, planted them in her front yard, and then filled her water tank in the back of her van, drove back up to our house, and helped me hydrate my thirsty plants for the rest of the afternoon.

 

This world can be so fuckin' sad and so fuckin' beautiful all in the same breath.

 

My faith lies in friendship.

 

My faith lies in all of us reaching out to each other.

 

My faith lies us.

 

 

 

You were a friend to me when my wheels were off the track
And though you say there is no need I intend to pay you back
When my mind was turning loose and all my thoughts were turning black
You shined a light on me and I intend to pay you back 

 

--Avett Brothers, True Sadness

When the Land Slides

When the mountain crumbles across the only road to town, when trees act like dominoes falling into the sea, when boulders the size of trucks hang precariously overhead, when three hundred feet of earth stand before you like an unstable aggressive older sibling, your only choice is to find another way past.

The night before Mother's Day, Cuz-Uncle David called us around 8:00 p.m. with news of the landslide. We hopped in his truck and drove down the half-mile of our driveway, past the fire station, over Spruce Creek Bridge, beyond Storm Chasers Marine Services, by the small waterfall, around a few more bends, until about a mile-and-a-half down Lowell Point Road, Bear Mountain stopped us with her giant pile of debris across our path.

We joined other folks watching from the edge, the tangle of Spruce tress, the colossal rocks that continued to fall, the craggy scar on the mountain side where a forest once stood.

Two eagles circled overhead.

("I hope their nest wasn't in one of those trees," Olive would say, the next day, when we showed her the slide.)

Within an hour, word spread that Miller's Landing-- a local fishing, camping, adventure company, run by the family that originally homesteaded Lowell Point--turned their boats into shuttles, offering free rides to anyone stranded behind the slide.

This is the the true essence of Alaska. The true essence of community. The Miller family didn't wait for the the authorities or the government to come to our aid, but jumped in their boats and offered a hand. No time for questions, paperwork, or meetings.

Just do.

When disasters strike it is often our neighbors who come to the rescue if we are lucky enough to live in community. I remember reading about the volunteer boat brigade in New Orleans that rescued stranded people from rooftops after Hurricane Katrina. Ordinary people taking action-- becoming extraordinary.

During summer months, our gravel road that travels from town, winding between Resurrection Bay and Bear Mountain, receives an average of 1,100 vehicles a day. People drive it for the scenery, spotting sea lions, otters, seals, eagles, and sometimes whales from their cars. They drive out to Lowell Point to visit the State Park, hike the Tonsina Trail or walk the beach to Caines Head. They come out for kayak trips, fishing charters, and boat tours. To see the waterfalls, play on the beach, or camp at Miller's Landing.

Saturday evening, May 14th, the late setting sun shone, and so though still early in our tourist season, hundreds of people found themselves trapped by a landslide that wasn't going to be cleared overnight.

Nick who volunteers as a firefighter headed to the station to help anyone who was stranded. His fire Chief, Karl, who lives in town, took his own skiff out here to help, and along with another volunteer, Jason, they handed out blankets and snacks to folks sleeping in their cars. They set up a barrier on the road so folks wouldn't drive too close or attempt to climb over the still active slide.

(One man climbed over it within an hour of it sliding and is lucky to be alive.)

I paced my house until I got the kids to bed and then biked down with our dogs running free besides me. No need to worry about cars, I peddled back to the slide and watched as rocks continued to fall. A family drove up, their day trip from Anchorage turned into an overnight.

"Are they clearing it yet?" The woman asked.

"Oh no," I replied, "Its gonna be a while." Turns out they were on the road when it first slid and recorded a video of the trees falling down into the sea one after another. Their video ends with them running to their car to back it up and the Dad asking "Where's Maddy?" Their daughter saw the hillside fall and jumped out of the car to run the opposite way.

Fight or flight.

How do you fight a mountain? How do we outrun natural disasters?

Tomorrow it will be two weeks since the hillside slid, and with two giant excavators working twelve hour days, no-one knows for sure when our road will open again. Maybe June first, depending on weather, human progress and mother nature. The bravery of the men operating the heavy equipment astounds me, risking their lives as the earth continues to rain down, working strategically, tirelessly, to restore land access between Lowell Point and Seward.

Thank goodness for Miller's Landing with their water taxis transporting us to school, work, the store, the postoffice, our greater community. Government entities are now involved and disaster money finally kicked in, so this weekend the state will take over ferry operations, but imagine if we all had to wait two weeks for services?

Instead my kids and I never missed a day of school. I ditched my previously planned end-of- year lessons and facilitated discussions in every classroom about the landslide, with a focus on the miracle that no-one was injured and, channeling Mr. Roger's Mom, the idea that anytime a tragedy occurs, there are always so many helpers. We discussed how neighbors become heroes and made sure the daughters of the excavator drivers went home and thanked their Dads for their important work and bravery.

And though its been more logistically challenging, bound by the water taxi schedule, we've enjoyed time with our neighbors on our commutes through Resurrection Bay. Especially Elias, Mr Chatty in the mornings, when most of us just want to sip our coffee and scan the sea. He loves sitting with the single women and talks nonstop the whole trip.

A humpback whale showed us her tail on our first Monday morning commute. Sea Otters often greet us in the harbor. Friends offered us vehicles for use in town, places to crash, errands to run. A lovely neighbor even brought us pizza by boat last Saturday night.

Its quiet out here on the point, when this is the time of year we normally feel inundated by strangers. I've met neighbors I didn't know and feel far more connected to my community, especially after the last two years of isolation. When we pile into the Michael A or the Fox Willy, for our shared commute, I feel a kinship with folks of all ages and political stripes, because as different as our perspectives, we are all, quite literally, in the same boat.

I look forward to the road opening, to being free to travel on my schedule instead of cancelling commitments that don't work within the timeframe of my boat rides home.

And yet if you look closely from town to the small quirky--what CNN called "resort"-- community of Lowell Point, you might see a silver light wrapped around us, on the other side of the 300 foot slide.

If you know a teacher...

...you may want to check in with them.

Chances are they are barely holding on till summer break. Waking and hoping they make it through another day, without breaking.

To say its been a hard year is an understatement. For many teachers I've talked to its been their hardest year yet, and these are seasoned professionals.

Perhaps because we all thought last spring that this would be a "normal" year; and then got slammed by another wave of Covid-19 and all the political in-fighting this pandemic brewed.

With the distortion of masks into a political statement, everyone wears their ideologies on the outside; and no matter which way a teacher sways, they are always in the wrong, according to some.

Teachers put their own health and safety on the line to foster the development of young minds, only to be criticized from every angle--on the news, in social media, in angry phone calls and emails.

Accused of teaching topics not in their curriculum, of pushing their own political agendas, of indoctrinating students into "alternative lifestyles", and all these allegations made by folks who have not spent a day in their classrooms.

That is like me accusing a chef of sneaking spoiled ingredients into a meal, without ever standing in the kitchen, or trying a bite of the imputed food.

Hearsay can still ruin careers.

The threat of defamation can silence even the wisest of speakers.

And why is it that everyone who attended school, as a student, thinks this makes them an expert in education, with the authority to tell professionally trained educators how to teach?

Just because I attend an Opera does not mean I can stand up on stage and sing.

This year, teachers still hold the responsibility to teach a wide breadth of academic subjects, while also attempting to keep students six-feet apart, or sanitizing their classrooms, or teaching virtually and in-person simultaneously.

There is never enough time or support to do it all, so there is always the feeling of failing at something. And judgement comes with attendance rates, discipline reports, test scores, evaluations...

As inflation and healthcare rises, teachers salaries generally remain the same, as their responsibilities double, due to state budget cuts and loss of much-needed support professionals. Classes grow bigger and every child arrives with a complex variety of different needs. Teachers act as nurses, social workers, entertainers, drill sergeants (fire, earthquake, lock down, school shooter...) and in some cases parents to the students who arrive from homes filled with abuse or neglect.

These same students are expected to perform on state tests, despite staying up all night hoping the lock on the door holds or that a parent will be present in the morning.

The rise of standardized testing over the years has acted as a pressure cooker, squeezing out the creative juices that come with the job. Even science and social studies get pushed aside for the All-Consuming Tests-- as if reading speed and math facts matter more than the education of the whole child.

And no matter how engaging, funny, relatable or wise these humans strive to be, it's becoming harder and harder to compete with the screens students carry in their pockets. The screens students stare at for countless hours a day, absorbing an online world that can feel more real than the tangible world of paper, books, and educators with concerned eyes.

Teachers can't compete with TikTok, with its challenges promoting school destruction and sexual harassment. Teachers can't beat Snapchat, with its snippets of inappropriate conversations that pull kids from their studies.

Teachers can continue to strive to connect with children, who grow more and more disconnected from each other, from adults, from their communities.

Teachers can continue showing up every day, and loving these children when they are in their classrooms.

Teachers can continue offering safe spaces, with high expectations and clear boundaries, and countless opportunities to learn and grow.

If you know a teacher, you may want to buy them a coffee, or a beer, or a box of tissue, or a bag full of school supplies that they usually purchase with their own money, spending thousands of dollars on their classrooms, where they spend most evenings and weekends, despite folks thinking they have such easy schedules.

If you know a teacher you might want to ask if they could use a hug, an extra hand, a volunteer, a shoulder, an escape, a million dollars, a trip to a tropical island, a much-needed break.

If you know a teacher, help them to hold on-- because we all need these brave compassionate human beings who choose to teach our children.

We all need teachers to make it through another day.

We all need teachers to stay.

We all need teachers.

Between Storms

Ah, Spring in Alaska.

This morning we woke to three inches of fresh snow, and drove to school through thick flakes. By mid-morning a blue hole grew and grew, until sunshine beamed down on us during the first recess.

By the end of second recess, a student thought she heard thunder as we looked at the wall of grey clouds moving our way. The first snowflakes fell as we lined up to head inside for lunch.

I sat in the staff lounge watching the snow travel sideways as the wind picked up in the early afternoon. Before the final bell rang, blue skies dominated yet again; and as I drove to my physical therapy appointment I thought about walking the dogs to the beach afterwards to enjoy the evening sunshine.  And then I saw Resurrection Bay, with dark angry clouds moving our way.

By the time I picked up the kids to drive home, my squeaky wipers attempted to keep my view clear. "Did you see the hail today?" they both asked.

"I missed the hail," I said,  "But it's sure been a wild weather day."

Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville" played on the radio as I almost got stuck in the deep snow at the Y of our driveway.

Spring, the season of whiplash, that leaves us bruised and battered, especially if we expect any weather pattern to persist.

We can't contain the golden days; can't capture them in a jar to protect us during the next storm. We can't lasso the high pressure and hold it aloft.

The fair days remain fleeting, as winter refuses to loosen her grip--and though the weather constantly lets us down, messing with our hearts, our sense of hope, we go on-- we wake up, look out the window, and rise.

We pack our boots and our sunscreen. We get our bikes ready but don't put away our skis. We dress in layers. We prepare for every kind of day because they all may exist in one.

So too in life. No-one gets only sunny days. Storms don't last forever. The sky always lightens if we remember to look up.

On Saturday the forecast predicted an 80% chance of snow and rain. We woke to blue skies. Unexpected sunny days always brighten my mood. It's one thing to wake up to anticipated sunshine, something else all together when you foresaw bleakness and rise to sparkling rays of light. 

The doctor recently cleared Olive, who suffered a severe injury skiing last month, to participate in P.E and track and this summer's Mt. Marathon race. Her body has healed far faster than expected. The relief I feel can be sliced with a knife and served as steak. Thick, juicy, rare.

I recruited Olive on Saturday to help me plant. We stood outside, next to one of our many snowbanks, with the warm sun on our faces. 

We poked seeds and bulbs into potting soil. The tiny beginnings of plants to feed and delight us--beans, tomatoes, broccoli, lilies, gladiolas, begonias-- small bundles of hope between storms.

Underneath all our snow plow piles, my perennials begin to reach.

Even in the dark, they grow.

Swallowed Hearts

How many times must we swallow our hearts, and still stand at the sink scrubbing dishes?

Plunge a mug into suds, rub a sponge around the inside, the outside, along the smooth rim touched by cracked lips; then dunk the cup in clean warm water, as if the ground remains stable under our feet.

To see our children bruised and bloody, to hold no answers on how to fix the broken seams, is to stand as a long silent scream.

Our hearts rupture as our faces remain calm, words form and maybe even travel on steady voices, when inside we crumble like paper tossed into a fire.

We are a hurricane, barely contained, we offer comfort to our child, despite the waves that crash overhead, the riptide that threatens to pull us under.

We answer nurses questions, place the mug on the dish rack, wait for doctors, grab a handful of silverware, stroke our child's hair, dunk the utensils, all while a cyclone rages within.

******

Severe hematoma, blood clot, probable internal bleeding, possible surgery... impossible to rewind time so when Olive raced down the ski hill and abruptly stopped in a casual contest to see who could spray the most snow, she didn't hit an icy groove, or her skis were an inch to the right, or the stop sign more to the left-- there is no way to go backwards and make this right.

In most aspects of my life, I want the freedom to choose, but not late at night in the E.R. when my decision affects the health of my only daughter.

"You can either stay here and we will monitor her for the night or you can drive up to Anchorage now where they can put her under anesthesia and do a more thorough exam."

The doctor tells us if we stay, we still might need to drive up in the middle of the night if Olive's condition worsened or, if even more urgent, take a helicopter known as a "life flight" to Alaska's biggest city.

My initial thought is go, speed towards more resources, more specialists, more possible ways to save my child.

When I look at Olive's face, I can tell her initial thought is stay. Stay in this particular bed, with this kind doctor, without the disruption of a two-hour drive in a snow storm over mountain passes to unfamiliar faces.

I call Nick to consult, ask the doctor more questions, talk over options with Olive, long for a fairy godmother to tell me what to do. 

We choose to stay.

I spend most of the night sitting up, hugging my knees, watching Olive's monitor, the pallor of her skin, worried, every time her heart rate alarm beeps, that we made the wrong choice.

As Olive sleeps, I lean against the concrete wall and cry, this medical world too agonizingly familiar from our early days with Elias, but so utterly foreign with my healthy baby girl.

******

Hours earlier.

I do not yet know about Olive's injury. I leave my physical therapy appointment for my knee to meet her bus that returns from the 6th grade ski field trip to Alyeska.

Nick calls from Anchorage. From the side of the highway.

"Something's wrong with the truck. The breaks aren't working right."

It's after 5:00 on a Tuesday evening. I tell him to stay with friends and see if a mechanic can look at it in the morning. He's not sure if he can drive it any further.

I pull up to the school, notice Olive not engaged in a snowball fight with her friends, this, and the look on her face, tells me something's wrong.

"I gotta go. Olive looks upset. I'll call you back."

Olive crashed around noon. She spent the rest of the day in the lodge. She never told her chaperones how much she hurt. She sat by herself at lunch, separate from her friends, quiet on the outside, while inside, the storm brewed.

Nick called back as we drove home.

"I'm at a mechanics."

"Wait, what?"

Nick drove the truck to the nearest exit at Huffman, pulled into a Speedway gas station and noticed a sign on the side that said, among other words, "Breaks".

The mechanic, despite the late hour, offered to check out Nick's truck.

"That's amazing," I say, "What is the chance of a mechanic being there and available to help you right now!?"

Before we hang up, I tell him: "I think Olive hurt herself more than we knew. I'll check her out when we get home."

At lunch I had received a text asking if Olive could take ibuprofen.

Yes, she Ok?

Punch in the gut by another ski. She's fine.

Teachers can not read minds. 

As soon as Olive shows me her injury, I know we need to drive back to town to see a doctor. 6:00 p.m. now, our only option the emergency room.

"Elias, I need to take Olive to the hospital. I'll call David and see if he can come check on you."

"Ok," He says, not even looking up from his iPad.

The unexpected hurricane gathers steam, pummels my heart, crushes my lungs, as I start the ignition to the car, buckle my seatbelt, and drive Olive, wrapped in a blanket in the passenger seat, away from home. 

******

By 4:00 a.m., after maybe dozing an hour, I finally know we made the right choice, we don't need to drive to Anchorage-- Olive's hematoma shrinks instead of growing larger.

The doctor prepares our discharge papers, with an order for Olive to rest until we see her again on Friday morning. She tells me to watch for a fever, or dizziness, or a change in skin tone, and return to the E.R. or drive straight to Anchorage if needed.

After two long worrisome days, we make it to the Friday appointment.

The doctor evaluates Olive's injury and says: "I'm sending you right up to Anchorage." Concerned about increased bleeding and skin deterioration, she sends us to another emergency room farther away.

"It'll be ok," I tell Olive.

The wind inside me howls. The undertow seizes my ankles. I text my sister-in law, who lives in town, for road snacks, call Nick who will meet us at his sister Lyndsay's house with a to-go bag. The waves grow larger as we say our goodbyes.

I spend most of the car ride worried we are too late. We made the wrong choice to stay in Seward Tuesday night. Surgery is imminent. Irreparable damage has been done.

All this while staying in the right lane, maintaining an appropriate speed, keeping our conversation light.

Luckily, the specialist assures us that if Olive was still bleeding internally she wouldn't be carrying on a conversation. She says Olive will fully recover, it will just take time.

Not weeks but months.

This young compassionate doctor calls Olive "fierce." Says this is one of the worst hematomas she's seen and Olive is one of the toughest patients she's ever treated.

I wish Olive didn't have to be tough, didn't have to know, at age twelve, that her strong, fit body can still break.

The doctor tells us to wait another week before deciding on surgery, the risk of increased bleeding comes with surgical intervention and she remains hopeful that Olive's immune system will start to diminish the clot naturally.

So we return home to rest, watch, wait, with an appointment for six days later.

A Spring break spent in suspended anticipation instead of skiing down snowy slopes, staying in bed instead of at the mountainside Challenge chalet as planned.

******

We stand at the sink, hold a dish rag, and wipe dry a dinner plate, a circular motion like how the sun moves across the sky. Or how the earth circles the sun. We clean the dishes because we can. Because it means we fed our children. Because we see the results of our work. Because it has to be done.

Because we can't catch our children when they fall but we can ask, "Can I get you something to eat?"

We can cut strawberries, salami, cheese and arrange the slices artistically on a plate, add a small bowl of grapes and a piece of chocolate and feel like we are doing something.

We can't move the traps that will snare our children, but we can offer sustenance when they come home hurt.

We can stand at the sink and scrub their bowls clean.

******

When we return to the specialist on day six, we learn the clot grows smaller. No surgery needed.  Still a long recovery. No more skiing this year. No Spring track season. Maybe even no Mt. Marathon race in July. But a full recovery expected, with a few more follow up visits, and maybe another specialist to rule out a bleeding disorder, just to be safe.

Safety, a mirage in the distance, desired but elusive, a pristine image we can never truly hold. Like a stunning sunset that loses color before we capture it on our phone.

Olive and I leave the hospital knowing more than when we walked through the big glass doors. We take lighter steps across the ice, slush and puddles of the parking lot.

Our last stop in Anchorage is to the Speedway gas station on Huffman, to the side shop called Timi's Alpina.  I walk in the door, an older man stands by the window and the woman at the front desk asks, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I was hoping to thank the mechanic here."

"That's him," she says as the man by the window walks towards me. 

"Last week you stayed late to fix my husband's truck before he drove back down to Seward."

He remembers.

I tell him how my daughter ended up in the emergency room that night and how much worse it would have been if Nick wasn't home with Elias. I ask: "Can I give you a hug?"

He opens his arms and we embrace in the waiting room.  When we let go, I tell him, "You choosing to help my husband made such a difference."

"As humans we need to help each other," he tells me. "Sure it's good to make money. But it's really all about helping each other out."

I ask him his name.

"Rasim," he tells me and shows me where his name is written on his coveralls.

As I look in his eyes, I want to cry for this devastating beautiful life we live. How mere seconds can change everything. How a life can shift in a matter of inches.

How sometimes exactly who we need waits for us at the next exit.

I thank him again, and the receptionist, who I learn is his wife, before returning to my car, to my strong, stoic, brave daughter.

Olive and I share sushi and dumplings as we travel down the Seward highway, we listen to Spanish music, neither of us understanding the lyrics, just enjoying the rhythm and the beat, as we roll over the mountain passes towards our home on Resurrection Bay.

******

Despite our desire to protect our children, they will crash, fail, hurt, break, fall-- and when our Mom and Dad sirens blare, when we rush to respond with arms spread wide, we will not arrive on time.

We will be at our desk in another town when the text arrives.

We will be in our car when the phone rings.

We will be asleep when a knock shatters our world.

Dishes might remain in the sink.

For days.

But eventually we will turn on the tap, let the temperature rise, run our hands underneath the waterfall, until it feels just right. 

For even swallowed hearts, continue to grow.

 

PS. After writing this I googled Timi's Alpina, and learned from a news article that Rasim and his wife Katherine named the shop after their son Timi who died at age twenty.

PPS. If you live in South Central Alaska and need work done on your car, you now know where to go.

Perspective, Perspective, Perspective

Last Thursday, I walked into the staff lounge after an hour of recess duty in heavy rain and was just about to say, "Well I learned my boots aren't really waterproof" ...when a coworker said something like: We're lucky we aren't teaching in the Ukraine today.

His words lifted me out of my small self so I could look down at my petty problems from a window seat on a jet plane. My soggy feet no longer felt necessary to complain about. 

How luxurious to get to stand outside in the slush and rain while children play. How lucky.

No sheltering in subway stations, no fleeing on crowded trains, no hiding in friends' basements. No air sirens howling, no missiles deployed, no school yards under attack.

Just a typical wet day in Seward with kids breaking minor rules by throwing snowballs and rolling in puddles.

Perspective.

The day before, on Wednesday, I saw the faint line on a home covid test and my heart accelerated as I turned towards Elias and said, "You just tested positive."

His lip trembled, his pupils shook more than normal as they held fast with the ground, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and said, "Mom, my eyes are watering and I don't know why."

"Oh Bud, it's ok to feel, to feel sad or scared or worried about it."

Nick and I looked at each other, both wanting to say: Fuck! We felt sad, scared and worried too.

Three days earlier, on Sunday, Olive slept late as she often does on the weekend. I heard her get up around 10:00 but she never came downstairs; assuming she got back in bed to read, I didn't think much of it. Half hour or say later, I walked upstairs and peeked into her room.

She lay there crying and when she saw me, said: "I tested positive!"

My independent private girl woke up feeling feverish, took a home test in the bathroom without saying anything to us, and then got back in bed to process the results, alone. 

I hugged Olive and cried with her, thinking about the week ahead and her anticipation of not one but two field trips with her class to Alyeska for downhill skiing.  Her final week with her x-country ski team. Cousins coming to visit that afternoon.

Not to mention a fever of 103 and Covid-19 back in our home.

Olive isolated upstairs in her room but when Elias woke up warm on Wednesday I knew. My pandemic fear had come true.

We made it almost two years, made it through my trial with Covid-19 this fall, but despite all our precautions, our boy with damaged lungs held the virus somewhere inside him without words to tell us how he feels.

My eyes are watering and I don't know why.

And yet here we are, day six of Elias's quarantine, he sits next to me on his iPad exploring Anchorage on google maps, and besides his usual congestion, remains symptom free.

Elias spent a couple days lethargic on the couch, with a high temperature, but it broke and he started asking us repetitive questions by Friday night, so we knew we were going to get through the scenario we feared.

Anticipation of an event is often worse than when it finally unfolds.

Olive didn't end up missing both ski trips, one was rescheduled to tomorrow and today she is skiing with the 8th graders to make up for missing the 6th grade trip last week. And though she missed a week of practice, she got off quarantine just in time to compete in the final Burroughs meet of the year where she placed 10th, despite her lungs hurting when she raced.

Elias is cleared to return to school tomorrow and because I missed work to stay home with him I had time to walk to Tonsina with a friend this morning. A beach walk on a Monday morning. Not bad.

Perspective.

And honestly, after listening to and reading stories about Russia invading Kyiv and Kharkiv and Zmiinyi Island, Covid-19 feels minuscule in comparison. The pandemic has not displaced us, the sky remains free from rockets, a line of tanks is not en-route to our home.

Perspective.

I wonder, would we line up to defend "the land of the free?" Would I join the queue to enlist in a citizen army if enemy invaders threatened my doorstep?

The most I've been asked to do is wear a mask, wash my hands, and stay home. 

Perspective.

If Only I Could Remember

The sky shook my shoulders and whispered: "Open your eyes before you miss me."

Despite my body wanting to stay in bed, on a slow Sunday morning, I followed Sky's advice and absorbed the beauty of the changing light.

We need these moments of Ah. At least, I know I do.

Especially when my head throbs, and my energy ebbs, and I haven't felt like myself in months. I can hear the bacon sizzling but I can't smell it. I get dizzy walking up our driveway. At the end of a busy work day, I sit in my office, unable to think clearly about the tasks I need to accomplish to prepare for the next day. Even packing up to go home feels like too much work.

I find myself staring at nothing, no thoughts, a grey outline of my former self, filled with nothing but air where my stamina and creativity once lived. The color long gone.

It's fair to say I fall into the category of long Covid, considering I contracted the virus in October. And yet I've also had knee surgery in November, after rupturing my ACL, and so my normal active routine has been doubly disrupted and its hard to know if my lack of energy stems from Covid-19 or my lack of movement.

I also recently returned from a whirlwind cross country trip to visit my parents in Florida, from Thursday to Monday, my return flight re-routed, delayed, arriving in Anchorage in the middle of the night, and still working Tuesday-- just writing about it makes me tired.

And yet it was so nice to spend a few quality days with my Mom and Dad. Just me. No kids. I slid back into the role of daughter, with multiple beach walks and meals together, conversations without interruptions. No one's needs to tend to besides my own.

Warm weather. No down jackets, no gloves, no hats. No snow and ice to navigate with my surgically repaired knee. No starting the car before leaving the house, no scraping the windshields, no avalanches blocking the road.

Just my Mom, my Dad, and me.

The earth has orbited the sun over eighteen times since I last visited my parents alone, without my family. Eighteen times too many.

In Florida, the sky also called my name in the morning, shook my shoulders and whispered: "Open your eyes before you miss me."

Instead of boots I donned bare feet and watched the sun rise from the horizon instead of over mountain peaks.

Same star, thousands of miles apart.

Whether I stand on the shore of the Atlantic or above Resurrection Bay, I always watch spellbound as the sun transforms the morning, and me, for a moment, making me forget my body's ailments, my endless worries, the world's woes, and see only the beauty of the awakening day.

Now if only I could capture the energy of the painted sky to fuel me during all the mundane black and white moments in-between.

If only I could remember the light.

If only I could remember...

Eighteen Years That Might Not Have Been

Dear Elias,

In the beginning of this month, on February 2nd, you turned eighteen years old. On the eve of your birthday, your Dad and I stayed up too late drinking wine, feeling a mix of wonder and denial that your transition to adulthood dawned.

But dawn it did, with a magenta sky to celebrate you, after a slate sky week of sleet, snow and rain.

You’ve heard your birth story many times, the mad rush to the hospital when my water broke at twenty-four weeks, how I felt you move into my birth canal as we sped through red lights, the agonizing wait for someone to see us, the surge of medical personnel when the nurse couldn’t find your heartbeat, how they whisked me off to emergency surgery without your Dad by my side, the NICU doctor’s first words when I woke up: “He’s alive but I can’t tell you he’s going to survive.”

The doctor didn’t sugarcoat the truth of your one-pound, twelve-ounce existence. Your APGAR score of 0,0,3. The fact that you looked more like a science project than a baby.

I have written your premature arrival into poetry, spoken word, blog posts, and essays, circling and re-circling your beginning, as if through telling your origin story, I can change the trajectory. Or find meaning. An escape hatch. Peace. 

“I’ll write my way out,” Hamilton sings, in the acclaimed broadway play, and I can say I too have been writing my way out of grief and despair, towards understanding, towards hope, towards you. 

You, my son who survived. 

My son who lives with lifelong challenges that affect communication, vision, balance, and mobility, but somehow manages to channel the sun amidst a storm. “Isn’t it beautiful,” you used to say, on even the ugliest of days.

“I wonder where tomorrow is?” you asked, shaking me from my stupor of trying to rewrite history.

“Mom, what are you wondering about?” reminding me to harness more awe, less angst.

And yet sometimes you are the storm. Wreaking havoc on what started out as a beautiful day. You are the bear lurking in the woods as I walk, ready to pounce the moment I think how lucky I am to be in this particular forest, on this particular day. Claws raised you swing your beefy paws at my heart.

And then an eagle passes overhead and you are my charming sweet boy again. 

The one who eagerly invites folks over to our house for sledding and eggs Benedict, even if we’ve only just met, even if your Mom and Dad rarely follow through with all your invites, too overwhelmed by life to plan something new. The one who says to friends and family: “I’m so happy to be with you!” “I can’t wait to see you!” “Thank you for being here!”

Elias, thank you for being here.

If I’m really, really, honest with you, Elias, there have been dark moments when I’ve wondered what my life would have been like without you. Or when I’ve grieved the boy you might have been, born full-term and healthy, helping your Dad with house projects, leaving me in your shadow on the mountain, looking after Olive your younger sister, hanging out with friends, playing sports, reading.

I let myself imagine a different version of you. And alternate reality for me.

But what I often fail to recognize, in these moments, is all the gifts you’ve given me over the years. How you’ve taught me to slow down, to celebrate small steps, to laugh at myself more often, especially when I fall. You gifted me increased compassion, a greater tolerance for differences, strength long buried beneath false aspirations, and the ability to advocate for those who can’t speak up for themselves. 

By breaking and remaking my heart, you made me kinder, softer, more present, less selfish.

I can’t image forty-nine-year-old me without eighteen-year-old you. 

I am me because of you.

You, my eighteen-year-old son. An adult in the eyes of the law but not yet ready to stumble away from our home. Next week a judge will most likely grant us guardianship, a decision you support— and for years to come your Dad and I will submit reports to the court on everything from your medical history to your social life to your finances. A judge decides whether we can keep doing what we’ve always done, assist you as you navigate this world that wasn’t designed for kids like you.

You will not take the path well traveled. You can stay in school until you turn twenty-two and then what? Where will this overgrown trail lead? The college highway is not where you amble. Exploring the world on your own, not your path. Stepping right into a career seems like a substantial leap for your particular shoes. 

What comes next? 

I can’t jump ahead to pen the chapter after this one. You will write your own story. In fact, it’s always been you, the narrator behind my lines, the protagonist who builds the paragraphs, word by word, step by step, breath by unsupported breath.

“Mom, what are you wondering about?”

“I wonder where tomorrow is?”

“Isn’t it beautiful.”

If I circle back to your birthday, to the first time I lay eyes on your tiny body that didn’t belong outside of mine, as I stared at my heart on the outside, and reached my hand towards yours, you gripped my pointer finger with a strength impossible for your premature size, the bear in you already awakening, telling me: “It’s ok to love me Mama, we got this— I’m going to survive.”

And here we are, eighteen years later, celebrating your transition into adulthood.

I love you Elias, we got this, whatever this may be. 

I’m so happy to be with you.

Love always,

Mom

 

Paper Cuts, Multiple Wounds

I could wallpaper my house with all the disability paperwork forced upon us over the years.

Always.

Sometimes.

Never.

Never enough choices on all these countless forms. My child doesn't fit within the format. We can't capture him on the page.

Where is the box that says: Maybe.

It depends.

Depends on not just the day, but the moment in time, when all the stars align, when this child of mine finds the appropriate response, the right words...

Please.

I'm sorry.

No thank you.

Words fail to describe the between times. The ways he both can and can not communicate, move, understand, see.

No measurements exist to define the boy before me.

He will not be quantified.

When our former micro-preemie qualified for public pre-school, at age three, and the professionals led Nick and I through a gauntlet of surveys, as our firstborn sat on the floor with a therapist who tested his abilities, I remember wanting to scoop him up and run for the door.

I just wanted him to be Elias.

Not a kid in the 1st percentile for gross motor. Not labeled visually impaired. Not below average. Not a list of diagnoses.

But my blue-eyed, curly-haired, sticky-fingered boy.

I don't want to name everything he can't do. I don't want to see his skills compared to a typical child his age. I don't want to peer at my boy through a lens of deficit.

I don't want to fill out another damn survey.

Fast forward, and here I am preparing for Elias to turn eighteen next month, with a slew of paperwork before me.

Always.

Sometimes.

Never.

My thick skin from years of progress reports, IEP's and medical forms feels sliced anew.

Instead of starting school, we are transitioning to life beyond-- and the grief I felt in those early days gushes through my veins with surprising force.

We are not planning for a typical send off as our son enters adulthood, with college applications, job interviews or graduation parties.

Instead, we applied for legal guardianship, so now, for the rest of our/his lives, we will need to submit reports to the court on everything from Elias's finances to health to social activities.

I will now be accountable to a judicial system for everything I naturally do as Elias's Mom.

This means endless paperwork.

Paper that cuts at the heart of a parent.

Paper that makes me want to tear down our walls pasted with multiple wounds over the years and scream:

Please!

I'm sorry!

No thank you! 

No thank you! No thank you!

Hope for the New Year, with Puppy Love

2021 was a rough one. Good riddance.

Cheers to a new year, my lucky number that graced the back of countless soccer and hockey jerseys: 22.

How can I not be hopeful?

Today the Williwaw winds barrel down from the mountain peaks towards the sea, as if to sweep the world anew. I can feel our house shake with the 50 mph gusts, hear the rattle of the woodshed roof, see the trees dance with longing for something different, something new.

I can walk without crutches now, though I still use one, with a flip-down claw, to traverse the ice and snow. Not that I travel far, just to my car to drive to physical therapy or to the store for groceries.

I'll return to work next week, assuming we can keep the schools open with the onset of Omnicrom, the latest strain of this pandemic without end.

It's been over two months since I contracted Covid, and I still feel effects from the virus: headaches, low energy, dizziness, brain fog. And yet since I'm also recovering from knee surgery, it's hard to ascertain what causes my symptoms. Am I tired from laying around and not going outside for a run or hike or ski?

Maybe.

I know my dogs look at me with their wide eyes, wondering why I'm not heading outside to play.

I have yet to tell you the story of our second puppy, Caine, named after Caine's Head, a peninsula at the end of Tonsina Trail, the beginning of which is our driveway. Our fourth dog named after the land we love.

During our Trifuckta month of October--when during a three-week span, a hit and run driver killed our six-year-old Border Collie, Lola, I ruptured my ACL while on recess duty, and on the day I was scheduled to see the surgeon, I contracted Covid-19--our friend Jen was looking for homes for a couple of Border Collie puppies that were no longer spoken for due to their coloring. The would-be owners hoped for Sable or Merle Borders, not the traditional black and white.

From my upstairs isolation room, I commented on one of the pictures Jen posted on Facebook: "Is it just me or does that one puppy look a lot like Lola."

Jen replied: "You said it not me." She had told us after Lola's death that she'd bring a puppy to our doorstep, but we weren't ready.

Or so we thought.

From downstairs in the kitchen, Nick wrote: "I may want to meet him."

The next day from the living room, he texted me upstairs in the bedroom: "What about the name Caine?"

The following week, I returned to work, and on Wednesday, my travel day to my small schools with under 25 students, Cooper Landing, Moose Pass, and Hope, I stopped at Jen's mountain-side farm in Cooper, to meet the rejected black and white puppy.

I called Nick on my way home: "Caine's in the car with me."

The kids were never in on this completely-impractical-emotional decision, and so I surprised Olive when I picked her up after basketball practice with a puppy in my lap. Elias and Nick met Caine when we all made it home.

And though every sensible voice might have screamed: This is not the right time to adopt another dog, Hemlock isn't even a year yet and Christy's about to have ACL surgery and you both work full-time and its winter in Alaska...sometimes the best thing to do in life is to just say "fuck it" and bring home a puppy.

And so we did-- with no regrets.

Hemlock and Caine hit it off immediately at Jen's house; and now they spend their days wrestling, chasing, grooming, and snuggling with each other.

I still say the wrong names at times, calling one of them Lola, or even Tonsina, as if they carry the spirits of our lost dogs within them despite their differences. And yet they do not replace our previous dogs-- as if a limited replicable mold exists for pets-- instead they expand the boundaries of our relationships. 

They embody love, and who doesn't need more love in their lives?

The other day, I lay on the couch listening to a story about a bus driver in Tennessee delivering food to families on her route affected by the tornadoes, with houses demolished, families still missing.

At the end of the story the newscaster shared that the kids the bus driver had been searching for were found dead with the rest of their family. I found myself not just silently crying but loudly sobbing. Caine lifted his head from his spot by my feet, looked me in the eyes, scooted up to lick my face, and then rested his head right on top of my heart.

There is so much I hope for in this new year ahead: improved health, abundant creativity, increased time for friends and family, and above all, to embody the spirit of puppies. To remain present and playful and to be fueled not by fear, but by an abundance of ceaseless love.

May we all channel our inner puppies and embrace each other with our whole, wide-open hearts.