One step at a time

When I was in 8th grade, I went on a school trip to Washington DC. Our last stop after a few days of site seeing, to the best of my memory anyway, was the zoo. Part way through our day at the zoo, teachers and groups of the "jockier" boys collected everyone else to send back to the bus. A group of girls in my class had been approached by some aggressive guys and groped. In modern (more appropriate) verbiage, you might say assault, molestation, maybe even attempted rape. I don't recall any of those words being used. We sat on our bus, one of those large cross country deals with a restroom where at least 2 kids are going to act up on the trip and get everyone else banned from using it, and waited for I couldn't tell you how long as the powers that be ‘handled’ it.

The rest of us were stunned. The chatter around the bus varied. People talked about what they'd do when faced with something dangerous back home. And I had the dire need to be a part of the conversation. Now I barely knew those girls. But I was horrified. And the chances (skewed by part naivety and part from low crime numbers of a smallish town) of a roving gang of thugs attacking on my way home from school at the time were slim to none. But I formulated a plan of what I'd do just in case.

For years, I've looked back on that moment and thought how ridiculous I was.

In the aftermath of Sunday's tragedy in Orlando, I kind of get it now. My social media news feeds are full of people looking to show a connection and more to the point, make sense of something unimaginable. How can you make sense of something so scary, something close to you but not necessarily directly involving you? How do you process the feelings, the need to do something? It probably makes a lot of sense that our minds start with what we know best, ourselves, when struggling to figure things out.

I graduated from high school and college in Orlando. I've been coming to Central Florida since about 1985 and lived here since middle of the 1990s. I went clubbing in Orlando in college. I have friends and family that could have been in that club. I wouldn't have hesitated to join them for a night out there, except for being old & tired. Music & dancing fought alongside reading for my top interests back before you could hear my joints grind together.

My friends and family in the LGBTQ Central Florida community are devastated. It could have been any of them. Or their family. Or their friends.

I'm heartbroken and angry, too. My LGBTQ nibbling doesn't feel its okay to let their extended family know who they are. Or that their friend is their partner. I am bitterly angry that my friends and family can't even hold hands walking down the street without fear, and the people who have supported denying their rights are suddenly extending their condolences because to not do so at this exact moment would be political suicide. If this wasn't the largest mass shooting in our country's history, would those folks be so carefully, publicly supportive?

I don't have any answers. I'm overwhelmed with a grief I don't feel I have a right to. My family and friends went to bed last night. Woke up this morning. Went about their lives as I did this morning. For the families and friends of the victims…. I just cannot imagine.

My community, Central Florida, is not necessarily comprised of the most tolerant or open minded people at least in part, (I remember my first visit with a newly out high school friend to the LGBT Center, how small it was in such a fire & brimstone area. How could this tiny space be enough of a safe haven for my friends?) but is coming together. 7 hr waits to donate blood, 2 days in a row. Those who can't give blood bringing snacks and drinks, chairs and umbrellas to those waiting to give. Monetary donations to help the families pay for funeral expenses. People offering homes for free to out of town relatives of the victims, offering care for pets left behind or left unattended while their owners heal. Vigils and prayers.

I don't think there's any sense to make of this.  I do think there are actions to take in the aftermath. Positive actions. Conversations that need to happen. It's a reality check in too many ways. A catalyst. I want to vomit from the idea that it takes something so horrific to force change.

So I challenge you, each and every one of you who read my blog. (Even those poor souls who stumble across sheerly by accident.) I challenge you to make the world a better place. I challenge you to be kind. I challenge you to take the high road. I challenge you to be patient with those who need it and impatient and unwilling to wait for someone else to make things better. I challenge you to check in with at least one loved one today just to let them know you’re thinking about them. I challenge you to commit to do something that makes you happy, no matter how frivolous you think it is. I challenge you to find something simple about the day to appreciate. Something you’d miss, something trivial and not something you’d think about if your life changed. The perfect mix of syrup and carbonation at a soda fountain. Extra salt on a pretzel. The way your dog’s butt wiggles when they’re happy. The gooey, slobbery kiss of your pet when you least expect it. The sound of your shoes crunching on the ground as you hike. The feeling of typewriter keys under your fingertips. The funny dance your spouse does in the shower when they don’t know (or don’t care if) you’re watching. Seeing butterflies dance around plants bursting with flowers. The smell of roses in the garden at dawn.

I challenge you to live your life, regardless of the scary things that could happen. It's a gift.

Thank you for reading my way of beginning to process what's gone on and how I feel about it. Thank you for visiting my blog - just by stopping by and increasing my views by 1, you make my day better. So in taking my own suggestion, thank you. Thank you.

If you'd like to help out, here are just a few of the ways:

One Blood No matter where you are, blood donations are always needed.

Pulse Tragedy Fund Go Fund Me led by the local LGBT Center in Orlando

Pulse Victim's Fund Go Fund Me led by the state of Florida's LGBT civil rights organization, Equality Florida

Tolerance - many people will be quick to blame, to spread their own feelings of fear or angry or frustration onto others they feel may be associated. This was the act of an unbalanced individual, not the act of a someone who belongs to any civic or faith-based community.

Two kinds of people in the world

Truth be told, I tend to think in all kinds of shades of ... well.. midway between black and white. (Go ahead, snicker anyway, I'll wait.) But you've heard the "two kinds of people" thing applied to all sorts of labels. People who use one alarm or fifteen. People who do something or people who are wrong. People who like X or people who like Y. People who either know what I'm talking about or don't. 

For today's post, do you think we get messages from angels/a benevolent deity/spirits/the universe to guide/reassure you or do you absolutely believe that's BS and we're on our own to figure out our lives?

In my (limited) experience, I've known plenty of non-religious people who utter the phrase "it must be a sign" in the face of an occurrence that confirms or rules out something on their mind or going on in their life. I've known deeply religious people who scoff at the idea of messages (for lack of a better term) being sent over mild mannered life decisions. 

Do you think a butt-load (technical term) of social media posts/advertisements/etc is a sign from the universe to cool your jets and wait for something or someone to come to you or just the result of intensive marketing research indicating people are busier and more stressed out than ever, burning the candle at both ends and thus more receptive to investigate these peaceful, patience touting 'messages'?

Do you find these messages, be patient or let go negative people or buy triple ply toilet paper for better life satisfaction, to be eerie in terms of timeliness or annoying in their frequency? I read an article last week about a woman claiming one of the biggest social media sites is recording conversations and using the content to adjust what advertisements you see. If you're inundated with repeated ideas or suggestions, is it simply because an algorithm decided you'd be more apt to click, investigate and create web traffic ($$)?

That's both cynical and a triggering thought. Let's move to potentially less paranoid thoughts.

My newsfeed overflows with astrological sign memes by people who are nothing like they believe their signs claim they are. At least once or twice a week I scroll past a numerology article asking if I see 11:11 all the time. (I don't, FYI. I do see repeating numbers from time to time, just not anything anyone ever writes articles about, apparently.) Everybody and their uncle share inspirational posts (moi included) the tickle their fancy, speak to friends or family in a difficult situation, or to preach a viewpoint.

So A. I have a lot of people on my newsfeed who are looking for answers/guidance B. I follow groups/pages that post random stuff (full disclosure, most of my newsfeed is flooded with puppy stuff) & C. does it mean a darn thing?

Coincidence or sign? Intervention or algorithm? Pants or plotter? (Er... NaNoWriMo flashback. Kinda fits.)

Since I'm the one posing the question, where do I fit? I don't know, agnostic maybe? My father taught me to question things. But at the same time, this practical man of science also uses the phrase "it must be a sign". Not necessarily in conjunction with seeing something on social media. Let's not beat the example into a pulp, hmm? I'm openly skeptical, open to the idea that anything is possible but suspicious as a general rule.

So where do you fall on this? Do you believe in/look for/see signs in your life or do you take things as they come, your life being the direct result of free will alone. By all means, comment below and give me some more food for thought.

With a little help from my friends

In the era of social media, where people rack up 'friends' in the hundreds and thousands, where click-bate stories want you to believe whatever it takes to get the web traffic, there's an article for everything. Small circles of friends are more meaningful. Large circles of friends will make you more successful. Having friends will extend your life. Shorter friends throw better parties. Taller friends mix better drinks. People who wear turquoise will never be honest with you. People who wear exclusively polka dots will grow food for you in times of famine.

It's all on the internet, so it's gotta be true.

What I know is this:

I have almost always had a hard time making friends. Painfully shy as a child, my first friends in elementary school came to me. Best as I can remember anyway. Those memories, once crystal clear, are getting fuzzier at my age. But as I look back, with all the glory of hindsight coupled with self-analysis, I completely get the quote from Stand By Me:

I moved around the time I was 12, away from friends I'd had what seemed like my whole life. Honest to goodness BFFs. Girls I figured I'd grow old with. Even boys I figured I'd be friends with for ages. And then I was out of the picture. I moved a few more times before I graduated high school, becoming more shy and more socially awkward along the way. But what about the kids who moved a lot and become outgoing and easily make friends? As far from me as a lavender unicorn in sage culottes dancing in Swan Lake.

How cool would that have been though?!

Social media has shown me that my old BFFs ended up as adult BFFs, which has a bittersweet feeling for me. I think it's awesome they've been friends this long. But I wonder what it would be like if I'd managed to stay firmly sandwiched in there. And then I wouldn't have had the life I've had and blah blah blah. I also wonder if I'll ever like mushrooms or beer, not that I intend to ingest either one in the next several decades.

It's funny (to me at least) as I get older and the messages within things I've heard or seen finally sync in my brain. Kind of like listening to a Prince song with a kid for the first time. Or letting a 7 year old watch something from your youth and being scandalized at words that used to make you giggle (and still do when the kids aren't around).

So the bit about the never having friends like you had at 12? Totally. And upon reflection, why would you? Your baggage, best case scenario anyway, is so minimal to non-existent at that age. Chances are you probably haven't been stabbed in the back by a friend yet. You haven't been humiliated by your nearest and dearest. You and your friends haven't played the magical game of silent musical chairs where the loser is shut out of the group with no warning and allowed back in (or not) at random. All that weird psychological warfare people play is generally at the infant stage.

I realized all this over the last few weeks because one of my niblings is going through these friendship growing pains. She's the one left behind when friends moved away. She's trying to figure out how someone can be her best friend one day and the next leave her in the dust. She loves and cares for people who don't always care about her. And it all comes flooding back. It's not just because I was a new kid (not that it helped), or because I felt weird. It's because people start carrying around their own baggage and become affected by it. Then add in hormones, which I firmly believe plays a part in weaponizing baggage.

Teenage anything quite frankly.

Our internal struggles, the things we secretly harbor, they truly are more universal than we realize in our youth. It's perhaps one of the blessings of aging. Wisdom. Distance. Understanding. Perspective. Just about anything you think only happens to you happens to other people, too.

I may never have friends like I did when I was 12, but (and this is the part I get now) who does? While that 12 year old idealist who couldn't understand how adults compromised their standards, how anyone could ever be 'tired' from life, who thought 30 was so old *shudders* still resides within me, I'm not her anymore. And that means, I've grown. I've learned. I've experienced. I've made mistakes. I've triumphed.

The people I click with now? They've all grown and learned and experienced and made mistakes and triumphed. They're weird. They've felt isolated. They laugh at horrible, macabre things and want to fight injustice. They're storytellers and anti-bullshit. That's not to say the friends of my youth are lacking anything. We just don't know each other in that way anymore. When I think of them, I think of the little girls I played Nintendo at sleepovers with, regardless of having seen them since we've become adults.

So here's to the friendships over a lifetime: the ones that made youth feel endless, the ones that carried us through the growing pains, the ones that taught us valuable lessons, the unexpected ones and the ones you can finally appreciate from the word go.

Summer's haze

A quick word as a follow up to That Unwanted Feeling post. While I'm not rolling around in bed sobbing or unloading my grief upon an unsuspecting grocery store clerk, I wouldn't judge someone who did (mostly). We process grief (and essentially everything else under the sun) differently and I wanted to clarify that just because I have disconnected that there's anything wrong with any other way. Because I'm paranoid.

Summer is a funny thing to me. In theory, it runs from June through August. Where I live, it runs from May through at least October. Most years to the middle of December, sometimes starting at the end of March. What is for sure is that summer, at least here, is upon us. It's easy to tell.

People move in packs from air conditioning to air conditioning, searching for that most coveted of parking space - a fully shaded one. There are always those people who are compelled to point out that they don't notice/mind/melt-from the heat. There are always those people whose hair isn't the slightest bit frizzy or out of place and whose clothes don't stick to them from sunup to sundown. We hates these people. Nasty, nasty people. We hates them.

Bottom picture stunningly accurate when I get a sunburn.

I have inherited from my mother something in the ballpark of a predisposition to sun poisoning/sickness. My Italian ancestors must be laughing their asses off. I also have excessively light-sensitive eyes. My husband jokes I'm a mole person. Or a vampire. Cool darkness? That's my sweet spot.

BUT! Summer, if you were a kid with a half-way decent home life, food to eat and a love of reading & swimming, was awesome. (*Unless we're talking about holidays, but we're not, so I'll carry on.) Pool parties ( I went to 2. 1 above ground, 1 at the rich girl's house who had an in-ground pool. I had more fun at the above ground one.) Swimming at the community pool. Devouring books. Riding my bike. Staying up as late as I wanted *cough* without regret. Summer was freedom. Memories & hindsight and all that... I'm sure plenty of it sucked, too. But then I think about family trips and sleepovers.

 So while adult me dreads grocery shopping with coolers so my milk doesn't boil and my cheese isn't golden brown before I get home, inner me starts wondering how many books I can finish in a week. How many words I can write. I set a bunch of wildly conceived goals every summer, like my own personal resolution playground.

Which is good. Because that implies hope. That implies not letting go of dreams and personal goals.

Life can be brutal. Life can be monotonous. Life can be heartbreaking. But life can be renewed, the spirit rekindled, faith restored. In other words, every motivational poster you've ever seen.

If I ever get a tattoo, something I've contemplated for, well, ever, I've decided to go with Jimmy Buffett lyrics. Year-round reminder of summer, fun & hope.

That Unwanted Feeling

Yeah, mandatory grief post time.

In all fairness, I wrote a thousand (or... like 2) page follow up to the pup (old, arthritic & full of tumors dog) dying. I rambled. I vented. It served its purpose and doesn't really need to see the light of day.

The world (net) is full of self-help or introspective guides to grief and mourning. Even in regards to pets. I don't really have anything profound to add to those.

So about a week on, the rest of us are all still here. And everything else in our world is as normal as it ever is. But some (obvious) piece isn't quite right. My sense of grief has been less sobbing and more disconnected.

I feel blah, squared. Cubed, even. It has become more apparent as this week progressed. I'm crabby. I'm not sleeping horrible, but I'm not sleeping great either. One night I dream of a little boy holding a roly poly puppy in his arms, another night I wake from a nightmare. I tend to be a vivid dreamer good or bad.

Girl dog is just this side of being spoiled at the moment. An extra treat or two here, extra playing and scratchies there. She's not looking for him, but she's confused when she still smells his scent on something. Between play and treats, she's a little more sleepy and quiet.

Now, I still think he's going to need to go outside in the middle of the night. Just last night on the verge of sleep, I jolted up, thinking I heard the sound of his coming into my room to let me know he needed something. I looked to the unmoved door and realized nothing was going on. When I collect the girl dog to go out, I almost call out for him to join us. It's the habits, the little moments, that hit you after a loss.

Now I look at the girl dog, her own face graying, her age somewhere between 7 and 10, and am grateful we ended up with two dogs. I don't know how people do this who only have one dog at a time.

And at some point in the future, I'm sure we'll be back to 2 dogs. But I'm nursing a wounded heart at the moment and know better than to rush it. The right dog always seems to find us, 3 dogs and counting. If it's tomorrow or 6 months from now, it'll happen.

For now I'm sitting with where I'm at. I'm not wallowing. I'm not bringing it up to the grocery store cashier.

I am getting back to writing (fiction) again after April's hiatus. I'm getting back to reading. One of these days I'm going to get back to my language studies.

Today's the day

*I'm not exactly consistent when it comes to trigger warnings (which is now a thing), but this post deals with the loss of a pet. If you're balancing on an emotional razor's edge or not looking to harsh your happy, this may not be for you today.

Shower, get dressed, pack up necessary items, drink coffee, eat breakfast. Go about your ordinary day in the regular way. Today wasn’t even supposed to be like most Fridays in our house because my husband had taken Thursday and Friday off & we had plans to visit the mouse’s magic house both days. But the morning ran like groggy clockwork.

Halfway to the parks, my husband checked his phone and noticed a text message from my dad. Later, I would realize how odd that was. My dad tends to message or call me directly out of 30-something years of habit. The message simply asked where we were. My husband replied back, finding it a bit humorous that my dad must have forgotten our plans to see fake castles this AM. Ordinarily I would wait for a response, but I felt compelled to call.

Our older dog was having some kind of trouble, he said. Went outside for a morning constitutional, came back to the porch and laid down outside. He refused to get up. My dad sounded concerned, but uncertain about the severity. I asked if he wanted us to come home as I gave a brief (& silent) thought to the lunch reservations I had made weeks ago & the penalty payment if we missed it. My husband bowed out of the conversation and said it was up to me. My dad sounded a little more uneasy and confessed he’d feel better if I came back.

So I got off the expressway at the next exit and turned around. I felt completely, weirdly, uncharacteristically calm. Deep in my gut, that calm tipped me off at what was about to come. I am a chronic overthinker and deluxe worrywart. If I think of every possible catastrophe at a given crossroad, surely I can ward most of them off. But this honest to God inner calm? I knew the day I’d been dreading for more than 13 years had come, that the little baby dog I’d raised since puppyhood was about to leave us. Today’s the day. The lunch reservation no longer mattered.

We got home and were greeted by our other dog, who all but backflipped at our arrival. “Oh thank God you’re here! Something’s going on!” I dropped everything in a chair and went straight to the back patio. There our older dog lay, my dad sitting near him. Our other dog bolted out the door with us, bypassed the ill dog, then returned inside. Normally she would do something to annoy the crap out of him. I was more calm than I could believe. My poor buddy was stretched out of the floor, his back legs twitching and his eyes not quite focusing. He didn’t even sniff us as we approached. There was a little drool on the floor.

He’s had a stroke, I thought. Or a severe seizure. Calmly but efficiently I grabbed two towels and had my husband lift him off the floor. I spread out the towels & rested him on the bed. His stomach was hard, his breathing labored. Sometimes his eyes would focus on us but mostly not. They darted from side to side. My husband sat with him as I called the vet. My dad waited anxiously nearby. I told them both it was time. For a moment or two, he would shift around a bit, seeming to come back to himself, but then fall back down. I wondered if whatever this was would pass as I waited on hold with the vet’s office. The inner calm gently reaffirmed it was time. My husband quietly agreed that he thought the dog had had a stroke and that the time had come, I think trying to prepare me for the worst. He didn’t realize I was already in handle-it mode. I think he didn’t realize he was in shock.

The vet’s office has been waiting for this phone call for more than six months. Each time I would call-in and then pick up refills of his medicines, they were all quite surprised he was still with us. Sometimes I think they wondered if I’d gone crazy and he was long dead.

When they finally answered (what a time to be on hold), I told them who I was and gave a brief explanation. He’s had a stroke or something. I think it’s time to come in and have him looked at and take care of this. I couldn’t say the words. I was impressed my voice didn’t break. It’s a vet’s office. They got my meaning. They told me to come in an hour and a half later. It seemed like an eternity.

With nothing better to do while on hold as my husband sat with him and my dad occasionally came over to pet him, I used the magic of apps and changed our lunch reservation to a dinner one. I suspected we’d need to get out of the house later or risk going mad.

After I got off the phone with the vet’s office, my husband and I switched places. I sat with our dog on the bed. Our other dog came up on the bed at this point of her own choosing. She sat a respectful distance from the senior statesman, but still close enough I could put a hand on her. She wagged as I petted him and didn’t do her best to redirect the attention I showed him back to herself. Which is what she’s spent the last four years of her life doing after the honeymoon phase was over. Eventually she shifted out of arm’s reach but remained on the bed a while longer, just keeping him and I company.

My dad herded the rest of the older folks into my room to say goodbyes. My mother has had a difficult time knowing the dog was on borrowed time and I truly believe it’s contributed to part of her current mental instabilities. She petted on him, leaning down to kiss his head and talk to him  before sniffling a bit. It was a smoother exchange than I expected and I was grateful. My father-in-law, blunt but with a hidden sentimental side, couldn’t bring himself to pet the dog. He kept saying how he’d been fine this morning, just fine. He left the room quickly. We were all a little surprised.

I figured we’d load up the little guy a half hour before his appointment. He’d gotten a little restless in the last 15 minutes or so and would try to sit up or shift only to flop back down. His eyes cleared for a bit and he angled his head off the bed, which helped him breathe a little easier (probably from the large tumor inside him). But then he started to press forward as if to slide off the bed, so I’d rearrange him to keep him from falling. We’d turn him on occasion, from laying on one side to the other, as this seemed to help him be more comfortable for a few minutes.

As I was about to get up and start prepping for the car ride, I noticed him sort of… retching I guess. My father mentioned that he’d done that a little after he’d collapsed earlier. His head stretched out as his jaw worked like he was going to throw up, then he relaxed. It happened two or three times now and that inner calm told me to check his breathing.

He wasn’t.  He deflated ever so slightly. I looked up to my husband, who stood beside the bed and I told him “He’s gone.”

My husband, bless him, had a hard time with that. He rested a hand against the dog, called his name, then looked for a pulse, mumbling something about it being harder to find one because of the fur. I slowly, calmly repeated several times to him that he was gone. He wasn’t here anymore. My husband shifted him gently. The dog was completely limp, even his paws. “He’s gone,” I said again. My husband looked at me to do something, anything. Finally it registered in my husband’s eyes, his heart shattering.

My dad came in and I told him. My husband kept asking me if I wanted to hold our dog. No. He’s gone. He’s not in there. I’m okay. My husband just stared at me, as much in heartbreak as looking for guidance. He declined wanting to hold his body as well, but when I got up to call the vet’s office, he took my place immediately to sit on our bed with our dog. Dad let the rest of the house know as my husband and I had quick but somber back and forth:

Hubby: Had I ever called the local pet crematory places I’d researched? No.

Me: Did he want to bury the dog in the backyard or have him cremated? Cremated. He couldn’t bear putting him the backyard, digging the hole or leaving him behind if we ever moved.

Hubby: Would the vet’s office handle anything like this since he didn’t die there? I didn’t know, I’d ask when I called.

Me: Do we want the ashes or let the vet dispose of them? Long pause that ultimately lead to him saying it’s up to me but he didn’t see the need for them.

So I called the vet. He wouldn’t be needing that appointment after all. I asked about ‘aftercare’ services. Yes, they could handle that and gave me the pricing for keeping the ashes or not keeping the ashes.

I admit, I’ve been undecided on the ashes situation for some time now. The first dog in my adult life who passed away, we did not get her ashes. I didn’t even think about it at the time, as I think I just blindly nodded through tears as the vet offered to handle everything when she died after surgery. (Cancer, again.) I have her last collar in a memory box. But this time, this dog, is a little different. I knew his end was coming and he’s lived in every house my husband and I have shared. I didn’t want to bury him somewhere and move away but I also didn’t know if I wanted to carry around his ashes the rest of my life.

In the end, we did not choose to get his ashes. Part of me feels like I’m going to regret that the rest of my life. Part of me feels like it was the right decision because he was long gone before we took his remains to the vet’s office today. Someday everyone who loved him will be gone and his remains would end up discarded anyway. I’ve already started looking for the right memory box to hold his last collar.

My husband and I wrapped our beloved dog’s body in the towels we’d rested him on and loaded up in our car. My dad offered to drive, but I said I’d be okay. And I was. I also knew he needed a private moment to grieve his bestest buddy & first granddog.

When our other dog died several years ago, my dad was adamant that we not replace her. He didn’t want two dogs in the household in the first place before we got her, and her death was as painful for him as it was for us except he refused to show it. This afternoon my dad made an offhand comment, which for him wasn’t anywhere as casual as he’d like me to believe, about the next dog we get when it’s time.

My husband didn’t talk on the ride over. He had cried a bit, fighting the tears the whole time, when I got off the phone with the vet after our dog had died. Seeing him cry guts me. His laugh sends me into hysterical fits of laughter. His tears send me to pieces. He stayed in the car as I went inside to make the arrangements. I was at the tail end of my overwhelming calm. I broke for a moment on the phone when I let the office know he passed on his own. I held it together as I paid for his cremation in the office. But when the vet tech came out to collect our beloved dog and kindly asked what happened, I broke. Not horrible, wrenching sobs, but tears flooded and I couldn’t hold back the stilted words through sniffles as she carefully and gently scooped his body up into her arms. She remembered how sick he’d been. She’d been the one to give him the x-ray that first saw the tumor. I told her I thought he’d had a stroke and died on his own just before we were going to bring him in to be put down. She remarked how she’d never had any pets die at home that they’d always had to be put down, but how she wished they had been able to be comfortable at home. I said it was a first for us as well. She offered her condolences, I’ll never be able to recall anything else because I was lost by this point. I got in the car and cried for a few moments. I blew my nose and kept the tears at bay the whole way home.

My husband and I held hands the whole way back. I felt an overriding sense of things working out as best they could. It’s still a ridiculous injustice in the world that such wonderful creatures have such short lifespans. And cancer is the ultimate fucking bullshit in life. But it happened on a day when my husband wasn’t at work. It happened on a day our little guy wasn’t alone and we could get to him before he passed and make him comfortable. 13 years isn’t enough, but for a dog it’s pretty good. The extra 7 months were a gift. Though I had called the vet to have him put down, he died relatively peacefully, relatively quickly and at home. He hated going to the vet. I dreaded having his last moments alive being ones of terror at the vet’s office. I felt relief in that I kept my promise to him. I would be there, til the end. And somehow, by grace or luck, I was. We all were.

I’m sure I’ll struggle in the coming days, weeks and possibly years with coulda, shoulda, woulda. I should have let him eat the pizza he was begging for last night. I should have picked him up and snuggled him until he headbutted me to stop when the thought occurred the last time. Would anything I didn’t do have been better for him in his last day, his last morning, his last minutes?

When we got home, I was fine until I walked through the door. The air in the house felt oppressively empty and the sense of loss was momentarily smothering. Unlike our arrival a few hours earlier, our girl dog didn’t greet us at the door. She noted our return as we walked past her,  but remained in full nap form. It will be interesting to see how her personality will adjust to being the only dog in the house now. As much as she wanted to be the star of the show around him, I can tell she’s sad.

Hindsight tells me things unfolded in a way that worked out for the best given the circumstances. As I said earlier, he wasn’t alone today. He was fine this morning until he suddenly wasn’t. It was over quickly, before the vet’s office could even get him in. He didn’t seem to be in pain, and for that I’ll just have to learn to live with the disorientation he experienced at the end. Nothing is perfect. I’ve read and heard about animals pulling away from their humans and other pack members at the end so they die away from the rest of the group. Near the very end, he tried to get up and move away and our other dog left the room and gave him space. I soothed him until he relaxed against me and sighed. Sorry puppy, my promise to you overrided your instinct.

Hindsight (and a few internet searches) also make me think now that it wasn’t a stroke. His belly was rigid, his gums white, the eyes darting back and forth. I had been warned by the vet upon discovering the tumor, that his own dog had something similar recently. The end could be brutal with things rupturing and blood being everywhere. Most likely? The tumor finally made something rupture and he was bleeding internally. Quick, mostly painless. That’s why he was fine one minute and then he wasn’t. It couldn’t have been stopped, it was inevitable but it was blessedly less horrific than it could have been. A stroke is a polite censoring of events my brain ran with to keep me calm and focused. If I had realized that what the vet warned me about was happening, granted in slightly less visually graphic terms, I may have come undone.

It's strange to think from the time I called my dad to leaving the vet's office was barely more than 2 hours.

My husband is napping now. Much needed without question. There is an empty sadness in the house, so most everyone is napping. I on the other hand, felt the immediate need to process this with the written (typed) word. Knowing it was coming, it still hurts. But a shard of the damn near otherworldly calm still resides within me at the moment. Could be that I’m just numb though. I am relieved that we came super close to the best case scenario. Best case scenario, he lived 40 more years. Next best case scenario, he died peacefully in his sleep after he finally caught the bunny he’s been sleep-chasing for 13 years. 3rd place isn’t too bad. Especially considering what the vet offered as the worst cast scenario.

On the way home from the vet’s office today, I realized I hadn’t said a proper goodbye. I didn’t send him off with words of love. Maybe it’s the shock and this idea will become guilt alongside other shoulda, coulda, wouldas, but as I said to my husband when it happened, he’s gone. He wasn’t in that body anymore. He came to me when he was sick. He came to me when he was scared. He wagged his tail when he saw me. He knew I loved him. He knew I would protect him. My presence at the end, keeping that promise I made to him, there wasn’t anything more I needed to say that he didn’t already know.

So now, I hope our first girl dog was there to meet him. I hope the squirrel chasing is optimal. I hope bacon is plentiful. And I dearly hope he’s one of the first things I see after my time has come.

The ongoing battle

Well hello, post challenge blog. I waffled between never wanting to see you again and glorious dreams of self-imposed daily writing goals. Once a week sounds about right in the end.

As usual, I'm blowing the way the winds of inspiration are directing me.

Sorry, sorry. It was that or a butterfly analogy. My brain is...special today.

The non-fluttery version is, of course I had a few topics rolling around in my mind but instead I'll go with sleep.

I have all these grand plans for getting stuff done early, getting to bed early, skipping my personal quiet time in the wee hours of darkness after midnight and going with a more productive self earlier in the actual day. Every night around 8 or 9, I'm exhausted enough to go straight to bed, and then by 11ish, I'm wide-the-fuck-awake.

Aside from my own personal lack of respect for bedtime (which is not the same as my deep, enduring love for sleep), my family (as I suspect so many families do) shatters my dreamy aspirations for getting shit done.

Yeah, it's an expletive laden kind of week. I make no apologies. Not that I would anyway. I use swear words the way some people use hot sauce.

Back to my family, I have tried for probably 3 hours to get this post written. Instead, I have handled an anxiety attack over returning a defective device for a new one, a psychiatric hiccup (or 3 by the time I'm done writing), butterflying chicken and pork chops from a grocery trip, lowering our tv bill, ordering passes for my older people for an event, snacks for my older people, a door handle falling off into my hand and just general stuff and things that they bring to me ONLY WHEN I'M BUSY. These requests (or cries) for help are like trying to pull out into rush hour traffic: spaced just far enough apart that you can't get anywhere. Collectively, all of this may have amounted to 45 minutes to an hour total. A blip in the day. And some of it is just requests for supervision, almost like a little kid wanting you to watch what they can do.

I remind myself that I'm lucky to be surrounded by my wacky family. And I'm lucky that they value my input or see me as someone who can help. I'm super, duper, above and beyond grateful for their help and support. It's adorable, when I take a step back, that my parents are currently camped out in the room across from my office because they've always liked being close to me and hated my teenage years when I refused to leave my room for anything other than school or meals. And as hard as it can be to watch them decline, I don't know that I could sleep from worry at being hours away from them. Any number of disasters and calamity could befall them. I know these people. I know exactly what would happen if they were on their own. *shudders* They would survive off cheese and crackers and the occasional bowl of oatmeal.

Anyone who gets this reference is awesome.

So what does my family interrupting me now (telling me what I'm listening to in my office is too loud, too annoying, stupid, not polka music or so fascinating they have to come stand over my shoulder and stare at my screen) have to do with my messed up sleeping schedule? Aside from the obvious correlation to a generational lack of self care skills.

Once my entire house is asleep, I can get hours upon hours of stuff done. My stuff. The stuff that makes my soul happy and thus me 35% more functional on a sleep deprived brain at 6:45 in the morning. Once the dinner's over, the hubby is settled in for the night, the old folks are snoozing or wrapping up their last tv show for the night (tv is a requirement for the over 60 crowd in my house after dinner), once the last load of laundry's in or I've made my hubby's lunch for the next day (do you have any idea what buying lunch everyday costs?!?!), once meds are taken and set up for the next day, once all the household stuff is done, my brain and soul play hopscotch. It's time. It is freaking time.

But the practical part of my brain points out I need sleep. It points out if I don't go to bed until 2 or 3, I'm only perpetuating the dragging my ass out of bed every morning routine.

There'd be bluebird pot pie for dinner that day.

So the battle continues. Right now, the staying up wins. I'm convinced if I go to bed earlier, I'll undergo some magical transformation or a unicorn will show up to grant a wish. And that's STILL not enough of a catalyst to instill respect in an earlier bedtime. I've always been a night person. I've always been more productive once the sun goes down. In the bitchy recesses of  my brain, I love being a night owl.

Oooh. Super official.

As the war wages, I'll rely on my second in command to keep me going.

Updates:

Writing: April was certainly productive in a way

Reading: About to finish Amy Poehler's book (laughing all the way) & starting 2 more.

Foreign Language: Hell's bells, that totally fell apart in April. Gotta put it back into the rotation.

Naps: :-/ Too few, too far between

Positivity: Honestly, been in a bit of a valley here but starting to climb back up.