Boat Rides

Every day we go for a boat ride. We used to go for car rides, but I donated her special car seat to Goodwill. Also, I can’t close my eyes while driving my car.

I sit on the rowing machine, tighten the foot straps, tap my Apple watch a couple of times, lean forward to grab the handlebar (i.e. “the oars”). Then I close my eyes and start rowing our little boat, gently down the stream.

Without actually pointing (because I can’t point and row at the same time), and somehow without speaking, I direct her attention to the myriad sights in the water, in the sky, along the shore. She doesn’t need me to do that, but she seems to enjoy the sound of my mental narration because her smile widens as she watches the world, as she watches the life around her. She doesn’t bark—she hasn’t barked in years—but she glances at me occasionally, just as she always did, to acknowledge our connection, our sharing of this experience. She smiles, and I row.

Of course there are always horses, with riders, trotting along the shore. And sometimes we see cows. We see fish and birds and trees and clouds. And squirrels. All the things she always loved. We can feel the breeze as it caresses the trees and ripples the water.

Sometimes we see new things. Penguins, pigs, lions, tigers, bears. Oh my. No matter what she sees, she smiles. And I row and row.

Along the way, we also see signs and banners, intended only for me because she can’t read. Duh. There’s a sign I posted myself, and it changes every day. Today it says, “64 days and 64 nights.”

There are also signs from others. I never know when or where they will appear. Most are compassionate or at least understanding, but others are unwelcome, intrusive even, signs like, “What’s wrong with you?” and “She was only a dog” and “Get over it already.” The thoughts of others. Thoughts that resonate a bit too much, that make too much sense, that have the capacity to wear me down.

My rowing slows. I grow tired. My narration has already died away.

Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, eventually forces me to stop rowing. When I open my eyes, she’s not there, of course. It’s just my room, filled with emptiness. The ride is over. I wish I could lift her from the boat, feel her heart beating as my hand presses against her chest. Just as I always did.

I am healing, lest you think otherwise. I am able to laugh. Interacting with me, seeing me from the outside, you would say I’m perfectly normal, or at least as normal as I ever was. My wife sees a bit more. Fortunately for me, my wife is an angel, and she’s guiding me gently down the stream.

Sometimes life is pain, and sometimes pain gives meaning to life. Speaking only for myself, I’m okay with that. So many others know levels of pain that I will probably never experience. I’m lucky, I’m blessed, I’m privileged. I can’t deny it.

It’s a slow process, but I’m learning once again how to fill the days, and the emptiness. With meaning. Not to replace the pain, but to shape it into a more manageable form. I would never want to lose it completely. It’s mine.

Yes, I’m just fine. But for now, my little girl and I will continue to go for boat rides. In that special place where life is but a dream.

Pixie Lou, 11/2005 - 08/2022

rowing machine