If You Lived Here, I'd Know Your Name Part 16

By midafternoon Angie's health and spirits were much better. She urged me to rest, saying I looked tired. The doctors couldn't believe it. They had originally said she had a 20 percent chance of surviving a day; this morning they'd given her fifty-fifty odds, and by the afternoon they were saying it looked even better than that.

My brother-in-law arrived around four and in a bad mood. Steven had forgotten to bring his wallet to the airport, so he'd missed his first flight from Manchester, New Hamps.h.i.+re, to Baltimore. From there, he'd taken a train to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., but he'd had to wait an hour while Phil and Chip got lost trying to find Union Station. When he'd finally gotten to Virginia, he'd called his girlfriend and learned that she had wrecked his car.

All that-and now Angie might not even be dying.

Steven gave his deathbed speech anyway, telling Angie he loved her and thanking her for saving his life when he almost burned the house down. Then he said that at this rate she'd live as long as her father, Great-grandpa Tom, had. Angie reminded him that she was already older. Tom had been ninety-one when he'd pa.s.sed away. "Yeah, but he drank and smoked a lot," Steven argued. Which didn't help, but Angie let it go and did something no one else had been able to do: She took the fight right out of her grandson by saying that she loved him.

Chip's family was the loudest and largest in the visitors' room of the ICU, where everyone else spoke in whispers and cried a lot. They were reprimanded by a nurse and a social worker for playing cards so irreverently. When I commented to one cousin on how well Angie was doing, she said, "She's almost a hundred; she can't go on forever." Another chimed in, "Want to bet?" and they both laughed.

By her dinnertime, Angie was playing cards, too-with all her monitors flas.h.i.+ng. She was still cheating. "If she didn't, then I'd really be worried," Karen said. "Then she might be getting ready to meet her maker."

We didn't get back to Chip's parents' house until after nine. We lit the fireplaces, poured drinks, and turned on the Patriots playoff game. Friends came over and joined us for tacos, which the cousins made. The neighbors brought over more shredded beef and tortillas. The terriers took turns sitting on Joanne's lap, and Phil's kitten rubbed his ankles while he put on Christmas music. "I know it's January," he said, "but I do enjoy it, especially with all the family here." The party went well past midnight.

Angie was even better the next day, eating canned pears and cottage cheese and wondering why she couldn't have "just a little" coffee. By that afternoon she was scheduled to move out of intensive care and asking Phil to bring his electric razor to trim the fuzz on her chin. Because Angie was doing so well, the cousins were concerned. If Angie came home soon, they worried, she might require more care than Joanne could handle. They urged Joanne to consider the possibility of a nursing home.

They weren't just talking about Angie's future. What they were really saying was how much they appreciated all Joanne does, and did, not just for Angie but also for all of them. They missed living near her. My mother-in-law was not expecting this. She said thank you and looked away. The tender moment didn't last long. There was a lot to talk about. This is a family of optimists; they've never thought about worst-case scenarios, like death. Now they wondered: Did Angie have a will? Where was it? Who had power of attorney? What about a living will? Did she want to be kept alive by heroic measures, be on life support, or be allowed to go peacefully next time? Who would be strong enough to decide? Angie's near miss provided an opportunity to get these questions answered while she was still able to help. Attorneys were called from cell phones in the parking lot, the will found, and systems put in place for the next time.

Everyone in my family is a pessimist. We think every freckle is melanoma. My grandfather built a large wheelchair-accessible home when he was in his sixties, because he was sure he would be an invalid any day. He died of a stroke in his mid-eighties and never needed more a.s.sistance than his cane. Still, when my father insisted that Chip and I draw up a will as soon as we had children, even I thought it was weird. Chip thought my family was nuts. Now it makes us both feel better, especially at times such as these, when we are far from the children.

The biggest question for Angie was about something called a DNR order. It means do not resuscitate. If Angie has another heart attack, the doctors are now instructed not to use everything in the hospital's power to bring her back to life and keep her heart beating artificially. Angie wanted it this way, and so did everyone else. It was an easy decision. Angie said she bet you couldn't find anyone she knew who would say, "Keep me alive no matter what" or "I want to live hooked up to feeding and breathing tubes."

In Haines, that's how most people feel, too. If we didn't, we'd live closer than a boat or plane ride to the nearest hospital. My neighbor has had a serious heart attack, and survived a Coast Guard helicopter medevac in a snowstorm. But when a doctor in Seattle suggested that he and his wife move there because next time he might not be as fortunate, they declined. Were they supposed to sit in a new condo in an unfamiliar city waiting to call the ambulance? This winter they are busy building a boat in their shop. If Angie's heart had quit at our house on a snowy January night, she probably would have died. At the funeral we would have said she'd led a good life and had a good death.

BEFORE WE LEFT for Virginia, on New Year's Day, we had friends over for dinner. Richard told a story about his college roommate's father, who was, he said, "the real thing, an honest-to-G.o.d cowboy." He was in his sixties when he learned he had potentially fatal cancer. "Now that I think about, he was probably about my age," Richard said, a little startled that time was pa.s.sing so quickly. The "old" cowboy rode out into the desert and shot his horse and then himself. Chip reminded everyone of the white-haired carpenter who'd made our children's dressers and toy chest. Clarence took his life for the same reason the cowboy did. He had cancer and didn't want to go the hospital, or be dependent on anyone. He had lived by himself a long time. Well, almost by himself: "I think he shot his dog, too," Chip said.

I thought about that conversation, and the new DNR order, while I watched Angie laugh and play cards with her adoring family in the hospital. I don't know-when it's possible to prolong the life of someone you love, even a very old someone, at that moment, for me it would be almost impossible to choose not to. There was no DNR order in place when Angie was rushed to the hospital. The doctors and nurses did everything they could to keep her alive. While she was in their care, her heart stopped beating-twice-and they got it going again with machines, chemicals, and enough muscle to accidentally give her a black eye. No one said, She's almost ninety-four, what's the point? Even in this wisecracking family, there was no joking around when Cheryl called us to come say good-bye. I prayed that Angie would live long enough for Chip to see her one more time. It's easy to applaud the old cowboy, because he's not your father or husband or son. The truth is, there aren't many real cowboys left.

With Angie scheduled to come back home after a few more tests, the cousins, Uncle Pete, and Chip's brother decided it was safe to leave. Angie wasn't dying this week after all. Karen had meetings in Los Angeles to get to. Chip drove her to the airport early the next morning. After they left, Joanne and Phil shuffled back to bed in their slippers. It had been a long week. I rinsed the coffee cups and put them in the dishwasher. Then I let in a cat and lingered at the door, watching the sun rise over the brown Virginia fields.

DULY NOTED

A big crowd of local musher Dan Turner's supporters turned out for the start of the Yukon Quest sled-dog race in Whitehorse last weekend. Many mushers say the Quest is tougher than the more famous Iditarod because mushers aren't allowed as much outside support. Nearly twenty well-wishers sent Dan and his dogs down the trail to Fairbanks.

In the middle of Friday night's blizzard d.i.c.k Aukerman dislocated his hip at his Mud Bay Road home. "When that hip pops out," d.i.c.k said, "you can't do nothing." Deep snowdrifts kept the ambulance from getting up the Aukermans' driveway. Fortunately, neighbor Russ Walton arrived in his front-end loader and cleared the way. d.i.c.k says he can't thank everyone enough. "Russ, the EMTs-they really are something special."

Friends thumbing through Bailey's Woodsman Supply Company sale catalog were surprised to see a color photograph of Albert "Whoopee Sam" Sampson demonstrating a small sawmill at the fair last August. The caption tells of the company's Haines visit with Albert and his wife, Georgia, and thanks them for the generous hospitality. Bailey's spelled Albert's nickname "Whoopy," but Georgia said it probably should read "Whoopee," although "it's not like he ever signs his name that way."

Haines's first baby of the New Year was born in Bartlett Memorial Hospital in Juneau. Grandma Irene Stigen said the brand-new girl got the honors because the second baby of the New Year was a born gentleman: "He let the lady go first." She should know, because she's his grandmother, too. They're twins. Jordan Kaye Stigen arrived early Sunday morning, beating her brother Jacob Ray by a couple of minutes and a few ounces.

Alaskans Dear

WHEN TOM WARD SR. collapsed and died while loading firewood into his pickup, I heard about it within the hour. Tom was seventy-two, the patriarch of a large family. He had four children with his first wife, Marge, and inherited about a dozen stepchildren and stepgrandchildren from his second wife, Irene. It seems as though he was related in one way or another to half the people in town. His nephew owns Howser's, the big grocery store on Main Street, his son runs the freight transport company, and his two daughters-in-law teach and coach at the school. By all accounts, Tom was the first non-Tlingit native son of Haines to live his entire life here. Speaking at the funeral, another lifelong resident, Debra Schnabel, now in her forties, called his pa.s.sing a "coming of age" for our little town.

I waited a day before calling Irene to get the information for the obituary. Her daughter Barbara answered the phone. Barbara teaches kindergarten, and my children have been in her cla.s.s. Her husband is an ultraconservative school board member with whom I often tangle. Barbara invited me up to the Ward house for lunch. I drove out to the edge of town where Tom had built their sun-filled home on a bluff overlooking the river. Inside, Marge led me to the big dining room table, where Tom's children and their spouses were eating, along with Barbara's teenage daughters and Tom's widow, Irene.

That's right-both wives and their families, together, planning the funeral and comforting their shared grandchildren. The house was filled with people. Tom's daughter offered me a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes; his son handed me a cup of coffee. Many of Tom's twenty-one grandchildren were home from school. The older ones helped greet visitors; the little ones were roughhousing in the back bedrooms. One walked through carrying the puppy Tom had given Irene for Christmas. A next-door neighbor came in with a pie, mumbling condolences. She is twenty years older than Tom was. Ever since her husband died, she'd depended on Tom to cut her firewood and plow the driveway. She also liked his company, and made sure there was fresh coffee and something sweet for him to eat every time he came over.

As I drove home, I pa.s.sed Leo Smith out in his yard. Leo and Tom had been good friends; I'd seen them heading out on moose hunts together or pulling their pickups into the Elks Lodge for a beer after a day of tree cutting. Leo had cleared the land behind our cabin when we'd decided we needed a field in which to play softball. We had worked kind of like a pitcher and catcher, me signaling which trees should go and which ones should stay, and Leo nodding yes or no over the noise of his skidder. One morning as we were working, Leo cut the engine and climbed down from the tractorlike machine with giant pincers, for grabbing logs. Leo wanted to talk about a large, table-shaped boulder. I had signaled him to move it. It was right in the middle of the outfield. Leo wasn't so sure. So we walked around the boulder and then Leo, tipping his cap back and choosing his words carefully said, "It's a pretty nice rock, really, and a good place to sit." He looked up at the view. "A person could do worse than sitting on a rock like that and looking out at the mountains. Meditating, isn't that what you call it?"

The rock stayed.

Leo Smith Logging Company, or what's left of it, occupies the lot next to our lumberyard. In the yard there are parts of front-end loaders, an old crane, fuel tanks, boat and equipment trailers, choker cables, and a rusted yellow bulldozer. These days Leo's logging is pretty much confined to firewood and new home sites. After the last sawmill closed, the city built a cruise-s.h.i.+p dock right across the street. Now this little block of old Haines is surrounded by new Haines: bike, kayak, and rafting guides, gift shops, even an espresso stand. Leo has turned down offers from tour companies wanting to buy his doublewide trailer home. He likes the view of the harbor and gets a kick out of meeting revelers returning to the cruise s.h.i.+ps to go to bed just as he and George Anne begin their morning walk-Leo still keeps logger's hours.

When I asked Leo if he had something to share about Tom, for the obituary, he got very still. "Let me think about it," he said. A little while later he knocked on my door. He knew what he wanted to say now. I invited him in and gave him some coffee. He sat at the kitchen table, with his cap in his hands, and started to tell me about his last moose hunt with Tom, but he stopped in midsentence. Then Leo, this tough, gentle old logger, started to cry. I didn't know what to do. Leo stood up, wiping his wet face with a bare hand, and said, "Tom was a good friend, you can print that in your paper. He was a darn good friend." And he walked out the door.

OVER THREE HUNDRED people packed the Chilkat Center for the Arts for Tom Ward's funeral, a formal, dignified service conducted by Tom's brothers from the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks. Tom was remembered as a hardworking, happy man. His sister said, "Tom's probably cut a load of wood for the Lord by now-he'll be keeping heaven warm." His oldest granddaughter read an essay she wrote, "Grandpa's Garden." The Presbyterian pastor's wife sang the state song, "Alaska's Flag." It fit Tom well.

Eight stars of gold on a field of blue-

Alaska's flag. May it mean to you

The blue of the sea, the evening sky,

The mountain lakes, and the flow'rs nearby;

The gold of the early sourdough's dreams,

The precious gold of the hills and streams;

The brilliant stars in the northern sky,

The "Bear"-the "Dipper"-and, s.h.i.+ning high,

The great North Star with its steady light,

Over land and sea a beacon bright.

Alaska's flag-to Alaskans dear,

The simple flag of a last frontier.

Marie Drake of Juneau originally wrote the words as a poem. But the tune was composed by a woman from Haines. One story claims that Elinor Dusenbury, whose husband was the commanding officer of the old army fort here, wrote it several years after she left, because she was homesick. I like the other version better: that Elinor composed it from the s.h.i.+p taking her back East after her husband's years of service here. It's nice to imagine her humming the simple, proud, and a little bit sad tune as she watched our town fade into the distance.

A SWEDISH HIGH school exchange student came to Haines one fall and, after driving in from the airport, was given the town tour. When asked what she thought of it, she said she liked what little she'd seen. When she was told there wasn't any more to see, she wept and begged to be taken to a real American town.