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We navigated like that for two and a half hours, without seeing another vehicle, in the thick snowy silence, on high alert, moving full speed ahead, or at least as fast as we possibly could in the storm. Having a sick child helps make warriors out of ordinary parents. When we got near Haines Junction, the skies cleared and a full moon rose over Dezadeash Lake and the broad white hills of the Yukon. It was beautiful. I put in a CD and Muddy Waters sang the blues. That's when Chip, who was driving, exhaled and said, "This is surreal."
The bumps on the last leg, an old roller coaster of a road through the empty countryside, hurt Christian. I helped him breathe through the pain the way I had been taught in childbirth class. Five and a half hours after we'd left home we walked into the sixty-bed Whitehorse General Hospital.
No one asked us for any ID or if we had insurance. They didn't even know our names until the nurse examining Christian in the emergency room asked us. She said Dr. Feldman had been right, and she called a surgeon (there are two). A nurse with a German accent said, "I've come to take your blood," just like Dracula. We smiled. Christian winced. It hurt to laugh. We helped him into a hospital gown and didn't look when they stuck the needle in for his IV. When the doctor arrived and learned we were Americans, he had us sign a paper saying we wouldn't sue him. Then we trotted alongside the gurney with coats flapping, still in our boots, and kissed Christian before he went through the swinging doors and was gone. That's when I walked around the corner, where Chip couldn't see me, and cried. For just a minute.
An hour later Christian was wheeled by on the way to a recovery room. The doctor said he was fine. He had removed the inflamed appendix just in time. Three days later, we were headed back south in snowy sunshine, veterans of a successful campaign with only good stories to tell. Christian gets carsick, so we had all the windows down and our hats on. The windchill must have been minus thirty. I said we'd all get frostbite, and we all laughed. I wondered out loud if it was crazy–or just plain irresponsible–to raise a family so far from a hospital. Chip didn't think so. He said, "This proves we can get anywhere–when we need to."
On a cold, windy afternoon, not long after the appendix adventure, my youngest daughter, J.J., and I took a walk on the beach. The calendar said April, but it felt more like February. After pulling hats over our ears, zipping jackets, and tugging on rubber boots, we opted to walk into the wind first, so the way home would be warmer. Living in the northern end of the Lynn Canal makes you appreciate what a blessing the old Irish prayer "May the wind be always at your back" really is.
We held hands and leaned into the southerly gale, occasionally throwing driftwood sticks for her little terrier, Phoebe, and my big Lab, Carl. The wind carried them so swiftly, and so far off course, that by the time Carl got halfway down the beach, he'd turn back, confused, forgetting what he was chasing.
J.J. took this rare one-on-one time as an opportunity to tell me about her third-grade writing project. "It's a story about a girl with a perfect life, who lives in a perfect house. Until she gets kidnapped by aliens," she said. I think every mother wants her child to have a perfect life. I don't know if other parents worry as much as I do that it may end prematurely. I can't help it.
In the cold, bright light of day with my little daughter's hand in mine, I tried to forget about what might happen if sick children don't get to hospitals on time. I didn't want to wonder why I had a healthy baby in a blizzard and Christy's friend drowned on a routine boat ride. I didn't want to think about what happens if a baby coming out feetfirst gets stuck or why old men dying from cancer just want to hear one more song before they go. Instead, on that blustery spring day I concentrated on something happy and very much alive–J.J.
As we climbed over slimy boulders, I asked about the details of the story she was writing. "You said your main character has the perfect life, in a perfect house. How is it like ours and how's it different?"
"Well, her life is pretty much like mine," J.J. said. "And she has a house a lot like ours." I felt better already. "Only nicer."
"Only nicer?"
I looked back down the beach at our home tucked into the spruce trees. I think it's a perfect house, in the nicest town, in the prettiest place on earth. But J.J. said she wants a house more like the one farther down the road, the grandest private residence in Haines. She had good taste, anyway. "What do you like most about it?" I asked, curious which fancy details caught her young eyes.
"The bowls with Jolly Ranchers in them," she said. "I think we should have little dishes of candy everywhere at our house, too." I remind her that we do, at Christmastime. Then J.J. asked if Santa Claus is real.
Is life good? Will summer ever warm this beach? Should we believe in magic? "Sure, Santa Claus is real," I said, "and the best stories have happy endings."
DULY NOTED
During a city council discussion on the new zoning plan last week, councillor Norm Smith asked, "What about the cemetery, is that going to be zoned as park, or a greenbelt, or as commercial area or what?" Mayor Don Otis replied, "Norm, we are going to call that multifamily residential."
"It is great to be back," said Kate Rineer. Kate and Stan Boor have returned to their Highland Estate's home after a winter working in Salt Lake City. "The city is such a rat race," Kate said. "I know Haines has its little problems, but it's really such a nice place."
Warm weather has melted the snow and ice so rapidly that the Chilkat River has swelled to just a foot below flood stage. Tall cottonwood trees have toppled over the bank at 14 Mile, and River Adventures guide Ken Gross said moose calves are drowning in the swift current. Fisherman Gregg Bigsby reported that the mud from the rivers has colored Lynn Canal brown all the way to Sherman Point. "I've never seen anything like that before," he said.
Lisa Schwartz said she and Gordon Whitermore are canceling their subscription to "Shack Life" magazine. The couple moved into their new home at 18 Mile after living in a less substantial dwelling for a period of time she refuses to disclose. It took four years for them to complete the new house. Lisa said their new digs are fine. "This is a real home; my heart goes out to all those women who have lived in a shack."
(continued on the next page)
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