Dave walks in first and I follow.
Dave speaks soft and with love, “I am so sorry. She didn’t make it.”
Cindy breaks down at these words, and I reach over to hold her while she cries. Cindy held hope that the hospital could pull off a miracle. Alan goes quiet and then, stone-faced, hugs his Dad. Alan wants to comfort him. Alan looks at me with a heavy concern no nine-year-old should know. Dean, who was trying to hold it together for the kids, lets a single tear slide down his face. Hours go by, and the five of us sit by the woodstove staring at the empty swing in the middle of the room where just that morning Madi was contentedly swinging. On the tabletop sits the loon whose little beak comforted her before going to sleep. Everywhere I look there are signs of our little girl. It is impossible to overstate the impact she had on our lives. Agony runs through my soul and sets fire to my painful breasts. I do nothing about it though. This pain is tangible, and if I focus on it, perhaps the death of my soul will be less noticeable.
Part Three:
Scratching
Iditarod, Mile 0
Fairbanks, Alaska | 2015
Courage is the power to face difficulties. Courage
comes from a reserve of mind more powerful than outside
circumstances. When we are bigger than our problems,
we gain the courage necessary to win.
—from The Best of Success
by Wynn Davis
Not everything goes according to plan.
Not even the start of the 2015 Iditarod race goes according to plan this year. Iditarod 2015 begins in Fairbanks because of snow shortages in the Dalzell Gorge. The race committee is not eager to have a repeat of the injuries that defined 2014. The Fairbanks restart keeps everyone, including the race officials, working up new strategies. There is a significant amount of chaos because it has been twelve years since Fairbanks hosted the start (see fig. 24).
After the ceremonial start in Anchorage, all the teams make the 360-mile drive north to Fairbanks. There is a major snowstorm that causes mushers to drive off the road. The drive takes over twelve hours. Teams take off every two minutes from Fairbanks and head toward Nenana. Teams pass back and forth, all going at different speeds. Some sprint to get ahead of the masses. I keep the dogs traveling slow to avoid blowing out any wrists or shoulders. For the first couple of days of the race, nine miles per hour is ideal to get these dogs trail-hardened.
My race plan is to go through Nenana, avoid the confusion of the first checkpoint, and camp ten miles out. The dogs are overexcited. They don’t care about resting. The entire team is hyper and wants to play with each other, fight over food, and bark at every single dog team passing by. Not one of us, musher or dog, sleeps.
After a four-hour stop, we travel forty-five miles to camp between Nenana and Manley Hot Springs. At Manley, I drop my main leader, Summit. Summit is the leader every musher hopes for. Everyone knows Summit, not only for his looks but for his loving attitude. He is keen on affection yet royal and aloof in poise and posture. He isn’t a fast trotter, and his shoulder aches. I planned on his stable presence to make it to Nome and worry about leaving him behind.
I leave Manley Hot Springs with fifteen dogs and head to Tanana for the remaining fifty-six miles. I carry two dogs in my sled for thirty miles. We rest in Tanana for six hours, and I leave three dogs behind. At Tanana, the trail follows the mighty Yukon River, the longest in Alaska and Yukon. Its surface area is 25 percent that of Texas. Historically, it was a principal means of transportation during the Klondike Gold Rush. It remains a local snow and water highway for villages along the river. The trail from Tanana to Ruby is close to 120 miles, and we camp halfway between Tanana and Ruby on the riverbank of the Yukon.
In contrast to my 2014 rookie Iditarod, I plan on camping outside the checkpoints as much as possible now. I have learned what a unique and fulfilling experience it can be camping out on the Yukon. I start a fire to warm my hands and look up to enjoy a sky full of stars.
Ruby is 396 miles into the race, and I am down to twelve dogs. They are looking bored with the Yukon. Time to change my race strategy. Extended rest may increase speed and prevent further injury from happening. I take my eight-hour mandatory layover in Ruby.
The trail from Ruby to Galena is only fifty miles, but temperatures are now forty-five below zero. Cold air sinks deep into the Yukon River making this a long and dangerous run.
Ceremony
Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2002
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.
—Johnny Cash, “I Walk the Line”
Waking up in the cold, dark bed, I know it is in the early hours of the morning. Dave gets up before I do and fires up the woodstove to heat the house. I lean over, putting my arm out, to check on Madi. Panic rises in my throat, cutting off my breathing when I don’t find her. The sudden movement flares up pain in my swollen breasts as understanding dawns. Madi is dead. My stomach rolls over as images of blood coming out of her nose flash before me. I jump over Dave trying to reach the slosh bucket, knowing I won’t make it outside in time to throw up. I splash cold water over my face trying to clear away the living nightmare. It doesn’t work.
“I’m here babe,” Dave says—he came out after me. He doesn’t ask how I am or tell me everything will be okay. There are no fake platitudes between us. I am here for you. I love you. We are both in a state of constant anguish, but we will navigate our way through this together somehow. We are stronger together than alone.
My mom and Dave’s dad come up for the funeral. A synthetic casket isn’t right for Madi. All week Dave spends time in his shop working on making one from wood we brought down from the hills earlier in the year. I spend hours trying to come up with a suitable design for the lid. I start one drawing, cry all over the page, rip it up, and start all over. The night before we bury Madi, I stay up to carve a Celtic cross with a spiral at the heart onto the lid (see fig. 25).
Our friend Chuck makes her a cross from black spruce and stains it with linseed oil. Carved into it are the words “Our Littlest Angel.” Countless friends come to camp to help with the burial and support us. The ground is permafrost and we need a jackhammer along with many shovels. The box is so tiny. We bury Madi next to our new house, still under construction—the house that she was to grow up in.
We try to discover what happened. Maybe the hole in her lung didn’t heal all the way. When her breathing became hard from all the crying she did, perhaps it burst open. The autopsy comes back with results. She died from positional asphyxiation. Her body position in my parka exerted pressure on her lungs so she couldn’t breathe. I will live with the unbearable knowledge, shame, and guilt. Gut wrenching sobs of devastation permeate my entire being and take over any control I have of my sanity.
Together, Dave and I get the woodstove fired up and make coffee. Each of us knowing our part of the routine and able to work together without speaking. We look away at the many areas of the house dedicated to our tiny girl. She filled up the house like she filled up our hearts. The comfort of the routine calms down my stomach and throat, allowing me to talk. “Thank you,” I say, embracing Dave in a tight hug, as if I am affirming he is real. I feel I wouldn’t be able to exist without him. I take a deep breath. “What would you like to do today?”
Dave looks at me with sudden seriousness. “I want to marry you today.”
I smile. “I will marry you any day. Are you sure this is the right time?”
“Our families are all up here at camp. Let’s honor the memory of our baby. We need to give Alan and our families hope right now. We need to be the strong ones for them.”
We have been discussing getting married for months and agree that now is the time to commit to one another. It overjoys our families.
“I love you” is all I can say. “Okay, let’s do it. Today is our wedding day then. Are you supposed to even see me?”
Dave just laughs
and turns to get his hot cup of coffee.
The house wakes as the sleeping family smells coffee. The sound of crackling firewood and its heat invite people to get out from under their covers. We have family sprawled everywhere.
My mom is first. “Good morning. You two are up early.” She gives Dave a hug before her own daughter—a trend that continues.
Trying to keep the mood light I say, “Gee, Ma, he’s not even your son-in-law yet, but he’s already your favorite.”
Mom says, as she always does when so accused, “I love all my kids the same.”
She turns and says, “Good morning, kiddo.” Hugging me she asks, “How is the pain today?”
I look at her with a big smile on my face and shrug. “No pain today, because it is my wedding day.”
My mom knows me well enough. She looks at my eyes to judge my mood not my mouth, which wears a smile even if my eyes are dark and dead. Mom gets ibuprofen and runs right into Dewey, Dave’s father.
“Well, good morning,” he says in a deep baritone voice. Mom shakes her head, laughs, and continues around him. Dewey comes in. This time, I get the first hug.
I look at Dave in triumph. “At least I am someone’s favorite.”
Dave shrugs his shoulders and lifts his hands up, feigning innocence. “I got in a lot of trouble as a kid.”
“Boy, you got that right. Did he ever!”
Alan pops his head out over the edge of the loft where he slept. “What kind of trouble?” He can’t wait to get dirt on his Dad.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dave says.
Dewey winks to Alan. “If you get on up out of bed, I will tell you all about it.”
Alan, with a smile full of mischief, decides it isn’t worth it and crawls back under his blanket.
Mom takes advantage of the distraction and slips me ibuprofen knowing I don’t want attention on me.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, before downing them with coffee.
Alan’s momentary exuberance wakes up Cindy sleeping in the loft we call the bat cave. Sleepy-eyed, she looks down and tries to decide if it is worth coming downstairs.
“Morning, Cinderella,” Mom calls out using the nickname my sister loves to hate. Without speaking, Cindy comes downstairs and joins us. Her eyes are distant and swollen from crying. Her nightmares mirror my own. I give her a long hug, wishing she didn’t have to go through this.
Mom turns to the group after looking outside. “Looks like we have a beautiful day for a wedding.”
In early April, the sun rises at seven o’clock. The world comes alive with color, and the brilliant blue sky plans to stick around for the day. Birds are singing from the trees, and the dogs outside are chewing on a new discovery of meat chunks that have thawed out from the intense sunlight. We sit down to breakfast, and I know Dave is right. It delights everyone to have a meaningful goal for the day: a wedding. After a week full of helpless despair, our family needs to do something, fix something, act to control life again.
My mom gets out a pad of paper and pencil. “What needs to happen?”
Dave and I look at each other. I hear none of the conversation as I get lost in his eyes. Our love gives me courage, strength, comfort, and peace. I am used to surviving this world and fixing things by myself. After today, I won’t be alone anymore. Dave will be there, and as partners, we can fix things together. I am not a loner anymore. Strange, I don’t want to be. I feel more like myself when I am with him than I do alone.
“Katie?” My mom calls me out of my reverie.
Turning away from Dave, I say, “Yeah, Mom? Sorry.”
“What time will people be able to come out?”
“One o’clock. Camp teacher will be out here at about eleven”
“Camp teacher” is the nickname we gave our good friend Eric Smith who snow-machines out to different camps and teaches homeschoolers. Later that morning, we see snow machines heading our way. The vantage point of the house enables us to see incoming traffic for miles away, giving us ample warning to expect guests. Eric is the first to arrive.
“Hot off the press!” he says before even taking his gear off. “I am now an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church of Modesto California.”
Eric explains to us that the Universal Life Church is a nondenominational religious group that advocates for religious freedom. Their online ordination process allows anyone to become a minister free of charge. “Nothing to it,” he says and grins. His long black hair falls over his camouflage jacket as he pulls his cigarettes from his ripped jeans and hands one to my Mom. The juxtaposition of appearances illustrates the unique individual that is “camp teacher” Eric.
Others soon arrive after hearing radio announcements of the upcoming ceremony. Sandra Moto helps my mom and Cindy bake a wedding cake. Sandra and her husband, Dickie, have come every day during the past week. Good friends are scarce, but when times get tough, they stay without being asked.
While the cooking is happening, Dave and I fade in and out of the craziness. We clean up and dress. Showering is not simple with so many people, no running water, and no privacy. I fill a basin with hot water from the stainless-steel container on the woodstove. I take a clean washcloth to our back bedroom, so at least I put in effort.
I don’t do well by myself. As soon as I have to stop looking strong and positive in front of our family, I crumble from the strength it takes to carry such pretense. I sit down on the bed and stare at the spot where Madi once slept in peace. One of her baby blankets lies tucked in the corner of our bed. Unable to help myself, I reach over and pick it up. Desperate to feel her presence, I lift the blanket to my nose and surround myself with her sweet baby essence. The emptiness brings up images of love chased by despairing pain. Being alone on the tundra. Calling out. Begging for help. Doing CPR on her lifeless body. Hearing her last screams, knowing all she wants is the comfort of my arms and love. Instead, I take her on a ride, ignoring her cries. Blood. Numb. Hollow. Soul-ripping pain. All at the same time.
As if Dave can sense my anguish, he comes into our bedroom and takes the blanket from my tight fingers. Holding it up to his own nose, he closes his eyes. As he opens them, they are raw, hurt, and empty. Rather than hiding his eyes, he looks into mine. Without talking we understand that we can just be with each other in acknowledgment of equal suffering. Lost in a labyrinth of grief, we will find our way out, together. Yes, we are getting married. Hope triggers direction—forward direction.
“Time to get ready,” I say.
He nods his head but takes time to lean over, holding on. This time, he needs my strength. I find that I have it. For him I have it. I hug him in reassurance that we will make it.
Moments go by, and Dave’s breathing stabilizes. “We got this,” he says.
We each put on our cleanest pair of Carhartt pants. His are black and mine are brown. I find a black tank top that is clean, and Dave puts on a black long-sleeve shirt.
“I have something for you,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows.
He brings out a box from a nearby shelf and hands it to me. “Until we can get our rings tattooed on, I thought you might want this.”
Mystified, I open the box to see a small ivory figurine on a chain necklace.
“It is a Billiken. For good luck. I got it in Shishmaref and was waiting for the right time to give it to you. We need good fortune, now more than ever.”
I agree and put it around my neck. I walk out to show Mom and Dewey.
Dewey jumps up and proclaims, “Rub his tummy, tickle his toes, good luck follows wherever he goes. As a blues chaser, he’s a honey, for good luck, just rub his tummy.” Dewey laughs with a sparkle in his eye. “It’s the Billiken charm. You know, in Japan they are the ‘God of Things as They Ought to Be.’”
No surprise Dewey knows that. As a lifelong teacher, spending over a decade in rural
Alaska schools, he has picked up a few things. Dave and I find that our families have been creative in our absence. Mom gifts Dave with a bowtie made from camo-green mosquito netting and duct tape.
“It’s perfect!” I exclaim.
“Just you wait,” Mom says.
Cindy runs over. “Close your eyes.”
I play along as she puts a bridal veil over my head. I open my eyes and cry when I see what they made. The veil is an elastic mosquito net and Mom has somehow sewn on a long matching piece from a mosquito-net tent. A bow connects the pieces of material together with a piece of blue lace woven in.
Mom catches my eye and says, “Something blue.”
My warm tears express gratitude. “I can’t believe you guys have come up with this. It is so amazing. Thank you so much,” I rush on. “I mean it. Thank you so much for making this day as beautiful as possible.”
Camp teacher Eric can’t resist the opportunity. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. Wait until you hear the ceremony. Nothing but pure, divine eloquence and the grace of doves.”
The ceremony takes place behind our house up on the hill, overlooking Kobuk Lake. The springtime sun shines off the snow and ice, requiring all of us to wear our darkest sunglasses. Over my Carhartt pants, I wear a deep-green velvet parka with a black wolverine ruff. This was a gift from Dave earlier in the year. Sandra brought out flowers from Alaska Commercial grocery store in Kotzebue. Dave and Alan each put on a daisy—bright yellow, my favorite color. Sandra gives my mom and sister pink carnations to carry. As we walk outside, Dave and I grip each other’s hands. We don’t let go (see fig. 26).
The ceremony goes by in a blur as Eric, now nervous, starts the proceedings. Our interlocked hands grip even tighter when we say, “I do.”
Epic Solitude Page 16