All the bears

Last fall, after personal life led me to pause publishing the Wild Now, I sat down to explore the question of why I write (some answers here.)

You can be a writer without ever having a reader. Indeed, most of what writers write is never seen by any eyes other than the writer's. But that can leave you feeling adrift.

Writing is meant to start a dialogue, or better, a polylogue, even if it starts as monologue.

I've missed my people, you and others. So, I'm rebooting the Wild Now.

For those who've been caring readers for so long, thank you for checking in over the last several months and letting me know you've missed me in your inbox. It's meant so much.

For newcomers who've been waiting for their first issue, welcome and thank you for your patience and grace.

In a nutshell, when my husband returned to full hospice at home last summer, we thought we'd lose him come autumn. We've certainly had close calls, though his tenacity to stay in this life is epic.

While solo caregiving remains challenging and unpredictable, I'm bringing the Wild Now back online, aiming for twice monthly publishing instead of weekly.

I've been playing with short-form writing I call Field Notes, drawing from my daily journals. Some of these 'notes' evolved into modest essays. Below is one such evolution. I hope something here resonates with you.

Early morning, my husband half-waking out of sleep to tell me, “All the bears are dead.”

I’m a bear-lover, so this stops me as I’m about to rise. His eyes are closed. I’m sitting up, one cat still sleeping at my hip. Wondering if I mis-heard, I ask, “What did you say about bears?”

“They’re all dead,” he confirms, “the bears.”

I close my eyes and remember bears. Mostly black bears, but also a Cinnamon bear in the Canadian Rockies outside of Jasper, grizzlies hunting ground squirrels quite successfully near Denali, the two massive brown bears fishing upstream from us in the Sitka rain.

There was also the baby bear, decades ago, who ran across a road one Pennsylvania night, disappearing into a culvert. When we stopped to get a glimpse of the little guy, he scuttled under our SUV and climbed into the wheel well. On our way home from a community fund-raising event—my husband in a tuxedo and I in the ubiquitous little, black dress—we were, nevertheless, bear-lovers to the bone.

I immediately jumped out, kneeling by the wheel, cooing and reaching for the baby, who was bleating, loudly. His fur was thick and coarse, though as my fingers touched deeper, ah, such downy-soft underfur. My wildlife-biologist husband scanned the road’s wooded edge for the mother, before dropping down with me, sliding his arm up higher in the truck, and grabbing bear baby by the scruff.

He walked the baby back across the road and into the woods so his mother could safely find him. The baby popped back up, still bleating, and ran to my husband twice, before giving us one last look, his eyes shiny as flecks of foil, then wandering deeper into the forest.

I barely slept that night, wondering if mother bear had found her renegade cub. The next morning I walked to the spot where we’d left him, and followed the pushed-down grasses and weeds, ducking under fallen maples, squeezing between hemlocks, until I lost his path. I sat on a damp log for a long time, listening for that bleating. Only birdsong and a distant, beeping garbage truck.

Bears often amble through the redwoods below our home, sometimes climbing up onto our deck to lick seeds from the birdfeeders. Such surprisingly long and tactile tongues. Funny to look out your livingroom window and see a bear calmly looking back, chewing.

A year and a half ago, I witnessed a wounded mama bear splayed on the ground by our home with her yearling, sounds I’ve never heard shared between bears, low grunty-mews. I don’t speak bear, but I felt the goodbyes and the grief. Mama later limped slowly into the redwoods with her young one, but only the yearling ever returned.

I bear so many memories of bears, hurdling through my mind. Even the sign my husband nailed near a side door flashes by, “An old bear lives here.” Indeed, he still does.

“Who killed all the bears?” I ask, opening my eyes, checking to see if bear-guy is asleep, awake, or lost in that liminal space between.

“You killed the bears,” he answers, motionless. “You killed all four of them, with that big black rifle.”

“Why would I ever kill bears?”

“They were attacking me, and you were protecting me.”

I’m dumbfounded, taking in what was clearly a dream, but also, part of our life in this final hospice time.

Four falls in the last week—one bad enough to bloody his forehead, his legs giving out suddenly, his body like a matchstick doll collapsing under his own weight.

He wants to walk on his legs, feel that sense of agency and independence, perhaps a vestige of strength. But. Even aided by the dreaded walker, his legs can’t be trusted. All week I’ve pleaded to let me roll him in the wheelchair. Told him I’m his private Uber. He smiles every time, though I know he feels defeated.

Death may come as one final, irretrievable loss. Dying happens in loss after loss, as if the body doesn’t give up all at once, but part by part.

“I only want to protect you.”

How many times have I said that now? “I only want to protect you from more hurt and pain.”

Adjusting the covers up to his shoulders, kissing him on that battered forehead, I slip out of bed. Just as the cat and I head to the kitchen, my husband’s soft, sleepy voice offers, “You got them all.”

Thank you for being a part of my world.

If this issue was forwarded to you and you'd like to read more, you can explore and subscribe at WildNow.Life.