When I was hospitalised a friend jokingly said he wanted a picture of me nimbly knitting. By November I went one better and sent a more dexterous picture of me sewing.
 
I’d paid attention to everything said, learnt, understood and accepted everything I could lay my hands on about frostbite. It gave my injury meaning. I repeatedly subjected myself to stimuli that I knew would upset me. Like a song that reminded me of my dogs or me saying aloud over and over, “My dogs are dead.” Apparently psychologists call this “exposure to circumstances” and describe it as a rare process for anyone to put themselves through. Instinctively it felt the right thing to do in order to move on. 
 
I did have terrible lapses. I would think of my dead dogs. I wanted to feel Saxon’s sloppy tongue on my face.  I wanted to feed him and lay deep new straw inside his kennel. I wanted him to know he was loved so very much. I wanted them all to know how much I miss them. I wanted to laugh with Twizzle. Reality was I cried knowing I’d never stroke any of them ever again.
 
The next six months were spent preparing for my move to Greenland.