Helen and Izzy, this afternoon. He is a Soul Dog, I think. He didn’t move for
several hours after this visit.

   April 15, 2008 – So here, again, is this scene, familiar now, ritualistic, comforting in its
own way. I tap on the door, wait for Warren to say “come in,” in his hearty voice, and I enter the house. As I was trained to do, I always look around – is anything out of place, is Helen awake, how are Warren’s knees when he stands up? I put my camera bag on the chair near the wood stove, not used since the oxygen machine came in last year, and I put my books and stacks of poems down, in case Helen wants to hear them, and can.
  I bring some of my photos, matted and wrapped in plastic. I hand Warren the mail. I show the new photos to Warren, who tells me how good they are, how remarkable, how much he enjoys them, and then leave them for Helen, who always makes a point of telling me they are beautiful and she would love to look at one or two for a few days. Then I put them up on the mantle, or by the window where she can see them as she looks out at her hill.
  I bring them pictures, ostensibly at least, to give Helen something different to look at each day, as she can no longer leave the bed, or change her view. But I also realized that afternoon that it is something more, that I look forward to showing them photos I like or am proud of, and I appreciate their encouragement, which is generous and forthcoming.
 I ask Warren how things are, and he shakes his head, and says, “well, it wasn’t an easy day,” which translated means it was a very rough day, and he spent it with little or no sleep  sitting by Helen’s side, doing laundry, answering calls, helping with bedpans and food, dispensing medications, rubbing his aching knees, trying to manage a household that is, by its very nature,  unmanageable.
  I look over at Helen and check out her breathing, skin color, responsiveness, eyes. She is asleep, breathing heavily and slowly. The nurse and health care aide are coming by regularly, Warren tells me.
  I sit down in the chair next to her, as I am trained to do – do not tower over a patient, but meet them at their own eye level if you can. But our visits have gone beyond formality and proceedure, training and protocol. We are bound together, on a trip, and we will all see it through, people and dogs.
   Izzy goes to the bed, and jumps up to see Helen, the pale early evening sunlight streaming softly through the window. Warren tells me about his day, about the visits from the Hospice staff, about Helen’s condition, about the details of running the household. He never complains or asks for help, but sorts things out by going over them, bouncing them off me.
  I rarely respond, just listen, as I have also been trained to do, and am learning to do.  We go over the details – his emergency Hospice numbers, Helen’s medications, my number, and I remind him to call Hospice or me if there is trouble. He promises, as always.
  I remember the Hospice manual: The processing of one’s life is often done with eyes closed, so sleep increases. More time asleep than awake becomes the norm. It appears to the outsider to be sleep, but important work is going on inside, on a level of which others cannot possibly be aware.
  I sometimes see these families, often alone much of the time, and nearly overwhelmed with work and detail, and imagine that it is a marathon, and they are in a race with grief and exhaustion. And that is sometimes, true. That is what it is.
  Helen is not strong enough to listen to a poem.
  Warren says he has been talking with Helen about it, and they think they might like to do another poem, this one about their house. Good idea, I say. They look forward to the poems, he says. They have given meaning to their lives together.
  Helen’s hand reaches over and strokes Izzy, who lowers his nose and looks over to me.
  Helen strokes him, almost reflexively.
  I lean over and look towards her, and her eyes open, and she smiles.
  “I see you,” she whispers, blowing me a kiss with the fingers of her right hand.
  “I see you, too,” I answer, and blow a kiss back.