And then the day comes,
The house clean, the list double-checked,
And now, surrender.

******

Trust the skill of the surgeon.

Trust my body
To begin the repair
I’m told starts the very moment
Of the wounding.

Cells, do your work.
Stitch together
All the parts
That have been
Severed.

Take the tiny fragments,
The eroded bits,
Worn out
Detritus.

Send them down
The river of 
‘Thank you for your service’
Into the ocean of
‘Well-done, no regrets.’

Shiny new parts,
New connections.

Some old parts
Have been practicing
To join the new —
Strengthening,
Readying

The new
With the old
Join 

To make me
Whole
Again

Summer solstice, 
Full moon, hot sun, fierce wind,
Shattered glass. Look up.

***

Lift your eyes now and
Look up from the place where you are.

Words from the LORD to Abram, 
“Look up from the place where you are.”

This place holds death and grief,
Matted grass poisoned by limited beliefs.

Even now the scarlet poppies bloom,
Rising up out of the hidden grasses

The mystery of life revealed,
Their glory triumphant in full sun

Grief surrounds me.

Some of it is mine.
Some lies in the community around me.
Some lies just beyond me,
In the fractured relationships not yet healed,
Still, part of me.

I was raised in grief,
Lost to the loss that defined me.

And now,

In this time between the soft green of spring
And the harsh heat of summer,
In the fullness of the moon’s ebb and flow,
In the fierceness of Spirit’s breath
And the shattering of what was once a solid surface
For my musing.

What must I see
As I lift my eyes
To the horizon?

Slept well, woke rested.
After weeks of restless grief-sleep,
Eyes open, heart smiles.

*****

Art heals.
So they say.
An afternoon in the sun,
At the patio table doing art.

And if he were still alive,
My dog would be lying
On the flagstone
Beside me,
Always beside me,
Lifting his head now and then
To look at me,
Sniff the air,
Watch the birds
Swooping in to land
On the nearby feeders,
Shifting his hips
Now and then.
If I say his name,
Rising to bring his head
To my lap,
Waiting for my pets,
Insisting I continue,
Lifting my hand when I stop.

Is it art that heals?
Or the felt presence
Of an old friend?
Or the birds?

Or an afternoon in the sun
With all three?

Who can say.

What I know
Is I slept well
And woke rested.

After the shock passed,
I miss the presence of you,
Always at my side.

*****

Your face turned up to mine,
Your eyes following me.

You knew my patterns,
Recognized my Zoom call voice,
Saw me getting ready to leave,
Stood waiting to see.

Would I take your leash
From it’s hook
On the wall?

Then prancing ensued
Your front paws danced
Their way to the car.

In our younger days
We walked the trails 
Of Jefferson County.
Every week, a new adventure.

I carried the requisite supplies
For both of us
And packed out your waste,
Triple-bagged, of course.

I learned all the tricks,
Had all the fancy hydration cups.
Yummy snacks, booties for sharp stones,
Extra water. Extra love.

Sometimes you wore a doggie pack.
Carried your own water.
Packed out your own waste.
Less smelly for me that way.

You were a sneaky one.
Fascinated by poop 
Left behind by other critters,
You knew I disapproved,
So you’d “fall behind,”
Thinking I might not look back
And see you grab the forbidden object
In your mouth.
“Leave it,” I’d say sternly.
Head down, you’d stand,
Pretending not to hear.
But If I repeated the command
you’d drop the yucky thing
And bounce back in front of me,
Happy to continue up the trail ahead.

You had three beds upstairs
And two downstairs.
Two heating pads,
One for each floor.
And as you aged,
Stairs for getting up on the bed.
You were never one for toys,
Though you did love that crazy lobster.
Only when I was on the phone, of course,
Because it made such a squawking sound. 
And lots of antlers to chew on. 
You had strong jaws
And the impulse to chew.

I took care of you.
Adored you. 
Spent every day and night with you.
You never left my side.
Slept on my bed.

You were my soul companion. 
And my soul misses you.

Note: This was written March 2019 and reprised here in part because I became interested in following the Iditarod (currently running in Alaska) out of love for my long-legged, run-crazy dog Jasper. With Jasper now in treatment for thyroid carcinoma, I enjoyed this flashback to a time when I imagined Jasper in harness. Also of note, this essay was written in response to a writing prompt: “safety.”

Safety is the penultimate checkpoint for mushers before crossing the finish line in Nome. The dogs, usually Alaskan Huskies, have run, loped, or trotted 977 miles from their starting point in Anchorage. They can bed down here, get veterinary care if they need it. 

Most mushers “blow through” Safety, completing the required check-in and mushing on. They are a mere 22 miles from Nome, 3 to 4 hours — in dog time — from the finish line, from the blast of the siren signaling them into the final ramp to the burled arch and the cheering crowd. Ecstasy, hugs all round, protein snacks for the dogs, and then sleep and a shower in some order. This year, the second-place team barreled into Nome in 2 hours, setting the speed record at more than 10 miles per hour. Because the musher had something to prove after coming up short for the win.

Sometimes, Safety becomes a place of respite. The team has come across the infamous “blow hole,” actually a series of natural wind tunnels which can be quite violent. Teams can move through a hurricane-force gale with blowing snow and zero visibility and come suddenly into absolute calm — or vice versa — again and again over several miles of wind-blown drifts and treeless trail. 

At this point in the Iditarod, mushers have been racing a minimum of 8 or 9 days, and the back-of-the pack 12 or 13 days. Sleep-deprived, fingers, toes and cheeks frost-bitten from the extreme cold, their minds are fogged over with fatigue and misery. Some hallucinate cat heads or red-eyed monsters. With luck, the monster turns into a trail marker instead of an angry moose. Rookie or seasoned veteran, they all face the same — some say the worst of the Iditarod.

Sometimes, Safety becomes the place where it all ends. This year, a musher with 49 finishes to his credit became disoriented, his team unable to find the trail in whiteout conditions. They circled for hours before the sled became stuck on driftwood and the musher, already suffering from the beginnings of pneumonia at the age of 77, lacked the strength to move the sled and gathered his dogs around him, his throat tightened with fear.

A musher passing by in the distance saw the reflector on the stranded sled but couldn’t stop his team and decided the best he could do was alert officials at nearby Safety.

A second musher saw the same and was able to turn his team to find the alarming cluster of curled up dogs, disabled sled and befuddled leader. There was no option for moving musher or dog team to the cabin in Safety. The fierceness of the wind and the profound stiffness of their fingers prevented them from opening up their sleeping bags.

And so they stood together in a tight embrace, as close as lovers, moving their feet and talking, laughing even, to stay awake and to stay alive. For now, at least. When the corneas of their eyes started to freeze, the outcome seemed grim.

Then, a bit of luck. A trio of fat-tire bicyclists (yes, bicyclists out in 50 degrees below zero) saw the dogs, saw the sleds, saw the huddled mass of frozen humanity — and stopped. One of the mushers had a satellite phone in his bag but hadn’t been able to push the buttons to call for help. The mushers also had an emergency device meant to signal the need for rescue. In their fog and their frozenness, neither had sent out an SOS. The bicyclists were able to call the wife of one musher already waiting at the finish line and to signal the Iditarod officials about the urgent need for rescue.

Out of Safety roared two snow machines. The men were saved, the dogs mushed on to Nome.

The second musher — the one who stopped, the one who saved the first — had the option, could have mushed his own dog team to Nome. It was only 22 miles, 3 or 4 hours from Safety to the finish line. He’d announced at the start it would be his last Iditarod. He’d come this far, 977 miles, 10 days. His dogs were healthy and pulling at their traces. They wanted to go!

He said he couldn’t leave his friend, wanted to make sure he was safe.

“How is he doing?” People ask. Multiple times a day. 

There’s the short version: He’s holding his own. 

The longer version: Yes, he’s holding his own, and I watch him every day to see how he might be experiencing his life. Do his ears perk up when I ask if he wants to come up on my bed at night? Does he move his arthritic haunches with a bit of enthusiasm for the food put down in his bowl? 

What do I see in his face, his eyes? Is he still connected? To me, to being outdoors?

He recognizes when I am preparing to take him on the long drive to the vet hospital for his treatments. He stands and looks at me without moving. Even when I call him and lift my voice.

“Let’s go! We’re going outside! We’re going for a walk!”

Um, no thank you. His eyes are not eager, his feet do not move. There is no bounce in his step when we get to the car. He knows what we’re doing, and he’d rather not. 

People say “He’ll let you know.”

So far, I think he’s still in it. He’s still eating well, drinking well. He doesn’t cry out in his sleep or moan when he navigates the stairs. 

Mostly, I think he’s still here for me. I am his person, and he is loathe to leave me. 

I hope I will know when it is time to let him go.

Feelings overwhelm.
Don’t ask me to bare my heart.
Too much pain lives there.

***

Right now, I feel the limit of the horizon before me.

I have some time with my furry boy. And yet, it seems to extend the time of grieving. 

I’m having a hard time being in the moment when I feel “the end” rushing up on me.

I want to take joy in the moments we have, and yet I’m struggling to feel anything.

After the flood of tears and “anticipatory grief” and the intensity of diagnosis/treatment options/decision-making, my brain and my heart are just tired. I am craving respite from the ongoing drama of life approaching death.

I’m struggling with how to “be” in this moment. 

A part of me wants to shut down. Another part wants to take joy in each moment he is able to sit in the sunshine and turn his head toward me and gaze into my eyes.

And then there’s the part that just want to break things.

How do I stay in the posture of love and gratitude when the life of my beloved friend is slipping away from me?

The body learns grief,
An ocean of tears, then peace;
Breathing acceptance.

Dawn breaks hard today.
I sit with my dying dog.
This world is so small.

What are the words to honor a companion of 14 years? 
Is poetry the way to say goodbye? 
Heartfelt words to convey the meaning of our time together?

Perhaps on the way to the appointment today.
I may find words to comfort my anticipated grief. 

What he wants is a tasty treat, a friendly pet, brush strokes along his flanks. 
What I want is to find out the local vet was wrong,
his breathing is fine,
there is no concerning mass in his throat or thyroid. 
Not yet. 

If he were suffering, I would know it was time. 

He’s still eating, drinking, climbing up and down the rocks behind my house to reach the little creek. 

I want one more summer of him lying in the water to cool off.
One more autumn of turning leaves and nature’s reminder to let go. 

I will do what needs to be done. 
My promise to him.
I will not fail.

Still, I want more time.
To offer treats and pets and comforting strokes of the brush. 

A little more time to find the words.