Chaos and second chances

A month.

Carl has be hospitalized for a month with a head injury and as the month has proceeded, two things have happened. I have had dreams of counting, or trying to count, specific things. Like cards. And other dreams of a world in disorder and disarray. It doesn't seem that these dreams fit with the theory that our nightime fantasies are simply the brain's way of file checking. Mine clearly reflect the relative disorder and uncertainty that now govern my life and Carl's.

Fortunately, today there seems to be progress. He was sitting up and his eyes were open and he squeezed my hand. Still, there seems to be something in his eyes that is wild and fearful. He cannot speak because of a trachea tube, yet his lips move, trying to make words that I cannot read. He can nod in what I think is understanding of my words. And his hands, restrained, sometimes move to scratch an itch, but sometimes to aim at tubes in need of pulling out. I think I would be wild and fearful, too, if I was at that edge of consciousness.

I hope what comes out of this is a way for us to be better together. Better than we have been for some time. I have missed him, a surprise to me because I have for a long time felt being alone would be best for me. Now, I am not so sure.

Chaos, it seems, has turned everything about us upside down and inside out. A second chance is more than many have a shot at. Can we make the best of it? More than ever, I hope so.

A good omen, I suppose for tomorrow, is this: After a day of gray and snow, the sky is in a deep winter-night slate blue; silver clouds, like puffs of velvet, skim across. The chill has turned inside air into drops of moisture on the windows by the front door, making my fingers damp as I press to look out at the midnight sky.

The wind is blowing, but not harshly. And the greyhounds are snoring at the bottom of the bed.

Here's to tomorrow and a better day.

Quiet time

It has been almost a month since my husband and I have spoken. He has been in the hospital, unconscious mostly (not comatose) after a fall and head injury on Dec. 1.

I can't imagine what the experience is like for him, what is going on in his brain. For me, it has been three weeks of frustration, confusion and tears. Of trying to keep track of tests, results, infections, prognoses, drug dosages and more tests.

Coworkers and friends have been tremendously supportive with offers of help, food and expressions of concern. I am beginning to dread, though, each day, seeing someone approach with the look in their eye of "I wonder how she is doing. I should ask." I am exhausted with answering questions about his progress and mine, yet how can I not? They are all well-meant and heart-felt.

Several people have offered to walk the dogs for me, but that is my therapy. A little bit of routine to keep things seeming normal.

And the dogs are happy to oblige.

Blue sky and night rain

The night rain pattering on my window heralds, according to the weather report, some wintry weather with its attendant traffic jams, school closings, panicked grocery store crowds, etc.

I'm not thinking or worrying about any of that. I am just enjoying the soothing sound that will very shortly lull me to sleep.

The day began with clear skies; as the dogs and I walked out of the house I looked up to see dissolving pale white contrails from the day's earliest flights.

A crow flapped into my line of sight and landed in a neighbor's big honey locust, gripping a piece of food in its talons. It pecked away for a few moments before a brother crow -- showing off the species' thieving DNA -- swooped in and stole the morsel. I think it was a pizza crust. Victim crow clucked harshly and hopped to another branch and I watched their black shapes bob against that pale, but still saturated, December-blue sky.

We walked on and I noticed in a protected area by a neighbor's house, right at the entrance to the park, a forsythia bush that had been fooled by the warm fall weather into pushing out a few bright yellow flowers. They were frozen, but even in their limp shape their color stood out against the red brick wall behind them. I have seen this before. A few years ago, in the street level parking lot behind the Carnegie Museum of Art in Oakland, some ornamental cherry trees lining a sidewalk had decided it was time to bloom, although it was only February. I couldn't resist. I snipped a few branches on our way out and took them home to enjoy in a vase. It was such a tiny thrill to find them there, warm rose centers and pink-white petals, blooming in the February gray.

We pushed on through the park, dogs sniffing, me listening and watching. As we headed down the slope that leads over a little bridge, one of my neighbors' kids was walking up, headed to the middle school on the other side.

He is so cute, I don't know his name but he is very serious, very earnest and quite intelligent. He was wearing a jacket covered by the ubiquitous kid backpack and a cap with the earflaps pulled down and carrying a banjo in a black case.

Holli and Twist pulled toward him and he asked if we were members of the greyhound society. He has asked me this before, so to make things easy, I just said yes. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces and said: "Apparently they are enticed by the alluring scent of my banjo. I have to bring it today for a sound project." And, I didn't quiet get this part, but then he added, "and to prove to some doctors (?) that, yes, there are still people who play the banjo."

I wanted to tell him about Steve Martin, but figured there would be too much explanation involved, for which I did not have time. So I just smiled and then he said: "Well! Enjoy the rest of your walk!" And turned to head up to school.

I had to smile, a big smile. I wonder what it is like to be so young and so smart? So.... almost grownup. He can't be in more than fourth grade or so, but so droll and composed!

Thanks for the smile, sweetheart. You topped off a lovely morning walk that engaged nearly all of my senses. And the memory of you has me smiling again as I listen to the rain against my window.

Keeping normal

My husband and I have often asked each other, since August 2001, when we adopted our first greyhound, Anni, how we ever lived without dogs.

Without, for example, the lovely yellow dog, Holli.

Well, for one thing, there was a bit more

sleep. And a bit more money. We also didn't know the fun, pleasure and joy we were missing. And the new rhythms they would bring to our lives.

I can't say I get a lot of exercise walking my dogs. I'm often a scarecrow, arms spread and lengthened by leashes, with one dog sniffing in one direction, one in another. We stop, go, stop, go. I sometimes try to imagine the worlds they bring into their brains through their noses. But I like focusing on them, on what fascinating things they see, smell and hear. I've learned to go at their pace (Cesar Millan would not approve) and as they investigate their world, I take the opportunity to ponder and observe mine.

My husband has been in the hospital this week. Family, friends and coworkers have been tremendously supportive, offering comfort, coffee dates, dinner, prayers and pet care.

I've turned down the generous offers of dog-walking because it's one thing I can do that is normal and routine.

Tonight I came home late after being at the hospital. It was dark and I made a phone call to my sister Elizabeth before bundling up and heading out with Twist and Holli.

Finally night has become cold -- my finger tips were chilled even through my thick gloves. The moon was a watery white disk faded among slate black clouds streaked with silver. There was a sharp scent of chimney smoke in the air, and, for a change, no owl could be heard hooting.

I like listening to the dogs as much as I enjoy their company. Twist likes to make the occasional snort into a pile of leaves. Holli has a deep-into-her-chest pant. As we walk, their toenails click click along the asphalt of the street.

Home again, both expectantly wait for their post-walk, pre-dinner treat. Inside, we all still wear, ever-so-briefly, the pungent drift of smoke from the cold night air.