Deep waters, p.1
Deep Waters, page 1
Praise for DEEP WATERS
“Mathews writes with poignant honesty about the challenges of marriage, family, and community in a moving story that highlights the strengths of human relationships. Deep Waters starts with a bang and just keeps going: lively, vivid, and personal.”
—ROMAN DIAL,
author of The Adventurer’s Son: A Memoir
“If books were birds, Deep Waters would be an arctic tern—powerful and graceful, beset by storms and learning to survive and more: to thrive. The writing is feather-light yet strong.”
—KIM HEACOX, author of Jimmy Bluefeather and
The Only Kayak: A Journey into the Heart of Alaska
“Deep Waters is a survival story of the highest order, navigating the complex terrain of marriage, medical crisis, and a future reimagined. After the trauma of her husband’s stroke, Mathews returns to a basic truth: through love, we discover who we are, and who we hope to become.”
—CAROLINE VAN HEMERT, award-winning author
of The Sun is a Compass
“Mathews has penned a deeply personal love story with the careful rigor of the scientist she is, free of any giddy prose or rainbows. Instead, Deep Waters comes at the reader with the gloves off and goes a full twelve rounds, documenting in granular detail the fears and conflicts attending a life-altering event that can drive even a strong relationship onto the ropes, and the endurance, commitment, and deep love that can save it.”
—LYNN SCHOOLER, author of The Blue Bear
and Walking Home
“Poignant, profound, and powerful.”
—MARV JENSEN, Superintendent
of Glacier Bay National Park 1988-1994
“We felt like we were there with Beth, sharing her emotions, anguish and struggles through the stroke, hospital stay, and recovery. We felt like part of the family as we read, gasped, cried and hoped for recovery and for peace in her heart.”
—TBD BOOK CLUB, Seattle, WA
Copyright © 2023, Beth Ann Mathews
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2023
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-466-4
E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-467-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022913054
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
Interior design and typeset by Katherine Lloyd, The DESK
To write this memoir, the author relied on journals and notes, boating logbooks, interviews, photographs, memories, and medical records. The names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals. Some dialogue has been recreated from memory. Information in this book is not intended as a substitute for medical advice. Readers should consult a physician for all health matters and any symptoms that may require diagnosis or medical attention.
For Jim and Glen
and all who helped us move beyond.
CONTENTS
Part One:
HAYWIRE
1Final Touch-up
2Boots on the Ground
3Rise to the Occasion
4Evacuation
5Rare Event
6Slow Boat to Siberia
7Perfect Storm
8Tamp the Flames
9Prime Candidate
10About that Morning
11Slipping
12Bear Trap
13Fighter’s Fire
14Solving Riddles
15Two Flights
16Hollowed Out
17Action Hero
18Moving Target
19A Drunk
20Flight Plan
Part Two:
SHIFTING GEARS
21Jekyll and Hyde
22Ice Cycle
23Uncoupled
24White Flag
25Don’t Limit Me
26Bottleneck
27Back in the Saddle
28Hungry Heart
29Watch the Birds
30Baranof Warm Springs
31Wingmen
32Off the Map
33Training Wheels
34The Basics
35The Dean
Part Three:
WHITE SNOW, DEEP WATER
36Vital Nutrients
37Blue Water
38Facing Storms
Epilogue
Works Cited
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Expedition routes on sailing vessel Ijsselmeer
We love life, not because we are used to living
but because we are used to loving.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
1
FINAL TOUCH-UP
My husband folded the covers back, stood, hesitated, and walked out of our dark bedroom before our alarm rang. I thought about saying, Everything okay, hon?, but I’d stayed up late grading exams. If I had spoken—invited him back into bed—would that have kept him safe?
We lived in Juneau, Alaska, between the ocean and a retreating glacier, a dynamic landscape that challenged and nurtured us. A forty-two-foot sailboat—our Alaska home for seven years before our son was born—floated at the city dock, blanketed by a crust of snow but otherwise ready for action. The week before, nine-year-old Glen and I ran a mile in the annual Mendenhall Glacier race, while his father joined the pack of ten-kilometer trail runners. I’d stood with our son, cheering Jim’s strong finish, aware of how I still found my husband attractive after twenty years.
Now, though, it wasn’t his broad-shouldered presence, but the scent of coffee that pulled me from the stolen hour of sleep. Thin light bathed the second-floor room from a window above the bed. I plumped a pillow behind my back and thanked him as I reached for the mug. A marine biologist, I taught at the university and did research on harbor seals and Steller sea lions in Glacier Bay National Park. Raised in the Midwest, I came to Alaska at twenty-seven to study humpback whales. My husband, a strong-willed field scientist from Utah, was hired at twenty-one to assist a grizzly bear biologist on the Alaska Peninsula. Chosen for his hunting and mountaineering experience, all that summer Jim carried and slept with a 12-gauge shotgun.
He stepped close and set his mug on the night table. Over jeans and a faded polo shirt, he wore twill coveralls. I recognized the look and stance that meant he wanted to make love. His proximity sent an enticing shiver up my spine, but I said I had a lot to do—finish a research proposal, give a lecture, and meet with advisees. “How about you?” I asked, thinking he should know work mornings were not good for sex. One early hour at my office equaled three in the afternoon.
He ran his hand through thick, chestnut-blond hair. Downshifting clumsily from seduction to business, he settled in the chair. “I’ve got some final touch-ups on the skylight. Then I’m going to the harbor to check on the boat. Can you schedule the brokers’ tour?”
We were putting our home up for sale to build a smaller, energy efficient house on a steep acre with an ocean view. I was reluctant to sell the home where we’d raised our son—I’d never lived anywhere I loved more—but I said, “Sure.”
He stood and gave me a one-more-chance look.
I reached for my notebook, and he left.
As I made the bed, I heard Jim cough several times. I’ve got to get my work under control, I thought, tugging the sheet and quilt tight across the mattress. Lately, for me, no mornings were good for sex. Maybe I should start seeing that marriage counselor again?
His coughing turned harsh, like a dull ax splitting wood. I hurried to the living room. He lurched up the stairs, arms stuck out as if groping in the dark, even though golden light streamed in. “Honey. What’s wrong?” His eyes jittered side to side. For a second, they locked on mine.
“I-I don’t know,” he gasped, staggering to the couch.
I grabbed the phone and punched 9-1-1.
“What’s your emergency?” a woman said.
“My husband was fine a minute ago, but now he’s coughing and can’t walk.”
“What’s your name and location?”
“Beth Mathews. We’re at home, thirty-eight, thirty-eight Killewich Drive. In the valley.” She typed as I spoke. “We need an ambulance.”
“Can he talk?”
“Yes. He’s having a heart attack or a stroke. This has never happened before.”
From across the connected rooms, Jim rasped, “G-get me some water.”
I reached up into the cupboard, phone pressed between my ear and shoulder.
“What’s your husband’s name and age?”
“Jim Taggart. That’s T as in Tango.” I went to the faucet. “He’s fifty-six.” Heart ramming against my chest, I set the glass in the sink and twisted the cold-water tap.
“Does he have health issues—any recent problems?”
“No. No issues.” Water tumbled into the glass. “He’s very healthy.
“Does he have any numbness?”
I relayed the question. He shook his head. “No numbness,” I said.
“Get me—Acchhh!—bring the water,” he choked.
“The ambulance is on its way. Keep him calm. I’ll stay with you.”
“I’ve got to hang up.” I needed to focus on Jim.
He sat, strong legs far apart, eyes wild like a cornered coyote. One arm braced on a cushion, he lifted the tumbler to his lips, tipped his head back. I waited for the water to douse the coughing—make everything okay. Instead, his body jolted, then buckled forward. Water spewed out across the floor.
Was it thirty chest compressions between breaths? I found the phone and jabbed 9-1-1. Same operator.
“My husband tried to drink water, but it all came out—like his throat was on fire.”
“Get him to lie on the floor.”
“If it’s a stroke, shouldn’t I give him a baby aspirin?”
“No, ma’am. No aspirin. And no more water. They should be there any minute.”
I hung up and went to his side. “Sweetheart. You need to lie down.” The couch and dining table were the only pieces of furniture in the room. The day before, he’d moved the rest onto the deck to prepare for the carpet cleaners. “The ambulance is coming.” My voice sounded confident, but my body shook. I held his bicep as he rolled onto his back.
“I’m going to open the front door for them. I’ll be right back.” At the entry, a heavy drop cloth covered the floor beneath the skylight. I skidded the ladder to the far corner and shoved a paint can and metal tray out of the way. Chips of off-white paint were scattered like confetti. What on earth happened?
Back upstairs, his eyes found mine, asked for answers I didn’t have. Inexplicably, he crawled toward the French doors to the deck. He opened one and collapsed onto his back. Spruce-filtered air spilled into the room. In our bedroom, I grabbed some clothes and returned. Watching him, I pulled off pajamas, jammed one leg and then the other into jeans. Questions crowded in. Was it a heart attack? A stroke? Every second mattered. Should I wake our son? Was this how it was going to end? Our last interaction a conflict over making love?
In the distance, I heard a siren—our siren.
While I buttoned my shirt, Jim tugged at the zipper tab of his paint-spattered coveralls, twisting his torso. “Help me with these.” He struggled to take off his long-sleeved coveralls. I didn’t want him to, but he was halfway out. I yanked each pant leg as if removing a child’s snowsuit. Jagged throat-clearing interrupted his breathing.
Our son entered the room, snugging the belt of his sky-blue fleece robe. “What’s going on?” As he drew the robe’s hood onto his head, drowsiness flickered to concern.
“Your dad’s having a serious problem. An ambulance is coming.”
Jim craned his neck to see his son. Emotion twisted his face. “H-hey, Glen.”
Glen knelt close and placed his hands on his father’s forearm. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
Jim shook his head, eyes brimming. He brought his other arm across his chest and took Glen’s hand into his. “I-I’m sorry.” He swallowed and lay back, eyes shut.
The sirens grew louder until the ambulance lurched into our driveway, and the wailing stopped.
2
BOOTS ON THE GROUND
Through the living room windows, I watched four paramedics stride to the front door. They wore tan vests edged with reflective tape. Two had black cases, and another carried a yellow stretcher under his arm, like a surfboard.
“This way.” I led them up the steps. “My husband suddenly started choking and something’s wrong with his balance.” As we fanned out into the room, I realized the second medic was Brian, my fitness trainer from a previous winter. He nodded curtly, not remembering me. The firm sound of their boots on the stairs, their professional presence, and Brian’s focus on the situation reassured me. Help had arrived. They would fix what was wrong.
The leader knelt beside Jim. “Stand back,” he said when I stepped close. “We’ve got this.” He shined a flashlight in Jim’s eyes. “Any chest pain or discomfort?”
Jim shook his head, jaw clenched. Brian strapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm while the leader positioned a teardrop-shaped mask over Jim’s mustache and mouth. The oxygen tank hissed. “Do you have any history of heart trouble? Previous heart attacks? Any strokes?”
After each question, Jim shook his head.
Brian stripped off the Velcro cuff with a harsh rip, his mouth a tight line. “Pressure’s way up,” he said. “One-ninety over—” The equipment buzz obscured the diastolic reading.
When the leader asked if Jim was numb anywhere, he swept his right hand down his left side.
That’s new, I thought. Could it be a stroke? My Jim is not someone who has a stroke. What is going on?
As they spoke in low voices, Glen watched from a corner, young face serious with worry. I went to him, knelt, and wrapped my arms around him.
“What’s wrong with Dad?”
“They’re not sure.” I rocked onto my heels, holding his narrow shoulders. “Get dressed, okay? We’re going to the hospital.” He frowned, blinking, and went to his room.
The dark-haired medic stepped into the kitchen to make a call. Afterward, he announced to the others, “The doctor said give him nitroglycerin and bring him in.”
I asked if it was a stroke or heart attack. He said the symptoms didn’t fit either one. Once the tablet was under Jim’s tongue, they set the stretcher beside him. He raised his head and rolled up onto an elbow, preparing to climb onto the stretcher.
“Hold it.” Brian put a hand on his back. “We’ve got you.”
I approached the cluster of men. “Can we go with him in the ambulance?”
“No, ma’am,” the leader said. “Follow us to Bartlett in your car.”
I locked eyes with Jim. “We’ll be right behind you, hon.” My hand twitched to reach between the medics and squeeze his shoulder, but they were already lifting him. The pressure behind my eyes hurt. My husband’s body, strapped to the yellow plank, tilted as four men carried him down the steps. In the yard, a raven cocked his purple-black head at the procession, then flew off. Two mornings before, I’d waved to Jim from those steps as he rode off on his bike to buy groceries.
“Bring your fleece jacket,” I said, as Glen and I dashed back inside. “And a book.”
While the garage door rumbled up, my son and I jammed our feet into shoes. I yanked the keys off the hook and started for the car. “Don’t forget your coat,” Glen blurted.
Eyes on his, I pressed a palm to my heart while retrieving it.
At the end of our street, as the ambulance turned, the sirens began wailing again.
After long minutes waiting across from the nurses’ station at Bartlett Regional Hospital, Glen and I stood to greet the ER physician. Beneath a white coat, he wore a blue Oxford cloth shirt with a burgundy tie. His clean-shaven face was solemn.
“Your husband’s had a stroke—an unusual type of stroke.”
I inhaled sharply. “What’s the outlook?”
“His symptoms don’t line up.” The doctor hesitated. “Depends on where the damage is. We’ll know more after the MRI.”
“Where do you think it is?” I tightened my arm around Glen’s shoulders, pressing him against my hip.
“We—” the doctor hesitated. “We think it’s in his brainstem.”
My chest felt as if it had been shoved. Brainstem? I knew the superficial anatomy and physiology of mammals enough to imagine any disruption to the part of our brain responsible for involuntary reflexes—breathing, heart rate, blood pressure—had to be bad. Very bad. This can’t be happening. An image of a wheelchair intruded. I shoved it aside. “When can we see him?”
“Within the hour—after the MRI.”
I slumped into a chair next to my son. He stared at me, eyebrows raised. “A stroke is where the blood flow to the brain gets blocked,” I explained.
“What’s MRI?”
“Magnetic resonance imaging. It’s like an X-ray, but they use a huge magnet and a computer to take lots of pictures of the brain or other organs. It doesn’t hurt, but you have to lie down inside a big tube that makes the magnetic field. From that, they create a bunch of pictures of your brain, like slices of the tissue.”
“Slices?”
