by Tom Ryan
One fall afternoon, I saw Atticus looking up into a hemlock tree. Sitting on a thick branch, his arms hugging the bark, a bear was napping. I pushed Will up to where Atticus was seated. The bear, whose face was squished against the tree as he napped, opened a sleepy eye. Quickly, both eyes opened wide to assess the situation. He tensed but didn’t growl. He took inventory of the three of us before surprising me by closing one eye, the one pressed against the tree. When Atticus lay down, I sat down. Will was already napping in his bedding. Slowly the bear’s open eye blinked, until he fell back to sleep. Soon Atticus was napping as well, and I was the only one left awake to witness the scene. I took some photos with hands trembling in awe of the shared gentleness, until I realized nothing could capture this tableau. So I surrendered to the moment, deciding the best way to capture it was to be present.
This is what Thorne Pond came to be for us. Like our backyard, it was close to a busy road, a border between the man-made and the wild. It afforded Will an adventure a few miles away from home that wasn’t too taxing for him. The trails were easy on the Will Wagon. And for me, it became a place where Mark Twain’s words could spring to life: “Apparently, there is nothing that cannot happen today.”
That little preserve allowed Will a glimpse through fading senses of a world that had been transformative for Atticus and me. As I pushed him along the even paths, I found myself imagining how he might have been when he was younger, and how much he would have loved cavorting in the magical forest. But I could still wheel him through it, and hope that it infused him with a grace that all living things deserve to know.
I pushed him by the sumacs, which were just turning red, and the flaming sugar maples. Always the first to change, they were a coming attraction of the pageantry that visits New England each September and October. Along the edge of the pond, Atticus and I looked down to where the lone great blue heron blended in with the rushes. Drawn by curiosity, some maturing ducklings couldn’t help but follow us, paddling along in the water as we made the loop. Atticus often stopped to watch a young great cormorant who had summered there. Even though the bird was perched just feet away on a fallen tree in the pond, he was not threatened. He would even turn and look at Atticus. The two studied each other until we went on our way.
As for the heron, I’d find him following us with his pterodactyl shape as he’d fly along. So much for his shyness!
If we went in the early hours of the day, we’d spy an otter splashing as it fished for breakfast. No matter how serious his task, he always looked playful. In the evening, a family of beavers trawled the waters, coming to shore to grab a leafy shoot to munch on. They were so used to us that I was able to feed them apples, first by tossing the fruit to them as they propelled themselves back and forth, and then by hand when they eventually felt safe enough with us to come up on the grass to where we were sitting. I’d roll the apples to them until at last a bold fellow, larger than the rest, toddled up next to us and took the apple I offered him in his paws. He took a few steps away, dragging his flat tail behind him, and turned and watched us as he spun the apple in his grasp and took satisfied nibbles from it, the way I ate corn on the cob. His tiny paws, his teeth, his shining eyes, the satisfaction of eating a sweet treat—how could I not feel an affinity with him? Were we not more similar than different?
Atticus took it all in, as he always did, with a surreal tranquility, while Will sat up in his Will Wagon, seemingly oblivious to the animals we’d see. Even if he couldn’t always tell what was going on around him, he was happy. It was evident in the shine in his eyes. When he was tired from sitting up, he lay down but kept his head up, as if he didn’t want to miss anything.
He never made a peep unless he wanted to get out. If he was restless, he’d rock back and forth and offer up a soft whine.
I knew he could sense the plants when we circled the pond by the way he worked his nose. At one end of the loop was a great field of drying flowers and high grass. When September arrived, the sweet fragrance of decay hung in the air, and small birds feeding on the seeds would go airborne when we came too close.
We circled the smooth path around the pond so often that we became intimate with each bend in the trail, each dip and rise, the trees and brush we encountered. We knew where the birds’ nests were, where the wild turkeys liked to hide, and the favored trees of the red squirrels. One bend brought us to a riot of bittersweet vines wrapping themselves around small trees and large shrubs. Their colors were a fantastic Seussical mix of neon reds, yellows, greens, and oranges. The wild tangles crowded the path and were a feast for the imagination, standing in contrast to the dying grass.
Will’s nose twitched at the potpourri of the natural world. He’d close his eyes and cast his nose up to the air, savoring the coming of fall in the mountains. For all he didn’t have, he seemed grateful to be outside, enjoying the temperate air and even the smell of shade that arrived late in the day when it spread across the land and the water, reminding us of the coming night.
On the far side of the pond there was a short path, fifty yards long, through dark woods down to the Saco River. We’d always look up to check the strong middle branches of the pine trees after we had startled a bear there a few weeks earlier. It was a different experience from the time we caught the previous bear napping. This bear huffed and puffed as black bears do, snapping his jaws to warn us away. I apologized for infringing on his privacy and we walked on, Atticus, me, and that little red wagon with Will in it. From that moment on, whenever we entered that path, we looked to make sure we weren’t disturbing him. It’s not that we were frightened; he was most likely more afraid of us. It had more to do with a kinship I felt for another who liked privacy and peace.
On the far side of that strip of woods, the trail emerged to where the Saco River passed. There was an old fallen log that had been there for years. That’s where I’d sit, with Atticus in front of me, watching life flit to and fro in the trees on the opposite bank.
Will, sitting atop layers of his handmade blankets, needed his red coat, even in late summer. It warmed him and kept him from shivering. Whenever I bent over to put it on him back in the house, he graciously placed himself into position, struggling to keep his balance. Once it was on him, though, he seemed—dare I say?—empowered. He was more confident, appeared sturdier, and it let him know we were off on an adventure. After I fastened the Velcro around his waist, he’d look at me expectantly.
When summer said hello to autumn, Ken and Ann Stampfer joined us for some strolls around the pond. One afternoon, I let Will out in the meadow near the edge of the water. On the far side Bear Mountain and Mount Tremont offered a dramatic backdrop. Ken captured the early foliage and the signature scene with his camera. Eventually he turned to Will, who was stretched out on the fading grass and—much to his surprise—was watching him intently. Ken crouched down and moved closer to Will. Click click click went the shutter as Will batted his thick eyelashes at Ken.
Twenty yards away, Ann and Atticus were deep in conversation. Ann did all the talking, but Atticus seemed to nod along, watching every word as it left her lips. There was an understanding of sorts between the two of them. There always had been, and it stemmed from our years of hiking together. Sharing a trail brings about an intimacy found rarely in other realms. The shared struggle, the views, long miles, and long hours—you can’t help but be close to those with whom you face both challenges and splendor. It is the basis of all true love.
I’ll hold on to that scene forever. The four individuals I cared most about were enjoying the harmony of one another’s company. The setting, the dance among them, the perfectly sunny weather. It was as good as it gets. All that love and those good hearts, in a place I was happiest. Smiles and laughter and heads nodding and twinkling eyes.
I knew to pay attention to it, because even then I understood it might never happen again.
While all of them meant the world to me, mostly I watched Will. For this was his time. This was his summit.
>
He had reached the mountaintop—faulty hips, poor eyesight, broken heart, immense fear, and all. He had recaptured what once was lost, and sat in that sincere place where acceptance was guiding and embracing him. He hadn’t been angry in nearly two years, hadn’t snapped at anyone or snarled a warning. His pain was gone, as was his lack of trust. He had come to belong, and he knew what it was to be whole.
I too had come to a time of acceptance. It spread through my body, from the tips of my fingers to the end of my toes and back up through my core. I felt it coursing through every blood vessel and nerve until it came to rest in my chest. It was a feeling of being fulfilled.
At that moment, a chill breeze stole through the forest and rippled across the water, whispering to me that the mountaintops would soon be covered in snow. For the first time I could remember, I wondered how much time Will had left.
I zipped up my jacket and pulled my Red Sox cap low on my head, making myself snug against the coming weeks. Even with that chill in the air and not knowing what we’d face, I felt blessed to have witnessed Will’s journey, to have participated in it, and I knew what it meant to both give love and receive it.
Standing in that field, with the changing seasons swirling about me, I finally stumbled upon the realization that Will and I were one and the same.
Once broken, we had both come to reclaim ourselves. We each had help, but it was always our decision and our responsibility to choose to live again. No one could do that for us. It took years for me to discover where I was meant to be and where I was most alive. Will figured it out sooner than I had. He had surrendered to love and care and allowed it to wash over him like the gentle waters of the Ellis River.
Whenever people say to me, “Thank you for rescuing Will,” I am heartfelt in responding, “Thank you, but he did that himself. I only gave him a place to live and helped take care of him.”
And it’s true. Will did the heavy lifting himself. He made the most important decisions. Whether to live or not. Whether to believe again or to forgive. Whether to love or be loved again.
Anyone who has ever been broken knows that the only one who can rescue you is the one you see in the mirror. That’s why I was so proud of Will, and happy for him. When all was lost, he made a decision. It wasn’t easy in the beginning, and it wasn’t painless. There was suffering along the way. There always is when you learn to be vulnerable. It’s a trust fall into someone’s arms. A trust fall, when perhaps no one had ever been there to catch you in the past.
It takes faith. Faith takes courage.
The theologian Frederick Buechner wrote, “Faith is stepping out into the unknown with nothing to guide us but a hand just beyond our grasp.”
That was Will’s exercise in faith, just as it had been mine. We each left behind the sharp edges of anger, fear, and abandonment. Nothing that came before in our lives led us to believe all would be well or that we’d be safe. But there came a time when each of us had to choose to surrender to the possibilities. By surrendering to mine, I came north, and lived a fuller, richer existence. By surrendering to his, I believe Will lived longer, and he lived in love.
I’d like to say that this was my plan all along, from that May day nearly two and a half years earlier when I met Will. However, it was not. I was flying blind much of the time, trying to imagine how I would want to be treated if our roles were reversed. Talks with Marijane helped, even when they weren’t about Will. My experiences in the woebegone nursing home from long ago also helped. Mostly, though, it was just looking at Will and trying to complete a puzzle that just so happened to be missing a few pieces.
What I saw in the beginning was an old fellow who was down on his luck. He needed a place to rest his head and his tired body, a place to die with dignity. Heck, I didn’t even have to love him. I just needed to help him get to where he needed to be.
Fate has a way of stepping in, though. It intervenes; sometimes it shakes us until we wake up. If that doesn’t work, it slaps us silly until we realize we have to open our eyes and figure things out.
In our case, fate just happened to match Will up with a fellow who had suffered in many of the same ways he had, and that jigsaw puzzle became a little easier to put together as time went on. What started out as an act of kindness turned into a spiritual journey for me. For the first time in my life, I was serving someone selflessly. Although I was not a Christian or religious, it was the most Christ-like action of my life. While bathing Will, cleaning up his urine and feces, taking care of his rotting flesh, and turning the other cheek, I felt like I was learning how to serve, much as Christ washed the feet of the apostles.
When I shared this with Marijane in the days before she died, I could sense her smile out in Phoenix. She listened intently, and finally I heard her say, “Yes. Yes, Tommy. Yes!”
Marijane had left behind her calling as a nun, but not her spirituality. She believed in holding on to yourself, but also in giving without ego. We talked for hours at a time, often several times a week. It was rarely about the mundane. It had more to do with the sacraments of living. She had been gone since the previous spring, but I still talked with her often. We were so close at the end that I had no trouble “hearing” what she would say to me whenever I posed her a question. That day in the field with Ken and Ann, Will and Atticus, maybe the wind wasn’t the only thing whispering to me. For I could picture my generous aunt saying, “Will now walks in beauty.”
Of course she was right. She pretty much always was.
I was merely extending the practice of what Atticus and I had learned together over more than a couple of thousand mountains. I was treating Will as an equal, and learning more about the world by experiencing things through his senses.
I’d looked at him many times a day and said some semblance of the following:
“Show me what you want.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“Let me help you, Will.”
During our time together, we figured things out. I didn’t need to love that crusty old fellow to see him to the end of his life, but he became one of the great loves of my life. While helping him to save his soul, I helped my own. Everything we did together was an act of love.
With deep October upon us, the only color remaining in the forest was that of the evergreens and the bright yellow of the enduring young beech leaves, which drop slowly throughout the winter. Everything else was gray and brown.
Will’s energy dropped in unison with the hemlock, oak, and maple leaves. He couldn’t get to his feet anymore without my assistance. I’d often have to hold him up to go to the bathroom. He was getting weaker and shakier and more helpless.
Will’s red coat was now essential whenever we were outside. Over the course of several weeks, he had lost seven pounds. His joints were stiffer, no matter how often I massaged them and put him through his range-of-motion exercises. He stopped eating regularly, sometimes falling into his food and dropping off into a deep sleep. Increasingly, his legs gave out. He’d end up in a heap on the floor, tangled in wires or chair legs, or trip over one of his beds. He’d lie waiting for me to come and get him, his eyes drawing me closer, asking for help, full of helplessness.
One afternoon we left Will alone for only twenty minutes when we drove to the town dump with a week’s worth of trash and recycling. As soon as I stepped out of the car I could hear Will crying out. Atticus and I ran up the stairs to find that he had fallen and was twisted up in the legs of a folding table. He couldn’t move. His sobs reached out to me, and when I pulled him up and held him close in my arms, I felt how he trembled; his whimpers brought me to tears. Atticus approached him for only the fourth time in his years with us. As I hugged Will, Atticus pressed his head against Will’s back.
That’s when I knew.
That’s when I surrendered yet again.
The prospect about what I was about to do both frightened me and made me strong. Whatever time remained was now Will’s, and my responsibility to my friend was to be there f
or him.
I was about to extend to him one of the most loving things I’ve ever done.
I telephoned Rachael Kleidon. As soon as she heard my voice, she knew. I let her know that I wanted to be wrong. But with Will falling down countless times a day and unable to get up again, I knew. If that wasn’t enough, his eyes were telling me. They were soft and devoted; there was also something more within them. I never pretend to know what someone else is thinking. However, reading Will for as long as I had, I noticed that this was a new look. He was searching my face, just as I had always searched his.
I’d like to think he was asking me a question, and wanted to know what came next.
“Rachael, he seems at peace. He’s so weak, and he’s suffering, but it doesn’t seem to be horrific. I mean . . . I think it may be harder for me than him.”
Rachael listened. In her lack of words I already knew what she was going to say. I could hear her trying to hold on to her emotions. “Tom, you know Will better than anyone. I have no doubt you are making the right decision.”
We spent a few more minutes on the phone, but neither of us was able to complete our sentences. Rachael and I had lost our words; there were only feelings.
The next day Will, Atticus, and I went to Rachael’s office. Will was in my arms, and she kissed him on the forehead. The way she looked into my eyes . . . there was no doubt why she was our veterinarian. She had always been a perfect match for us. Through allowing me to sit in on the amputation of Atticus’s toe, to giving him chemotherapy in the office so I could be with him, to the roller coaster of Will’s life, Rachael had always been the picture of empathy.
She talked about Will’s weight loss, and his inability to stand or even hold himself upright when we placed him on the blanket on the examination table. She listened to his heart, and it was strong. That and his eyes were the only places where he showed his zest for life still. But even in his eyes, the flame was dwindling.
