Week two back at Wrenwood . . .

Our bedroom has a patio door that leads out to a small deck constructed around an oak tree. It was one of the many quirky features we fell in love with when we found this house over seven years ago. Our house is a walk-out rambler, perched on the side of a ridge, so the deck is actually quite a distance up from the ground, maybe 15 feet or so; one can actually touch the lower branches ("one" meaning others can, I can't, being so short . . . ) I remember telling Bob it's like having a treehouse for a bedroom . . . we soon learned, however, that when the winds pick up and start tousling the sky-high branches around, the lower part of the strong, sturdy trunk also moves, imperceptible to the eye, but very perceptible to the ear. When the winds roll through, the trunk rubs ever so slightly rubs against the boards of the deck, yet this barely-there movement releases a constant low groaning, popping, grinding, squeaking . . . the first time it happened, we were baffled—this is some serious olde-tyme horror movie sound effects going on—to hear it, you'd truly think that the trunk was ready to rip right through the deck and tear it from the house. Bob hypothesized what might be causing the eerie sounds, took an handsaw and somehow managed to shave a small section from the board making contact with the tree. Problem solved.

We thought. Trouble is, trees grow, even when encircled by a deck, so this has to be done every year; but every year, we'd forget about it till maybe January or February, when the haunting groans of the tree outside our bedroom window returned, robbing us of a good night's sleep. For some reason it's more pronounced in winter—maybe the moisture in the tree freezes, causing it to expand? I wonder who sawed the board last winter . . . I don't recall doing it, maybe Jim did for us . . . it'll have to be done again, as I didn't get much sleep last night, though that could be said for pretty much any night, for the past two years . . .

So, between the spooky tree sounds keeping me up all night, and Gaia clawing at the patio door around 4 this morning, I'm pretty sure a mid-day nap will be happening sometime in my schedule today. Maybe even mid-morning. I've been up since 4, because who can sleep in the midst of their very own horror movie going on around them—the groaning, creaking, grinding, all night . . . the tree sounds were background noise as I drifted in and out of fitful sleep and there's nothing I could do about it right then, but the scraping claws had me bolt upright in bed. I knew it was Gaia—her claws definitely have a different frequency than the scraping sound of a hook of a deranged mental hospital escapee (remember that scary story, peeps?) but it was odd that Gaia would want to come in so early, she normally sleeps soundly through the night. Begrudgingly, I left the warmth of my fleece bedsheets (Kohl's, on sale, now. Seriously. Get yourself a set, if you haven't already), and when I opened the patio door, she sauntered into the house, walked right over to the water bowl in the mud room, where she stood and slurped for a long while. I noticed that her bowl outside was empty, and also noticed that the temps must have dropped dramatically overnight. Not that that bothers my 14 year old Alaskan malamute any, but the frigid blast that rushed into the house when I opened the door for her woke me right up. Wide awake. I filled her outside bowl, let her back outside and have been up ever since.

I bought a new electric water bowl for my big ol' girl at Fleet Farm last week. One more small joy of being back home—outside outlets. At the old house in St. Paul, several times a day, I'd have to bring Gaia's water bowl inside, run hot water into it, to melt the frozen block of water and then refill it. She drinks so much water, I sometimes wonder if her kidneys aren't slowly shutting down. But, at 14 1/2, what can be done? Kidney failure isn't very treatable and I just keep a close eye on her, for signs of distress, acute discomfort. So far, other than her arthritic legs, I don't see anything. My beautiful old dog still likes (demands) her daily walks, slow going as we are, still has a healthy appetite, still lumbers over to great anyone who comes for a visit. She just doesn't come into the house much any more (though she has been coming in more often since being at Wrenwood; not a lot, but now and then), which is hard to get used to, as she used to be such a "people-dog," always having to be right where the peeps are. But when I think of it, it's really been since maybe even before Bob got sick that she turned into more of a recluse, preferring her quiet, alone time, either downstairs in the furnace room, or outside in the elements. But, she's still with me, in pretty damn good health for a 14 year old pooch, and for that, I'm so grateful.

This morning will be my first sunrise viewing, by myself, at Wrenwood. When Bob was first sick, he slept down in the basement, on the futon; I'd get up early in the morning, make our coffee and join him, where we'd watch the inky black slowly give way to the day. This time of year, with no leaves on the trees, we are treated to incredible sunrises, the celestial blue night sky giving way to brilliant pink, fiery oranges, pulsing reds, glowing golds and then suddenly, the burning globe of the sun bursting from the horizon . . . I often think of how lonely and scared Bob had to be, during the entire course of his ordeal. So much of what he went through, he had to do alone and for that, I feel such immense sadness. He couldn't  sleep in our bed, sleeping in the basement alone, so many days alone in the hospitals, so alone in pain, so alone in his fear, no one truly understanding the scope of what he was going through, even those of us right beside him, have no idea . . .

Okay, must be overcast enough that there was no sunset today, just inky black giving way to royal blue, and eventually grey-blue . . . but it feels good, anyway, to be up so early, few cups of coffee and a banana-chocolate chip-walnut muffin, getting a lot of writing done, fed the dogs, did a load of dishes, made the bed, started laundry . . . I let Rocco outside earlier and when I was downstairs, I was looking out our backyard and in awe of how little snow we have now. This time, last year, we had a snow pile that reached from the back yard up to the bottom of the upper deck . . . and for this, I am so grateful . . . I know we need the moisture, but I am still so okay with this mild winter, selfish as it feels.

I have these funny little thoughts now and then, that somehow, wherever he is in the afterworld, Bob is pulling a few strings, talking to a few higher-ups, to help make things a little easier for me as I struggle to recover from the trauma of his illness . . .  I like to think of this crazy-mild winter as a gift from him . . . and Gaia still being with me . . . and Rocco being my velcro-dog . . . and the escape I needed, to the old-soul house in St. Paul . . . and being one of the few in my St. Paul neighborhood to not get burglarized . . . getting into Hamline's MFA program . . . winning tickets and backstage passes to my all-time favorite musician, Lucinda Williams, last summer . . . I don't pray for these things, because right now, my prayer mechanism is still quite faulty—prayers did nothing at all to spare my beautiful husband immense suffering for so long, why would I be so foolish or naive or arrogant to think that prayers are going to "fix" things for me? In my "head" that's all silly stuff, that Bob is playing favorites for me, but in my heart, it's feels true and feels good . . . I have a theory on prayers, too, that goes along with my theory on miracles . . . It's not that I don't believe in either, but I now know how they work, and it isn't the way most people think they do . . . but again, I'm still struggling with the words to say exactly what I mean with that, and am still fine-tuning my theories, so bear with me a while longer . . .

I rejoined my beloved kettlebells studio in Stillwater, Uncommon Age, and am trying to go at least three times a week again. I really slacked off during my St. Paul sabbatical—I did find a kb class in St. Paul, but just didn't feel the love like I do in the Stillwater class. Maybe it's just an imprint of the time; it was the one and only thing I did to take care of myself during those very dark and scary months. I wasn't sleeping, couldn't eat, fighting off an endless onslaught of horrific images that never left me alone, not for a second . . . kettlebells, I think, helped save my life. I know, a tad over-dramatic, perhaps, but it's how I feel. I love how the workouts force me to be right here, right now, in the moment (if I'm not, I could drop a 20 kg weight on my head). The workout demands impeccable form to gain the most benefits (and to prevent injuries), so for an hour, all I do is totally concentrate on what I'm doing right then and there, nothing else. It's a protective mechanism . . .

There was an interesting discussion going on during Tuesday's class; someone had brought up a news story about a guy who recently shot a nail through his head with a nail gun, didn't even know it was there, because he didn't feel any pain . . . which lead to a discussion about pain and the body's ability to perceive pain. Evidently studies have been done that indicate that our ability to feel pain is often indirectly proportionate to the severity of the injury. For example, with a minor injury, one might say their pain level is at a six (on a 1-10 scale), while someone with a life-threatening injury may register much lower . . . theory is, the body's defense mechanism often kicks in with a serious injury, preventing us from "feeling" real pain associated with the injury because if we did, we would die . . . conversations like that always make my breathing quicken, my throat tighten and I fough like hell to not start crying in class . . . I think of the excruciating pain Bob endured for so long, even on copious amounts of narcotics . . . whenever we'd talk to doctors, or go in for appointments, they always asked, "Bob, what is your level of pain at today?" So often, he'd say, "Oh, maybe a three or four . . ." and I'd often counter with, "Ummmm, if I could interject? Based on his body language, I'd up that to maybe a six or seven . . ." I always knew it wasn't because he was playing hero; rather, I often felt it was a protective, defense mechanism that kicked in, insulating him from the reality of the situation . . . likely so many things, coming into play . . .

I continue to marvel that I get up and go about each day, when every waking minute of my every day is filled with such thoughts . . . but I am also marveling that each day, Wrenwood feels more comfortable, more enveloping, more sacred a space for me and my dogs. I feel safe, cocooned, protected, even with the gasping, gaping wound in my heart, my soul. The rooms feel familiar, every action feels a little more like my life and less like an out-of-body experience . . . maybe the edges of the wound are scarring over some, and the pain I felt this summer isn't so jagged, so sharp and raw and debilitating . . . it's now a duller ache, always thisclosetome, but not quite so traumatizing, not so blinding . . .sometimes the jagged pain flares up (the "zingers," Bob used to call the intense nerve stuff he had, after that god-forsaken surgery). Maybe that's a little gift from my beautiful Bob, too, easing my pain . . . part of me doesn't want to give up that intense pain, for fear of forgetting, of losing Bob, losing the lessons I need to learn from our experience, but that is something I will deal with, work on, make damn sure doesn't happen . . .

One of my first assignments for my writing class is to write about a person who is the complete opposite of me. Many people and situations came to mind, but I settled on writing about Bob. We are the absolute polar opposites, Felix and Oscar, Bert and Ernie, Lucy and Ricky, Dharma and Greg—you get the idea . . . I have never written about him before. I mean, other than in the blogs. Even in the blogs, I surely haven't written much about who Bob really was, before he became so violently ill. It's been at once, a jarring, difficult experience as well as a gently therapeutic exercise, to take a "day in the life" of Bob, back when he was so healthy, and retrace his footsteps, trying to capture his personality, his mind, his mannerisms, his very essence, his being . . . it's the Bob that is still so fuzzy and far from me, taken from me so long ago, it's going to take a while, and a lot of work, to bring him back into focus . . . along with therapy and support groups and whatever else I stumble across to try and help me, I'm hoping that perhaps my writing will help bring my husband, that my words will help to bring my healthy, handsome, hilarious, insightful, sensitive husband back to me . . . maybe I'll share some of my writing projects here on the blog, let y'all know that I can write with a little more structure and discipline (and without f-bombs!), when I really try . . .