The experience I just had on May 31st has taught me nothing. Maybe because it’s only seven days later. Maybe because I’m totally numb to my usual way of thinking—that deep down, there is something good that comes out of everything.
Six years ago, my husband and I left Northern Virginia after his retirement from the Army and the frenzied tornado of our important, teeth-grinding jobs and the steering-wheel-clenching traffic that followed. He’d been through cancer—twice, and we were determined to find a more laid back, safe, and serene community not far from family, where all the choices we made would be ours and ours alone. Somehow, I felt we’d lost control of our own story, and we needed to find it.
Finishing my first novel was a big part of that next step for me, but for us as a couple, it meant finding our natural rhythm again, not a direction and pace imposed upon us. It meant paying attention to what we first knew the minute we met on that blind date almost 50 years ago, two English majors with a shared passion to write. Our new community laid the groundwork for us with its small-town shops and restaurants, the love of the arts, the active writers’ group, the small church—and then, there was the neighborhood with its beautiful lake, the charming marina, the kind neighbors, and that “peaceful feeling” the Eagles sing about.
But the best part was the walking. We fell in love with the walking. We walked everywhere— down trails and quiet streets along the water, up and down hills and on the coldest and wettest and hottest of days. We decided when and where to walk, how fast and how long to walk, and we made all kinds of plans along the way. We talked about everything, just like those early days, when we couldn’t wait to be together and share our beliefs, our wishes, and our fears. In this new place, we found our rhythm, got a lot of exercise, and found a relaxed, familiar sense of control, just like we needed.
A week before the incident, the topic of control came up. Sometimes we talk about our dreams and what they might mean. I have my fair share of interesting ones, that’s for sure, but I reminded my husband of the constant, recurring dream that keeps finding its way into my brain at night. The dream is always about me knowing where I need to go and how important it is for me to be there. The problem is I’m lost. I can never find the right street or the right parking lot or the right elevator or the right room. I’m sure there are experts for this, but I’m guessing it has something to do with not being in control of the situation and feeling unsafe in the process.
Seven days ago, May 31st was a gorgeous morning. I’d been working on my next novel, and my husband was starting a new writing project as well. I couldn’t wait to get into that discussion, so we started out on our walk. On our street, just a quarter mile from home, we heard the dog, and I knew he was charging fast because a car had to slam on brakes to keep from hitting him. I knew he was coming behind me and that he was very big because his voice was getting bigger and deeper and angrier. I didn’t have time to turn around, but I knew he was going to attack me. When I felt his teeth sink into my calf, he didn’t want to let go, but my husband screamed out and went after him. The lady in the car screamed, too, and the dog owners raced out of their house and came across the street to us. I don’t remember too much, except the blue bandana I carry on all our walks was dark red, and the blood was pouring out through my pants and into my shoe. I ended up on the ground at some point, and I was overwhelmed with fear that he might come back and jump on top of me. It felt very personal.
During the five hours in the ER, I was thinking … I can never go on a walk in our neighborhood now. I will never be able to walk with my husband in this safe, serene place we found. We will never have our peaceful rhythm again. Surely, this can’t be true.
In seven more days, I hope to get all the sutures out, and I’ll continue to go through the follow-up doctors’ visits and try to come to grips with what’s happened.
May 31st taught me nothing … at least, not yet. I think it probably will someday. I’m strong and have great support, but it’s not going to be easy to find the something good that comes out of everything. Soon, I’ll get back to my beloved character of Genevieve and my novel, and I know she’ll try to give me the healing joy I need to finish my story.
I’m just praying tonight I will have one of those recurring dreams where I’m trying desperately to get to where I need to be. And then … I just walk there by myself without getting lost.