Just after 3'o clock on a Tuesday, I unlock the door to my patio. Tired from working all day as an animal keeper at the local zoo--a job I have held for 15 years, I am eager to be home, always happy to see my babies. My dogs are silent as I drive into the garage. There is no scratching on the door, no whining, no excited mom's home barking. I feel a touch of unexplained anxiety as I put my key in the door.
I open the door and see him almost immediately. He is lying as if asleep, but I know instantly, that he is not. It is Luc, lying very still, with his head tucked under and his nose resting on his front legs. Suddenly, the universe shifts just a little bit and the warm, pleasant afternoon comes crashing to a halt and I know, without a doubt, that he is dead. I drop everything in my arms, my books, my purse and my coffee cup, where it shatters onto the patio in a million pieces. I can hear my own voice, sounding as if it belongs to somebody else talking from far, far away screaming "oh no, no, no!" over and over again. I pick him up and start to walk in circles, wondering what to do, trying to understand what has happened, unable to make any sense out of it. He was doing so well, he was fine this morning when I left him, he lifted up his ears and wagged his helicopter tail as I said goodbye and closed the door...
Finally, after what seems like hours, but I know has only been minutes, I wrap him in a blanket and sit down holding him on the stairs. My other little dog Pagan, comes over and touches him with her nose very gently and then she sits next to me, quiet, solemn. I hold Luc gently and rock back and forth while the tears come. I hold him and rock and weep.
My father comes to the door and knocks to come in. I have fallen asleep on the stairs holding Luc and he uses his key to let himself in when I don't answer. He sits silently for awhile next to me, while I shake my head and continue to cry, unable to say a word. Finally he says, what do I want to do?
"About what" I say...I can't understand what he's asking.
Where would I like to take Luc? he says.
"Okay", I say, resigned and exhausted. "Okay". "I know where, can you please drive?"
I hold Luc on my lap in the car. The freeway is a parking lot, barely moving and the rain is coming down hard and I cannot believe what has happened to this normal, everyday day. At the specialty hospital where he was being treated for his cancer; the technicians, the receptionists and the doctors keep coming into the room to say how sorry they are. He was such a sweet, little soul. Yes, yes he was I reply, and kiss him on the top of his head to say good-bye one last time as they take his body away to be cremated. I hold onto him as long as I can, saying just a few more minutes please, knowing I will never see him again. His doctor finally says, "It's better this way. He never had a bad day; we should all be so lucky.." I blink and try to reconcile his words, and say Lucky? He was only ten years old. For all ten of those years he has been with me; through broken hearts, earthquakes, bad colds and indecision. He loved me everyday, despite my all too human shortcomings. He walked with me, slept in my bed, made me laugh everyday his joyful way of living, encouraged me to get up in the mornings... Even the best of human friends cannot be there for you like that.
On the way home, I try not to think about how different the house will be, how quiet, how empty and I cannot conceive of it. I cry once again all the way home, arms and lap empty. I pick up the phone a few days later, my heart heavy and tell my friend Tami that I can't go with her to watch the wolves in Yellowstone. I'm so sorry, I say, I know we've planned this trip for months but I don't even know what day this is and I certainly don't feel like traveling anywhere.
My friend says, "Go! Wolves and pine trees and snow will make you feel better."
My mom says, "Go! You need to get out of that house. Stop staring at the walls. Stop crying for a little while.."
My sister says, "Go. You've been looking forward to this trip for so long, I know Luc is gone but life is still beautiful. Remember those things that you love."
I pack my bags without enthusiasm, bringing everything I have that's warm, forgetting my binoculars, my pillow, my snowshoes, but remembering to bring my journal and my last picture of Luc. On the plane, I am numb, feeling like a stranger in my own body, still filled with shock and grief. Our plane ride is very rough and full of turbulence. I close my eyes and hold the hand of the stranger next to me, we are both afraid, we have resigned ourselves to whatever might happen and I am both relieved and surprised at the simplicity of that kind of acceptance.
The beauty of Montana is hard to describe in words. Even through the darkness of night from the safety of our rented car, we can see millions of stars up in the sky, with no city lights to dull them. I have a slight moment of panic, what am I doing here? And then, suddenly, I am glad I came. Excited to see the wolves, grateful to be in a place with clear air and clear, rushing water. The wildness of the land reaches right in and wakes you up, forces you to pay attention. It makes you feel alive and strong, it sweeps right out of you whatever isn't really important and puts you up close and personal with all the things that are--like grizzly bears, snow-capped mountains and spouting geysers.
The wolves are most active from 6am to 11am, so we set our alarms for 4am and get our clothes ready to just slip into, to be ready to go first thing. Tomorrow we meet Kevin, our own personal naturalist for a few days, he will help us to locate the wolves. I fall asleep rather easily and dream of wolves, silent shadows, elusive, intoxicating, the ultimate symbol of wilderness and beauty.
As the days pass, I feel it has been a very good thing that I have come. A good thing to be someone else for a week, busy and occupied in eating good meals, sleeping well, focused only on finding wolves. We learn to live in the rhythm of Yellowstone, up with the sun (or before), sleep in the afternoons and stay awake and aware in the twilight. We form small caravans, the "wolf-watchers", climbing in and out of our cars, setting up scopes, pouring coffee from a thermos, warming our hands with the cars blasting vents. The biologists have radios and we learn to discretely listen in trying to figure out where the wolf action is for the day. We see wolves, yes, playing with mice, chasing elk, but we also see eagles, coyotes, otter and bison. We breathe in the air that smells of snow and we hike the hillsides in search of tracks or kills.
One evening, we hike through the deep snow to the lake. The woods are pitch black and still and the temperature is 12 below zero. Light snowflakes fall from the sky and dust our hair and our clothes. The trail is rutted and full of deep snowdrifts and I keep falling into every one of them, exhausted. We cannot use our flashlight for fear of scaring off the wolves. Huffing and puffing we finally reach the lake and we begin to take turns howling, hoping for an answer. At first, nothing...and then, after endless, empty minutes, we hear them, from far across the lake, the wolves answer back. They howl one by one, until the whole pack joins in. The hair on the back of my arms stands straight up and I whisper "My God", to no one in particular...
Standing on the edge of that lake, I know this trip was the best thing I could have done for myself. As we walk back to the car in the moonlight, I glance back and see my own footprints, mingled with the wolf tracks fresh on the trail. I know right then that I will always find ways to watch the wolves again, no matter where or what my life might bring to me. I realize that my love for Luc and my love of all animals are intertwined and always kept deep within my heart, accessible and necessary, reminding me of all that is real and good in the world.
It is our last night; I go home tomorrow. I have done well this week, my loss feeling far away at times, crying only once while staring out at the trees, alone in the car, overcome with the finality of death. I know Luc's ashes will be waiting for me at home, for they have been picked up by my family while I was away. I did not want him to sit on a shelf somewhere, as if he was unloved. I do not know how it will feel to see him confined in that box, to see him that way, a once vital, shiny and playful boy. Grief is personal, private. Ours alone to feel. No one else can carry that pain for me. It is mine alone. I can talk about him (and all of my heartbreaks) with friends and that helps, but each night I know it is only me who loved him and only me that feels his loss so desperately. At 3am it is only my memories of him and his now forever absence from my life, only me that feels it.
Months later, I receive a call from a friend of mine who works at a local veterinary clinic. Someone came in today and needed to find a home for a longhaired, black and tan Dachshund. Would I be interested in him? I hesitate, wondering if it is a little too soon, but of course, I cannot resist meeting him. My dog Pagan is lonely, she was give to me many years ago after a serious car crash, she was my first Doxie and she too, misses Luc, refusing to sleep in the bed with me since his death, preferring to sleep alone outside on the patio.
Lucky is tiny and adorable. He immediately goes to get his ball for me to throw for him, he bounces up and down on his front feet until I do. Then, as he brings it back to me and sits up on his hind legs, barking, I am enchanted and take him home with me that very same day. We all know, of course, that our dogs will not live long enough, unfair as it may be and that someday, they will break our hearts, but we cannot say no, just the same.
At home, he follows me everywhere and falls asleep instantly when I rub his tummy, already filling up that hole in my heart. He reminds me that there is plenty of love to be had in this world and although sometimes it can be painful, it is always worth the price. I'm sure Luc would agree and most certainly, approve.
~ Jami (written in the late 90's)
Monday, June 18, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Hockey Matters.
Hockey matters. It does. Today, in Los Angeles, it matters more than ever. As the Kings close in on their first ever Stanley Cup, so many thoughts and emotions are swirling around in my ever hopeful mind. For those who love hockey, the feelings of euphoria and collective happiness make sense, to those
who don't know a blue line from a blue ox, they are mystified (and sometimes annoyed) by the
hype. I think about all the ways hockey has mattered to me over the years. Why does one love something? Not easily described or explained, love is a word that is amorphous, it is felt rather than described. The whole purpose of a blog, in my opinion, is to say things in a way that people can relate to, to conjure up feelings of yeah, I get that. It's a bit pretentious, I admit, which is why I resisted the blog bug for so long, among other reasons. Challenging to put down into words feelings that don't always have descriptions attached. Writing about hockey is one such challenge. Since I can't think of much else today, I'm gonna do my best and write about why I love hockey anyway...
My family is hockey crazy. No, they weren't born in Minnesota or Canada, most have been born and raised right here in sunny, hot (very little ice to be found) California. My niece went to hockey camp when she was nine, she was the only girl in her session, she got dressed in the women's bathroom, skipping the locker room full of boys. My nephews both played and still do. Both my sisters are rabid Kings fans. My brother and I recently attended a baby shower and probably annoyed those around us talking about nothing but hockey. My parents had season seats to the Kings for 17 years, most of those years when they played at the Great Western Forum. For us, it's a family affair. I started playing hockey at around 40. Had been to hundreds of games before I decided to give it a try myself. The U.S. Women's hockey team were finally going to participate in the Winter Olympics and women's hockey leagues exploded onto the scene. My best friend Stacy and I decided to try it for ourselves. I am not an athlete, I did not play sports in high school, college or ever, for that matter. Unless it involved horses I was not interested in competition either. Still not, in some respects, I play hockey for mostly other reasons, much to the chagrin of some of my teammates, I think.
Hockey is a primal sport. It's fast, it's exciting, it takes a ton of skill to play well and I'm constantly amazed by the toughness of those who play, particularly in the NHL. The skating ability needed to play at that level is beyond crazy. Hockey players are the last real men in sports today, IMHO. They don't boo-hoo when they get hurt, they pack that broken nose with gauze and continue to finish the game, they stitch up that 25 suture cut and come back out on the ice to play again. They still lose their teeth on a regular basis and they hug each other after each and every goal. How much do I love that? Hockey fans are a different breed as well. They do not tolerate rubber balls bouncing around the stands, they do not need cheerleaders to elicit cheers (most of the women I know and some of the men, hate the 18 year old Ice Girls in their tiny tops, feeling it demeans the game and isn't necessary) they know the game and will quickly call out someone who stands up in their row while play is still going on. They're a serious bunch. My mom knows more about hockey then most people I know. She can tell you who was traded for who, what year each team won the Cup, who the coaches are, what this player said about that one. We've all said we're gonna cry at the end of the this championship season, if the Kings win or if they lose, either way, there's going to be tears. Hockey matters to us, in a big, although often unexplainable, way.
Over the past ten years I myself have won championships, lost them, traveled to play in different states, went to hockey camp in Banff, met amazing women, formed lifelong friendships, cried some, watched friends break bones and felt feelings of frustration for not "being better". I love the smell of the ice, the sound of the puck hitting the boards and the concentration it demands. I've contemplated being too old to play and worried consistently about my poor tailbone that still hurts four months after falling (extremely hard) on it when someone took my feet out from under me during a game. Every time I seriously consider stopping, I get too depressed to get out of bed, despite all those things I just mentioned. So, I still play. I will never be a great athlete, I will never be the team savior, but I do the best I can most of the time and that's enough for me. I've accepted that and play for the fun, exercise and challenge. After a game I feel lighter, more settled, more relaxed, ready to take on another work week. For an hour I think of nothing else, it takes me out of my own head, where I desperately need to go and exercises my body to it's 51 year old limits. I've had concussions, bumps and bruises, and the occasional whip lashed sore neck, but no more injuries than 40 years of riding horses has brought me. Yes, I worry about being more seriously injured, I've seen terrible breaks over the years by those playing in my league, but I play for the same reason I ride motorcycles or ride horses, because it makes me feel good. Because it's so much fun. I worry more about not living, being too afraid to do anything but watch by the sidelines.
I went to both games when the Kings made their first Stanley Cup run, in 1993. I watched Gretzky break the record for the most points ever scored by a hockey player. I was there when Luc Robitaille broke the record for most points by a left-winger and I was there (and cried) the night he retired. He was always my favorite and I still miss watching him play. He also was my inspiration, he wasn't a pretty skater (even our beloved Bob Miller would tease him during shoot-outs), he didn't have a mad slap shot, but he had so much heart and willingness to get pummeled again and again in front of the net, he seemed to pop right back up again, rarely ruffled. I've been part of the collective roar in Staples Center this playoff run, stood on my chair, cheered my team as they won game after game, series after series, watching incredulous, after so many years of not even making the playoffs. I participated in many Skate With the Kings, Tip A King and Frozen Fury season openers in Vegas. I even had my wedding shower in a suite at Staples Center in the middle of a Kings game. I wore my favorite jersey and a wedding veil. My hockey girlfriends thought it was the best shower ever and my horsey girlfriends probably thought it was an odd choice. My cake had two hockey players on it and was designed in black and purple Kings colors. I have talked hockey with many a stranger in the supermarket, at the vet's office or on a street corner. I have a jersey signed by the entire team that went to the Stanley Cup in '93, a book signed by Gretzky and a picture of me and Luc that I adore from 20 years ago. My sisters and I have pics of ourselves with various Kings over the years, we love to pull those old pics out and talk about remember when. This is why hockey matters to me, it is memories shared with others over twenty five years. Memories of a thousand games, a million cheers and a few tears. Memories that sustain me through more difficult times of uncertainty. Memories that make it all better when nothing else seems to be going right.
Soon after my near fatal car crash in 1989 I went to a Kings playoff game. I still had my tracheotomy and my jaws wired shut. I got lots of stares but I remember walking the "loop" at the Forum feeling relief, feeling happy and inspired. I remember wanting to go to that game so bad, just to have my life feel normal again. Wanting to be part of it, relieved to still be around and able to walk among 19,000 other people, dressed in my favorite Kings jersey. That game mattered, I still remember those feelings as if it were yesterday. My friend Amy describes it this way "We've felt that sense of belonging to a diverse tribe bound by a common goal, we've suffered through long winters of discontent. At times, we've drawn everything from solace to salvation from the eternal spring of hope that comes from looking beyond ourselves and putting our hearts into a team from year to year, win or lose. From talking in terms of "we" and not "they", I step back sometimes and think how crazy it is to invest in a group of people playing a game, but for me a big part of it is connection". Yes, it's always about connection; to others, to having fun, to living a worthwhile life. Like my Dwight Yoakam music and my horses, hockey has been a consistent source of happiness for me over the years. The Kings did not win the Cup last night, but I believe that they will. And when they do, it will bring an incredible energy, a collective happiness, it will be a fitting tribute to 25 years of connection in my life and I will be among the happiest of all. Because hockey matters. It does.
My family is hockey crazy. No, they weren't born in Minnesota or Canada, most have been born and raised right here in sunny, hot (very little ice to be found) California. My niece went to hockey camp when she was nine, she was the only girl in her session, she got dressed in the women's bathroom, skipping the locker room full of boys. My nephews both played and still do. Both my sisters are rabid Kings fans. My brother and I recently attended a baby shower and probably annoyed those around us talking about nothing but hockey. My parents had season seats to the Kings for 17 years, most of those years when they played at the Great Western Forum. For us, it's a family affair. I started playing hockey at around 40. Had been to hundreds of games before I decided to give it a try myself. The U.S. Women's hockey team were finally going to participate in the Winter Olympics and women's hockey leagues exploded onto the scene. My best friend Stacy and I decided to try it for ourselves. I am not an athlete, I did not play sports in high school, college or ever, for that matter. Unless it involved horses I was not interested in competition either. Still not, in some respects, I play hockey for mostly other reasons, much to the chagrin of some of my teammates, I think.
Hockey is a primal sport. It's fast, it's exciting, it takes a ton of skill to play well and I'm constantly amazed by the toughness of those who play, particularly in the NHL. The skating ability needed to play at that level is beyond crazy. Hockey players are the last real men in sports today, IMHO. They don't boo-hoo when they get hurt, they pack that broken nose with gauze and continue to finish the game, they stitch up that 25 suture cut and come back out on the ice to play again. They still lose their teeth on a regular basis and they hug each other after each and every goal. How much do I love that? Hockey fans are a different breed as well. They do not tolerate rubber balls bouncing around the stands, they do not need cheerleaders to elicit cheers (most of the women I know and some of the men, hate the 18 year old Ice Girls in their tiny tops, feeling it demeans the game and isn't necessary) they know the game and will quickly call out someone who stands up in their row while play is still going on. They're a serious bunch. My mom knows more about hockey then most people I know. She can tell you who was traded for who, what year each team won the Cup, who the coaches are, what this player said about that one. We've all said we're gonna cry at the end of the this championship season, if the Kings win or if they lose, either way, there's going to be tears. Hockey matters to us, in a big, although often unexplainable, way.
Over the past ten years I myself have won championships, lost them, traveled to play in different states, went to hockey camp in Banff, met amazing women, formed lifelong friendships, cried some, watched friends break bones and felt feelings of frustration for not "being better". I love the smell of the ice, the sound of the puck hitting the boards and the concentration it demands. I've contemplated being too old to play and worried consistently about my poor tailbone that still hurts four months after falling (extremely hard) on it when someone took my feet out from under me during a game. Every time I seriously consider stopping, I get too depressed to get out of bed, despite all those things I just mentioned. So, I still play. I will never be a great athlete, I will never be the team savior, but I do the best I can most of the time and that's enough for me. I've accepted that and play for the fun, exercise and challenge. After a game I feel lighter, more settled, more relaxed, ready to take on another work week. For an hour I think of nothing else, it takes me out of my own head, where I desperately need to go and exercises my body to it's 51 year old limits. I've had concussions, bumps and bruises, and the occasional whip lashed sore neck, but no more injuries than 40 years of riding horses has brought me. Yes, I worry about being more seriously injured, I've seen terrible breaks over the years by those playing in my league, but I play for the same reason I ride motorcycles or ride horses, because it makes me feel good. Because it's so much fun. I worry more about not living, being too afraid to do anything but watch by the sidelines.
I went to both games when the Kings made their first Stanley Cup run, in 1993. I watched Gretzky break the record for the most points ever scored by a hockey player. I was there when Luc Robitaille broke the record for most points by a left-winger and I was there (and cried) the night he retired. He was always my favorite and I still miss watching him play. He also was my inspiration, he wasn't a pretty skater (even our beloved Bob Miller would tease him during shoot-outs), he didn't have a mad slap shot, but he had so much heart and willingness to get pummeled again and again in front of the net, he seemed to pop right back up again, rarely ruffled. I've been part of the collective roar in Staples Center this playoff run, stood on my chair, cheered my team as they won game after game, series after series, watching incredulous, after so many years of not even making the playoffs. I participated in many Skate With the Kings, Tip A King and Frozen Fury season openers in Vegas. I even had my wedding shower in a suite at Staples Center in the middle of a Kings game. I wore my favorite jersey and a wedding veil. My hockey girlfriends thought it was the best shower ever and my horsey girlfriends probably thought it was an odd choice. My cake had two hockey players on it and was designed in black and purple Kings colors. I have talked hockey with many a stranger in the supermarket, at the vet's office or on a street corner. I have a jersey signed by the entire team that went to the Stanley Cup in '93, a book signed by Gretzky and a picture of me and Luc that I adore from 20 years ago. My sisters and I have pics of ourselves with various Kings over the years, we love to pull those old pics out and talk about remember when. This is why hockey matters to me, it is memories shared with others over twenty five years. Memories of a thousand games, a million cheers and a few tears. Memories that sustain me through more difficult times of uncertainty. Memories that make it all better when nothing else seems to be going right.
Soon after my near fatal car crash in 1989 I went to a Kings playoff game. I still had my tracheotomy and my jaws wired shut. I got lots of stares but I remember walking the "loop" at the Forum feeling relief, feeling happy and inspired. I remember wanting to go to that game so bad, just to have my life feel normal again. Wanting to be part of it, relieved to still be around and able to walk among 19,000 other people, dressed in my favorite Kings jersey. That game mattered, I still remember those feelings as if it were yesterday. My friend Amy describes it this way "We've felt that sense of belonging to a diverse tribe bound by a common goal, we've suffered through long winters of discontent. At times, we've drawn everything from solace to salvation from the eternal spring of hope that comes from looking beyond ourselves and putting our hearts into a team from year to year, win or lose. From talking in terms of "we" and not "they", I step back sometimes and think how crazy it is to invest in a group of people playing a game, but for me a big part of it is connection". Yes, it's always about connection; to others, to having fun, to living a worthwhile life. Like my Dwight Yoakam music and my horses, hockey has been a consistent source of happiness for me over the years. The Kings did not win the Cup last night, but I believe that they will. And when they do, it will bring an incredible energy, a collective happiness, it will be a fitting tribute to 25 years of connection in my life and I will be among the happiest of all. Because hockey matters. It does.
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