HOWL

The solitary coyote sits still in the field as a pinking-warm sun rises over another day on the prairies. Here we have it, he seems to say. What I want to say back: we really need to stop meeting like this.

Another fourteen hours of gold-dusted wind are ahead for us both. Limitless sky, cricket jump, switchgrass sway. The coyote will get to enjoy it, while I clench my jaw through the day, indoors and restricted. I watch from my kitchen window as the coyote tilts his head skyward. His staccato yips song out into a high, crying howl, just as it has every morning. Swallowing a last mouthful of lukewarm coffee, my hip bones pressing into the edge of the sink, I lean forward to get a better look at him. I wonder where the rest of his pack is, the other ones. Why I never see them, why he sits out there all alone.

It’s funny, then, that I did not turn that question on myself. Standing in the kitchen, summoning up the will to begin another day. It has always been hard to get started. Like him, I was alone. But this was years ago now. I was not so good at reaching for mirrors, for finding myself reflected in others. Back then I could not speak about it, let alone howl.

A difficult year grinds to an end. I Google:

why do I always wake up with a song stuck in my head

why do little things overwhelm me

why is making a decision so difficult

why do I need two hours alone in the morning

why do I always feel guilty

why do I feel

different

behind

misunderstood

I have forgotten where my wallet is – an imminent concern that rises in the middle of an afternoon. I remember that I have a discount card for a store, somewhere. It’s a store I haven’t visited in months, but am always meaning to. I reflect on a morning four years ago, where I pulled into my driveway and climbed out of my car to find the apple tree in the front yard in a full, ambrosial bloom. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. It was a spectacle. I was spring-drunk, entranced by blushed blooms and a heady scent. Setting down my car keys, I a photo of the tree with my phone, posting it to Instagram, typing out a caption. Then, I checked my email, thumbing down to refresh my inbox. I did not find my car keys again.

My spouse and I combed through the garden for hours that evening, back-bent, until the mosquitos came out to buzz at our temples and the street lights flickered on. Did you set them on the deck? My spouse asked. What about near this rock?

I make light of it. Perhaps they simply fell into another dimension. I laugh, a sound I feel will introduce good-natured levity to our search. The laugh sounds wrong. It sounds like a cry.

That house isn’t ours anymore, but I still feel that I should inform the new residents to please keep an eye out for my keys.

Do I have rice in the pantry for dinner tonight, or do I need to buy more? The socks I put on this morning were not the right ones but I cannot specifically explain why. It is how they feel. On the topic of socks, everyone’s laundry needs to be done. Piles are reaching a level of emergency that our family has not seen since we all got the stomach flu. From room to room, I gather it into bundles, schlep baskets down the stairs. Loading the washing machine, I remember that, earlier, I didn’t start the dishwasher as I had meant to. In the kitchen, a box of cereal has been left out on the counter and the garbage bin is full. I empty the bin. I claw inside a drawer, my hand reaching for a fresh bag. Nothing. We’re out of garbage bags. I step away and sigh, my foot crunching on a piece of wayward cereal. I go to get the vacuum.

There is too much to do around here yet my head still asks, what else? I could start a niche small business, one that crafts artisanal natural perfumes, scents that match the olfactory vibe of popular and classic book titles. Lately, I am primarily concerned that I am not truly a writer. I worry that this career path is one of many that will burn out with the same ending: I try it on with ample enthusiasm, but use it up quickly. When it dies, I begrudgingly bury it, using up the last of my available effort to lift the shovel, to move the heavy soil.

Grabbing a notepad, I scribble down: rice, milk, cat food, rice, garbage bags, eggs. I notice that the rice has been listed in duplicate.

My phone buzzes on the counter and I am startled by its vibration, what it could signal. An anxious voice inside my head asks, what if? What if this is it, the tragedy you’ve been waiting for? The friend who you’ve neglected, texting to say that it’s over. The inevitable injury of someone you love. A vehicular accident involving your spouse. The breaking of the long, slender fibula bone belonging to your youngest child. The unavoidable phone call from the bank, informing you that your mortgage is six months in arrears and the next logical step is foreclosure. How could you have been so careless?

The dentist office’s receptionist has left me another sanctimonious voicemail. That’s it, that is all. Regarding your daughter’s second missed appointment. She threatens me with a fee.  The dentist’s time is important and valuable.

I wish that I could lay down on the cool tile floor and wake up on Friday at four o’clock, when the responsibilities have quieted. The yellow school bus rumbles to a stop outside, my children come tearing in through the door, backpacks flung and wet boots kicked. Hi, hi, come give me a hug, how was your day?

That evening, I open the pantry door praying for a life raft in the form of dinner: something quick but healthful, a meal I can cook without much thought. I am, of course, taunted by several unopened packages of basmati rice. I can do nothing but laugh. It was an unreasonable amount of rice, really. We were swimming in it.

What does “being a better mother” mean to you? The doctor asks me.

Um, I say. Well, you know.

She wants me to tell her.

What do you mean when you say you’d like to be “a better friend”?

I talk about wishing to be more organized and energetic, having the necessary amount of executive functioning to be a better version of me. I describe possessing the capacity to be more engaged with others and less anxious, to not feel so depleted after a social interaction. To be a better listener. To remember. To produce efficiently, to be granted the skills that allow me to think ahead.

How was school for you as a child? The doctor asks.

A one-hour bus ride each morning to the gifted school across the city. The school was named after the man who invented the telephone. I wouldn’t invent very much within those walls, but the general hope from faculty is that one of us students would. In class I was quiet and inward-focused. I often felt I had missed an important instruction, or was not present during a crucial lesson. Everyone else seemed to know what to do. I would ask to go to the school bathroom often. Once there, standing under the fluorescent lighting, I’d kill time facing the corner, using my fingernails to pick at the peeling paint that gathered in the connection between two adjoining walls. There was no telling how long I’d be in there for. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been forty.

Here is what is funny: others believe that I’m a capable adult, where I always feel like I’m playing a trick. I imagine that when I dress myself for the day, my clothing is infused with a power that allows me to inhabit an identity. I button jeans, slip my arm into a sweater sleeve and become Her: charming, fun, interesting, organized. She thinks of others. She always remembers a birthday. I don’t allow anyone to know how I speak to myself, the words I use, their acerbic bite. Lately, the words are: lazy, trash, pretender, dilettante.

Because of my generous servings of self-criticism, I remain protected and safe. No person could be any crueler to me than I am to myself. No insult from another could slit as precisely or as deeply, the way my own do.

I haven’t been doing so well, I say to my spouse, aware that I have just handed them a weapon. They could look at me differently when armed with this knowledge, but somehow, astonishingly, they do not.

The doctor calls. A report has been sent to my email. The diagnosis feels both surprising and certain. Part of me wants to argue it, to present evidence to the contrary. This part of me wants to slip my favourite sweater on, the one I feel safest in. I could button it up, saying No, really I don’t think so.

I feel a gentler part of me lay down on the cool tile floor inside of my head. She swallows and accepts. An email notifies me that my prescription has been sent to the pharmacy. I shrug on my winter coat, pull a wool hat over my head. As I trudge through the snow to pick up my meds, there is a nervous feeling fizzing in my stomach. My spouse had asked if I wanted them to walk there with me. I did, but back inside, hovering in the doorway, I had said no.

With my new medicine, it is very easy to begin. I identify inefficiencies and create new workflows. I look forward to my day. I have empathy for my spouse. I want to talk to them about things. My children are not interrupting me, I now understand, they are simply making a bid for my attention and it can be gifted to them graciously. I see a new way out of habitual patterns, my negative thinking. This appears as a small pinhole of light that grows brighter as I bend towards it, like a plant arching toward the sun.

I feel happy. I want to cry. I do, and the tears come effortlessly. Their falling is dazzlingly correct. By them, I am made pure and clean.

I reach out to a friend, one I’ve been meaning to connect with. I express that I’ve gotten some illuminating news and share it with them. My text is long and I over-explain. I regret the use of “illuminating”. I wait.

They say: Congratulations. Welcome to the club. We do tend to run in packs.

I Google:

belonging after diagnosis

sharing disability with others

running in packs

coyotes

Coyotes were originally found on the prairies, living in open mixed hardwood and coniferous forests. They’ve adapted to thrive almost anywhere, including farmland, suburbs and urban cities. As social animals, they have a firm family life and interact with one another constantly. Solitary coyotes might leave their packs from time-to-time to join other packs or create new territories. They can travel over large areas, sometimes even across state lines. Coyotes communicate with each other through howling. Coyotes howl to call their family members back together after hunting, to find one another. Their howling can travel up to 1,000 yards.