It was clear the moose was to blame for the lack of water. Halfway down the ravine, far from the house in southern Alberta, Canada, tracks circled our well. The moose had punched straight through the plywood cover, exposing the pump and pipe to freezing temperatures. For 20 years, my husband and I had been saying we should replace the flimsy wooden lid with a metal one, but it was never a priority. That is, until last winter, when we lost our only source of water.
Regaling my therapist with stories of the moose was an easy way to start our session. She laughed along when I told her about hauling jugs of water from our neighbour’s place, about my dirty hair and how there was just enough water to wash the critical bits. But when she paused and then clicked her tongue, I knew the fun was over. “How do you feel about having a guided conversation with your fear?” she asked. She thought that a free-flowing chat, a one-on-one with my imagination, might help me with my sleep problem.
Because my therapist was based in the city, 60 miles from where we lived – a postage stamp at the foot of the Rockies – we talked on the phone. So she didn’t see me nod in agreement when she said it’s normal to feel sceptical about the exercise and that folks who favour using the logical part of their brain sometimes find it strange. It was her kind way of saying I wasn’t the perfect candidate. I would be too self-conscious.
“It’s not necessary,” I reassured her. “The moose business has cured me.” As soon as these words left my mouth, I knew it sounded ridiculous. And it wasn’t true. For the better part of two years, worries about my health had been preventing me from getting a proper night’s sleep. Once I was awake, I couldn’t stop thinking about my breast cancer. A funny phrase, since it wasn’t even my breast cancer any more. In 2022, it had been cut, poisoned and burned out of my body. But, at night, thoughts of it coming back lodged in my brain, the neural pathway hot-wired. I tried everything, but I couldn’t seal the hole in the night. I kept falling through it.
But the moose incident meant our nights were now interrupted as we tried to thaw the pump and pipe that had so reliably brought water to our house with a gas-powered generator, which required fuel every five hours, for nine days.
At first, I had been reluctant to take a night shift carrying gas to the generator. But, by the time I reached the well, my fears about what I would find in the night, such as cougars and wolves, had shifted. Soon, even the idea of being inside, let alone sleeping, began to feel like a crime. In the stillness and intense cold, the pressure to sleep – the necessity, even – seemed to evaporate. Instead of being worried about the night, I felt emboldened by all the beauty. Brave.
But my therapist wasn’t buying it. Wandering around in the dead of night wasn’t sustainable, didn’t get to the root of the problem. She wanted me to square up with my fear. I had been prepared for it to be awkward, and it took me a while to engage in this conversation with my fear as an imaginary foe, but once we got started it was fair and measured. Its big beef was my lack of vigilance, my inability to avoid illness.
“So, your fear is trying to protect you?” the therapist asked. “Yes, but it insists I plan for every eventuality. It doesn’t account for plain old bad luck.” We agreed this was unreasonable. I should cut a deal, tell my fear that there are limits. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend after a strained visit. I said: “I’ll check in with you, but not in the middle of the night.” Then I looked out of the window towards the well. Gently, I told my fear about my discovery – that night is reserved for snow and stars and wayward moose with their gangly legs and destructive hooves. I told my fear not to worry. We would stay in touch.
My sleep improved almost immediately. I still woke in the night, but my brain no long saw this as an opportunity to latch on to things. Within weeks, I was getting six hours of sleep and then, like dominoes, other pieces of my life started to fall into place. I would wake up rested, so I went for runs and lifted weights. I made good meals for my family and plans with friends. I even found the energy for a puppy. I went to bed feeling a good kind of tired, collapsing like a child after a long summer day of playing outside. With better sleep, eating well and moving my body came easily.
I still go to therapy and try not to push away the things that inevitably bother all of us. When they do creep in, I know it’s time to have an impromptu chat with the worries clamouring for my attention. It’s an important piece of maintenance.
This spring – long after the water was flowing to our house – a moose passed through our place. It occurred to me it might be the same moose, but there was no way to know. What I did know was that when the moose introduced me to the night, my fears felt manageable against the backdrop of so much beauty. And this shift in perspective, like a blast of cold air, turned things around for me. It was the moment when I was finally brave enough to step into the daylight.
Michelle Spencer is a writer based in Alberta
• Tell us: has your life taken a new direction after the age of 60?
