Meeting Noah

Recovering from the loss of my Sheltie Bailey is slow and sad, but life goes on and each day is easier. The minutes, hours, days right after losing Bailey was incredibly difficult. Her last days, the trip to the vet, and missing her consumed my every thought. For 14 years, part of what defined me was "dog owner." It was ingrained in me, part of my fabric. But now, I no longer was and it was a profound change. (No offense to Teddy the Beagle, but he is clearly my husband's dog.) So I felt...I don't know how else to say it...lost. Out of sorts.

Just two days after Bailey passed away, my family was scheduled to take our annual ski trip out west. What was the very last thing I felt like doing after losing my dog? If you said travel, ski, vacation, fly, pack a suitcase, try to have fun...you would be correct. But I certainly wasn't going to let my husband and son down so not going was not an option. Besides, I thought it'd probably be good to remove myself from the house where everywhere I looked reminded me of my pup.

Once we arrived, the change of atmosphere and scenery did do me good. Since I wouldn't have been with Bailey out in Colorado regardless, her absence wasn't as keenly felt. But even still, I never completely forget and though we were having a good time, everything was a little less cheery and fun.

We had four days of skiing and on the morning of the third, I sent Chase and John off to hit the slopes before me. It had snowed every blooming minute we'd been there so the skiing was challenging, the visibility was horrible, and my legs were screaming. To buy my legs a little rest before they revolted on me entirely, I offered to go ahead and make dinner for all of us so it'd be ready to go at the end of the day, assuring John and Chase they should head out for a few runs without me and I'd find them once I got on the mountain.

And that's what we did: they clamored out, barely remembering to shout a half-hearted "Are you sure you don't mind?" as they were already dressed and halfway down the stairs. So I whipped up my famous macaroni and cheese and after stalling for a little longer, I dressed in many layers and trudged to the nearest lift. There, I buckled into my boots, stepped into my skis, popped in my ipod and got ready to get in line when I heard him. "Are you solo?" I glanced over and realized this young boy was talking to me. I told him I was and together we shuffled to the lift and hopped on what is one of the longest chair rides on the mountain.

It's not uncommon to be riding up lifts with folks you don't know and to strike up casual conversation about where you're from, etc. My chair companion was a very personable boy and immediately began asking me questions: was this my first day out, was it my first time skiing, who was I there with, was I alone that particular day, where was I from, and on it went. He was so pleasant and I was inquiring the same info of him. His name was Noah, he was from Nebraska, 13 years old, in 7th grade, plays hockey, and he was there with his mother but alone on that particular day because his mother's friend was coming up from Denver to spend the day with her.

What a friendly, cool kid, I thought. "So since you're skiing all alone today," I proposed about six minutes into an eleven minute lift, "you could come ski with us if you'd like. I know my son would love to have someone his age to ski with."

"That'd be great," he told me. "Chase will be thrilled," I responded. "It's just the three of us this year but we usually bring a friend with us on trips since Chase is an only child--makes vacations a lot more fun for him. Are you also an only child?"

Since he was traveling with only his mother, I figured either he was or his siblings were too old or too young to be on such a trip. But his answer wasn't any of those explanations. It was one I was completely unprepared for: "Well," he said, "I am an only child now... My older brother just died last Friday."

I was stunned and whipped my head toward the young man beside me but reading facial expression was impossible thanks to the goggles and face shield that barred any glimpse of his features. "What do you mean, Noah?" I asked.

"My brother," he said, "he was 15--he always helped my uncle with his snow-blowing business. But when he went to wake him up last Friday, he just didn't wake up. We don't know yet what happened because the autopsy report hasn't come back yet."

I was stunned. I told Noah how sorry I was to hear about his brother and we talked a bit more about how his mother was devastated but trying to think positively. He told me she was grateful for the 15 years she had with him, that he was such a positive, happy person and really impacted many people that he met. I listened to him but all the while comparing the loss I'd been coping with to the loss his mother was coping with. It put things in a new perspective for me.

Noah spent that day skiing with us; he and Chase hit it off as beautifully as I knew they would. He also connected with us again the following morning. At the lift, I met his mother who was clearly distraught but told me she felt like she couldn't let Noah down by canceling the trip that was supposed to have included his brother. She was grateful that Noah had met us and had someone his age to spend the days with. Again, I was struck by the extremely sad situation this mother and child were in and when I compared our situations, I knew that I was the luckier of the two.

Make no mistake--I loved my Sheltie and am distraught to have lost her. But meeting Noah and seeing the strength he exhibited and hearing his mother's outlook helped me tremendously. His mother was glad Noah had met us but she'll never know how much it helped me to have met him.


Chase & Noah riding up a lift with us (Chase in green; me and John visible in Noah's lens)


Chase & Noah in our condo, which was right up the street from where Noah and his mother were staying