Breathless
branch over green branch
concealing the heart, where truth
is written in rings
There are only two occasions when I’ve been seriously ill with asthma: one was the winter of 1999 after my father died; the other was the spring of 2008 after my mother died. For practitioners of Chinese medicine, grief is the territory of the lung, making it unlikely that my twin visits to the hospital were coincidental. But a journey to hospital can be simple or complicated. One trip to the hospital felt, at times, as if it could be my last.
When I moved my floathouse to Maltby Slough in 1997, the experience was like stepping into air. It was further from town than I had yet lived and I had to negotiate winter conditions in Browning Passage—an exposed body of water over which waves and winds accelerate. Patterns of water flow in Clayoquot Sound are always complex, but here, deep water ebbs from the terminus of faraway Tofino Inlet, reaching an island-choked bottleneck at Tsapee Narrows, where it begins to boil and seethe. When it escapes, still churning, it spreads out into Browning Passage and is constrained on each side by an estuarine slow lane: acres of mudflat stretching out toward the Tofino peninsula on one side and Meares Island on the other. Thus flanked, the passage takes a dogleg route west toward Tofino, pausing briefly to mass and swirl around the Laddie Island rocks.
The mudflats are the trickiest part. For a small boat, the eelgrass-clad shallows can be crossed only at certain moments in the tide. Through them, an arterial network of small branching channels maintains the circulatory system of the mudflats and allows Maltby Slough a river-like drainage into Browning Passage. At high tide, I could drive over most areas of the mudflats and take a reasonably direct route home. But at low tide, I had to follow one of the channels. About twenty feet wide, the channel led from Raccoon Island, near Tsapee Narrows, to Aquila Island, where my home was moored. Serpentine, it slithered through the mud, visible only at low tide. I could drive through it at low water, but at mid-tide the surrounding mudflats were covered with shallow water—meaning that if I strayed from the now-invisible channel, I would find myself suddenly ramming the mudflats. As I drove, I counted the seconds between each turn. I followed landmarks on fair days and compass bearings on foggy days. At night, my eyes slid along the blackened outline of the land, seeking the second highest knoll or the twinkling radio beacon near Radar Hill. If my landmarks failed, I could easily go aground. There was much to guard against.
Added to the challenges of my location, I was newly single after a seven-year relationship. The pain of this separation was somewhat mitigated by the allure of a fresh beginning. As well, I had the companionship of my large and entertaining dog, Sweetheart. And Maltby Slough itself played a part in my healing. I relished the sanctuary of my new location: the way Aquila Island protected me from the southeast gales, the total lack of boat traffic, the increased exposure to wildlife. I settled in, tackling the winter commutes, beachcombing and cutting my own firewood, and learning the number of candles it takes to survive the month of December (about three hundred).
Two years after moving to Maltby Slough, my father died. I was thirty years old and he died as I was driving to the airport to visit him in England. Because I lived so far from my parents, I hadn’t fully perceived the volatility of his health. What I did understand was the sharp bite of regret at the way I had so blithely lived my life. Missed moments lay scattered around me like so much sand. Caught up in youth, and with an ocean to separate us, I hadn’t sensed the ever-accelerating passage of time. It was as if I thought I could later gather up the grains and refill the hourglass. But death is the swiftest of teachers.
When I developed a cough, not long after I returned from my father’s funeral, what surprised me was not the fact that I’d caught a virus, but how rapidly it became painful. Within a day I was incapacitated. Any movement made me breathless. My old blue inhaler sat next to the bed while I counted down the hours between doses. From time to time, I roused myself to drink tea and stoke the fire. Sweetheart was solicitous, taking the stairs beside me, her soft white head brushing my hand as I walked. Back in bed, I kept my breaths deep and even by concentrating on faraway objects. I observed the overlay of branch upon branch in the forest outside my window. And in those places where the branches were so thick as to obscure the depths of the forest, I was frustrated by my inability to see what the foliage concealed. It was a failure of the imagination, in the same way that I couldn’t grasp my father’s new state of being dead. As if it were a brick wall that separated us, I wondered if being able to perceive the heart of the forest—to see what lay on the other side of the branches—was an ability that would also allow me to comprehend my father’s death.
I tried and failed to explore the idea through poetry while Sweetheart stretched across the foot of the bed, regarding me. Her understanding of death was obviously superior to mine, uncomplicated by the need for explanation. I’d once watched her resuscitate one of her offspring and marvelled at the insistent drive of her tongue into the pup’s clogged airway. She’d become a first-time mother merely an hour before this and was taken aback by the puppies’ arrival, but her response was everything it should have been—a miracle of instinct and body chemistry.
At suppertime I went down to the kitchen and heated some soup, but soon gave up eating and rested my elbows on the edge of the table, head hanging down, ribcage working like a squeezebox as I tried to catch my breath. I needed the inhaler, but it wasn’t yet time to take it and I wanted to ration the dose until bedtime. The night loomed ahead of me and I sensed it was going to be long. Under the table, Sweetheart nudged my legs and I reached a hand down to rest it on her head. Later, I broke the evening’s chores into small steps, most important of which was to feed the woodstove. The night was clear and cold, and frost already glittered on the moist wood of the dock. By the time I mounted the stairs with my candle, I was thinking of only one thing: the inhaler beside my bed. I would take the prescribed dose, fluff up the pillows and then, miraculously, fall asleep. Sleep would distract me from the pain in my chest and the medication would allow me to breathe. Tomorrow, I would go to the clinic and speak to a doctor. Everything would be better.
It must have been about twenty minutes after using the inhaler that Sweetheart got up from her blanket and came over to the head of the bed, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she gazed at me. I was waiting for the medication to take effect so that I could blow out the candle and go to sleep, but had felt no relief—yet. I considered going into town and sleeping at a friend’s house, in case my breathing worsened. That way I’d be able to ask for help if I needed it. But it was after ten o’clock on a January night. It was dark and bitterly cold. Even the boat’s tie-up lines would have lost their pliancy and be stiff with frost. I leaned against the pillows and tried to reframe the night as an opportunity to heal. As strategies go, it was well-intentioned, but ineffective. Sweetheart’s unwavering gaze intensified, but against my thirst for air her concern seemed external—a faraway thing.
Just then, a new noise made its way into my world: the deep-deeper two-tone boom of the foghorn, resounding from the lighthouse at Lennard Island. On stormy winter nights, the foghorn relayed the sheer inability of the lighthouse keepers to see anything except rain, waves and windborne spray. But on a calm, clear night, a night such as this one, the message was simple: fog had formed offshore. It wouldn’t be long before it came slinking over the Tofino peninsula into Maltby Slough. And when that happened, my options would be limited. I sat up and took notice. I don’t mind driving a boat at night. And I don’t mind driving a boat in the fog. But driving in fog and darkness, both, was something I’d chosen to stop doing.
This decision came about during a particularly nail-biting drive home. I’d left the Tofino Harbour under clear night skies and headed east to the green buoy in Browning Passage. A midway point of sorts, the buoy was the furthest I could go on a single bearing, and its Christmas-green reflective tape was easy to see. At the green buoy I would change bearings and head southeast toward Raccoon Island.
Most nights I could see my landmarks with relative ease, driving without the compass, but on this night, after leaving the green buoy I drove straight into a swath of fog. Surprised, I made an about-face turn and drove back out the way I’d come. Sure enough, I could see that the fog was a mere tendril, pressed against the surface of the water, entirely unconnected to any parent cloud. The fog covered only the area of water I needed to cross and it was barely higher than my head. But, as if sensing my presence, it stretched out to welcome me. Its white fingers reached behind me, obscuring the green buoy from my line of sight. In that swift moment, my compass bearing became obsolete; I no longer had the point of origin from which to draw the bearing. Starting in the wrong place could mean overshooting Raccoon Island and ending up further east, in Tsapee Narrows. I had to guess at a bearing, so I aimed further west. That way I would only run into the soft sand of the mudflats if I were wrong. I could then use the perimeter of the mudflats as a guide. In the way of all dealings with fog-blindness, a conflict arose between my inner and outer compasses, my instincts doing battle with the smug accuracy of the compass. The headlamp illuminated the compass, but prevented me seeing anything else. I chewed my lip, doubting myself every second of the way forward. When I finally sighted the edge of the mudflat, I abandoned the compass and turned off the headlamp to regain vision. Even the chimerical, vanishing line of low-tide mud was an improvement on the nihilism of the fog. It was a tense journey. And as I worked my way to Raccoon Island, I vowed to avoid a repeat experience.
But now, the foghorn’s advanced warning was giving me a chance to get to town while the sky was clear. And I knew I shouldn’t wait for my breathing and the visibility to worsen. In fog and darkness, even the Coast Guard would have trouble navigating the channel to Maltby Slough. I shook off my cloak of self-absorption and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Motion by slow motion, I packed a drybag of essentials and changed into warm clothing. At the bottom of the stairs, I paused to breathe and to lift the heavy floater jacket from its hook. I pulled on boots, one at a time, with a rest in between. Lastly, I put on a red cashmere scarf—a present from my mother—and a toque—a pound-weight of Cowichan wool, knitted by Tla-o-qui-aht elder Mary Hayes.
Stepping into the night air, I felt my windpipe seize against the cold. But the plan was underway and there was no room for self-doubt. I executed each action in sequence and buried my nose and mouth in the folds of the scarf, chest heaving, as I approached the boat. Sure enough, the tie-up lines were stiff and solid. I sat down on the railing as I worked the lines loose, fingers burning with cold. I never wear gloves before leaving a dock, because they always get wet. Not until a boat ride is underway do gloves become an option. While I fiddled with the lines, I examined the forty-horse outboard. It tended to be a fair-weather motor, preferring summer climes to winter’s extremes of rain or cold. A furring of hoar frost on the cover hinted at trouble ahead and I pumped the gas line with extra care, making the bulb as firm as possible. I set the choke and grasped the pull cord. But pull cords require an explosive effort on the part of the puller, one that I didn’t fully anticipate. Air left my chest in a whoosh. For a moment, I blacked out.
In the time lapse between falling and recovering, I drifted, seeing my father hop from foot to foot in the sweaty night air outside Trinidad’s Piarco Airport, calling my name in staccato bursts, his forehead tight with anticipation. I was twelve and we’d been apart for three months. When he saw me, his face lit up in a trademark expression of joy, a look that never failed to bring out my fiercest love for him. The sensation ran through me in a short euphoric burst, flooding me with the energy I needed to regain air. After a minute or two I was able to sit up, wheezing, and prepare to depart. Sweetheart hopped onto the bow, her favourite spot in the boat. But as my hand reached for the tie-up line, the motor suddenly sputtered and no amount of fiddling could keep it going.
A perfect silence followed, almost echoing in the extreme calm of the bay. One likelihood was that the carburetors had frozen, but there was also a chance that the motor was flooded. If so, I would need to leave it alone for a few minutes and let the excess gas evaporate. I sat on the homemade yellow cedar bench, staring at cold faraway stars, one hand on Sweetheart’s head, the other gliding over the varnished wood surface. Through the scarf, I took a series of tight breaths and stood up to restart the motor. This time I braced myself, expecting the effort. I managed three pulls and fell backwards once again. The stars blurred. I cried out in frustration. Doubt was taking hold of me: I doubted my ability to start the motor. I doubted my ability to make it to town. I doubted if I could survive the night. Sweetheart began to lick my face. I wondered if I resembled her dying pup and if she planned to lick me back to life. The thought made me sit up, holding onto her. She gave a low “wuf,” her breath forming bright clouds between us. I turned around and tried the motor again, this time managing four pulls. Then I sank onto my knees, swaying and heaving for air.
The second-last time I said goodbye to my father, I told him I loved him. I thanked him for his restraint—the times he’d withheld criticism, the things he could’ve said, but didn’t. I thanked him for keeping the peace while I warred with adolescence; for building the bridges that led me back home. I said this over a cup of tea, after a lunch of soup and bread. I said it when we were alone, just him and me. We sat in the quiet kitchen and let our eyes say everything else. We were in the front hall when my mother arrived with the car. I hugged him, not knowing if I would see him again, missing him already. I held his hands, and then bolted outside, the door a dam against my tears. But as we drove away, I saw movement in the rear-view mirror. Dad had hobbled to the road to wave until I disappeared. I’d shut the door in his face, not offering him my arm, or helping him turn the stiff door handle. In the rearview mirror, his eyes were large with pain, his forehead lined. I saw him vanishing, saw us both vanishing—each from the other’s life. Like an accordion my emotions opened up, the bellows sucking air.
My hands gripped the textured fibreglass floor of the boat; my ribs flailed. I gulped and heaved. When I saw exhaust fumes misting the dark air, I lurched forward and grabbed the tiller handle, desperate to keep the motor running. I hauled myself onto the bench, letting go the last tie-up line and pulling away from the house without even the energy to look back. The boat rose up onto a plane and left the bay, carving through the bends of the channel on the way to Raccoon Island. Visibility was still good and I could see the channel clearly. And frigid as it was, the rushing air seemed to help me breathe. As we got closer to Tofino I found my shoulders loosening. I relaxed further, letting the ride prime me for the final stretch of the journey, up the hill by foot to the hospital.
Unlike the sudden collapses caused by pull-starting the motor, walking uphill took my air away with greater stealth. Beginning at the boat ramp, I noticed the effort and stopped often to rest. Later, at the steepest part of the hill, a tunnel began to form in my vision, blacking out peripheral distractions. By the time I stood outside the hospital door to ring the bell, I was viewing the world as if through a periscope. I remember making a bed of my floater coat for Sweetheart and asking her to wait outside. I remember the heaviness of the double doors and I remember gesturing to my chest, unable to speak. I remember the kindness in nurse Chris Curley’s eyes as she led me inside, her face the only bright shape in my vision.
That night in hospital, I received medication and compassion, enough that breathlessness and grief ebbed from me. I leaned against white pillows, wanting to sleep, not knowing if I could. With only walls to observe, my mind emptied, matching the view. The nurses checked on Sweetheart and found her wandering, listening for my voice. Somehow she located my room and stopped outside the window, curling into a soft ball, not moving until I was allowed to see her in the morning. When I did, she howled loud and long in her always-vocal way, bringing onlookers to the door. I coughed and wheezed and laughed. She was pleased to see me. But she also needed breakfast. Yesterday was out of our hands, but today was another story. Life could be simple that way.
