For the Love (and Grief) of Dogs

This is a piece I rediscovered today. I wrote it in September of 2012. The piece takes on new meaning for me this fall. I’ll leave it at that, for now. But this rediscovery and reflection is what I love about writing.

-AFW 9/17/13

Ziva

There was something safe about grieving for my dog Charlie. It had been an expected loss. It was difficult but acceptable to mourn for her. The loss was not complicated, just sad. Her aging, her dementia at the end, the seizures that told me it was time, and then ultimately her death on that winter morning...it was now permanent and concrete. There was no shock, no questions. But also, no coming back. 

For days and weeks afterward, I’d tear up on my way to school. But soon I began being able to talk about her, our experiences together, and even the final hours of her life without crying. I was able to look at her picture again and tell the many stories of our nearly 17 years together. 

I smile at Ziva now. This new pup, who entered our lives in June of 2011, has the goofiest way of looking at me at times. Emma calls it her DERF face. Her black fur, not nearly as soft or as fluffy as Charlie’s, looks sleek. She is agile and quick. I watch her zoom from the front yard to the back and I think from time to time, “Will the Lyme disease she was diagnosed with having ever show itself?” 

I realize I am still comparing Ziva to Charlie. How does one love a dog as much as I loved Charlie without comparing every other dog that comes next to her? Then I think of Henry, the dog I loved from age 12 to 25. I think of Scamp, the dog that was in my life from age 1 to 12. Didn’t I feel the same? Yes. 

I am sitting in the leather chair playing on my laptop when I see my pictures of Ziva taken a few hours earlier. The one where a football, a soccer ball, and a stick lay at her paws is my favorite. The girl can’t decide. She wants to play with them all. She wants them all right there at her disposal. She knows she can’t carry all three with her at once, but as she runs off with the one physically closest to her, she returns to the other toys later. This is how it is with me. I’m enjoying Ziva to the fullest today, but I’ll come back to Charlie from time to time and I’ll think of how great a dog she was. I’ll even think of my childhood days with Henry and Scamp. It never seems to matter whether I understand how things come to be; it’s enough to know that in some deep, evocative way, life just takes care of itself. 

Hangin' On

This morning I put Ziva on the leash, grabbed my earphones, and headed out of the house. Walking down the street I gave myself another pep talk. I’m pretty used to those these days. They vary but the most commonly used words are “Don’t think. Breathe” and “It’s okay”. The sun was warm but not too warm. I took in the beauty of the trees and smiled as my pup looked back at me in what appeared to be a big grin. I am grateful she joined our family two years ago. In the hardships of those years, she’s been an affectionate and joyous companion. I’ve needed her.

We turned left at the corner. I spotted the big St. Bernard and decided not to turn on that street. Perhaps the two would have been friendly with one another but I wasn’t in the mood to take a chance on them. Heading the other way, our path didn’t feel right, but onward we went. Martina McBride began singing in my ear. The song, In My Daughter's Eyes, always pulls at my heart and makes me think of my daughters, but walking and hearing the lyrics again today, suddenly “everything becomes a little clearer”.

“I realize what life is all about. It’s hangin’ on when your heart has had enough. It’s giving more when you feel like giving up”.

Yes. That’s what life is. At least for me, right now. Dad died eight weeks ago. I’m hanging on, giving more. But I’m also hurting and I want the hurt to go away.

I’m supposed to be kind and patient with myself. Grief is a process, they say. I know I moved on auto-pilot those first two weeks after Dad died. Plan the funeral. Write the obituary. Go to dress rehearsals (for I had the lead role in a musical that opened six days after Dad died). Sing at Dad’s funeral. Perform three shows. Travel to Rhode Island for Emma’s college orientation. Perform three more shows. Prepare a kitchen for a new countertop (a project which had already been scheduled). The next five weeks were more of the same. Get a breast biopsied. Wait for results. Travel back to my hometown. Take care of Mom for two weeks. Make arrangements with siblings for Mom’s care. Be on call.

Then there was this past week. Life slowed down a little. And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I felt nauseous again. I tried to trick my overactive brain into shutting down and sleeping at night by heading to bed before I got too tired. I got on the scale and realized I’d lost more weight. Oh, I love the lower numbers but this has been one hell of a way to slim down.

I need to stay busy. I go to the gym. I pull my husband out on impromptu dates. I do some baking. I play basketball with the kids. I do some laundry. I make myself read. I take more walks. I make meals. I watch television and movies. I try to avoid thinking too much but I still do. And yes, tears fall but I try to stop them from spilling over because I am tired of crying. I’m again heading another way. The path doesn’t feel right, but onward I go. Because I can’t let go, even though my heart has had enough. I can’t give up when I need to give more. That’s what life is all about. I just wish it weren’t so hard. I miss you, Dad. So much.

As I worked to finish this post, Ziva was again at my side, staring at me with her sweet brown eyes, wagging her tail. She doesn’t know my heart has been broken this summer. She doesn’t know I’ve lost my Dad. But she’s there for me, just the same. And she’s teaching me to simply savor the moments of life that are here for me now. Without judgement, she reminds me to take each moment as it comes, to feel the wafting breeze as it comes through the trees on this beautiful August day, to not worry over the demise of the deck flowers that have had too much water this summer, but to be happy playing with the little grasshopper that jumps out of the plant pot onto the decking, to jump at the light spots which streak our path. Because this too is what life is all about. And this is what helps me hang on.

His Arms Around Me

Yesterday morning I awoke to the feeling of my husband’s arms wrapping around me. It’s a beautiful thing to be married to your best friend, and this summer, with the canyon of grief and pain I have struggled through following the sudden loss of my father, I have once again been reminded of how lucky I am to have trusted my gut all those years ago when I first met Eric.

We met on an early summer church youth group trip to a rock slide near my hometown. Being three years older, he was in the senior section of the fellowship group. I was in the junior section. I had joined the group to be with my friends, as my own church did not have a youth ministry. My middle school boyfriend was in the group too, and I remember he was rather annoyed at how my face lit up when I watched this older teenager who was easily the center of attention. Eric was (and is) a happy, easy-going guy, quickly striking up conversations with people, affectionate and flirtatious. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, much to the dismay of the boy I was dating at the time. When Eric came by us and offered to take a picture of us, I couldn’t help but feel awkward over the whole thing. After that outing, I spotted Eric mowing the church lawn one day as I rode by. I pointed him out to my Mom who was driving and I remember laughingly asking my Mom to “Drive around the block one more time!” My Mom giggled when this became a regular request of mine throughout the summer.

When the school year began, I saw more of Eric. I was now a freshman in high school and he was a senior. I knew my place, being so much younger, and I never imagined this older teen would notice me, but he did. We began flirting with one another. Eric started taking me home last, after dropping off everyone else who had begged him for a ride home from school, practices, and the like. Our first official date followed a pep band obligation at our high school. Dressed in our matching white pants, white turtlenecks, and blue school sweaters, the two of us split a small fry and a coke at McDonald’s. It was the start of our February vacation and over the next several months, we became inseparable. I remember the exact moment when I knew I had fallen in love with him. We were in his car, parked in my driveway, and he started laughing over something funny I had said. Something in my head and my heart just knew, at that moment, that this was real.

But we were young. Eric went to college that fall. I could not completely commit to a far away boyfriend, and I dated others, but Eric stayed in the picture. He never dated anyone after me, and when I realized I didn’t want to risk losing him, I stopped seeing others too. I went to college and we married in my junior year. I was just 20 years old. That was nearly 25 years ago. College degrees, careers, setting up house, children, so many adventures....our life together has been rich.

But there have been rocky times too. Times of misunderstandings, times of heartbreak. To fall in love at the age of 15 and to be with that person thirty years later is remarkable to me. It appears that we’re a rarity. Those thirty years have not always been easy. We grew up together in the years of our marriage. And we made mistakes along the way. Sometimes, there weren’t mistakes, only the situations we found ourselves in. This last year has been especially hard. It was about one year ago that we learned his Mom’s cancer was back in force. She died three months later. Just as we were coming to terms with that loss, my father died unexpectedly. In the two months since his death, I have been met with extenuating situations that have only complicated my grief. But through it all, Eric is there for me.

When my parents came to our home for Christmas that last time, in December 2011, my Dad spoke to me from the heart (as he always did). Dad said, “Anne, you know, we are all part of a family when we’re born. But then we fall in love and we choose to spend our lives with another. Together we raise children, and we love that family we’ve built together very much, but over time, those children grow up, and each of them leaves to build lives of their own with others. And we return to being with the one we chose, the one we fell in love with”.

Yesterday, my grief, despite the warmth I felt upon waking in Eric's arms, was making me restless. I needed to "run away". After not taking my hints, I sat down on the couch next to Eric and I insisted to him that I had to get out of the house. "Where do you want to go?" he asked me. "To the woods or to the water. I don't care. I just need to go. Will you go with me?" I asked. "Yes", he replied quickly. Within five minutes we were out the door. We headed to the water. At the ocean we walked, we took in the sights, we strolled the beach, we outran a thunderstorm. We took in a stupid movie, ate popcorn, and chocolate. It was what I needed and I returned home with a calmed spirit.

Eric and I share a belief that we were always meant to be together like this, and I suppose what it comes down to is that we’ve continued to make choices that strengthen that belief. There are times when he or I could have chosen differently. We could have chosen to give up, to stop trying, to give in to pain and to let it conquer us. We could have gotten too comfortable, too complacent, too lazy. We could have been too proud, too fixated on being right, too offended by a careless comment, too frustrated with the other. Instead, we keep choosing each other...we continue to fall in love, year after year, day after day, hour after hour.

Pizza Posts

Back in April, the day after the Boston Marathon bombings, I was "scolded" on Facebook for posting a picture of a pizza my family and I were enjoying for dinner. Of course, I never intended any offense. I had earlier written of my shock at the senseless act of violence and had said a prayer for all those affected by the bombings. But I found myself apologizing to the "friend" who told me that in light of the tragedy, that my post was unimportant. At first I felt embarrassed. I thought, “Wow. I’m truly insensitive. Of course, my pizza is a stupid thing to post today”. But then, I gave this more thought. The woman who had scolded me was someone I had met only a couple of times. I had never truly known her, nor had she ever known me. Her comment felt patronizing. Was I wrong to have posted something so frivolous that day? Bad timing or not, I was on a weekend trip with my family. What was I allowed to post? What was appropriate and what wasn’t? Who was she to critique my sharing of a family experience? The next morning,  I made the decision to "unfriend” this acquaintance.  It was something I did out of respect for myself. 

You see, it’s not that I can’t take or don’t welcome criticism when it’s warranted. I’m not so sensitive that I cannot listen to rebukes or challenges. I realize that the woman was hurting. She had a direct connection to some of the wounded. Maybe it was good for me to apologize to her the way I did and maybe it was insensitive of me to unfriend her. But I did both and I stand by my decisions.

Two weeks ago, when my Dad died the day before Father’s Day, I knew what the next day would bring. Everyone would be wishing their fathers a “Happy Father’s Day”. There would be last minute reminders to send cards and gifts that I would see on television and radio commercials. Facebook would be bombarded with pictures of happy sons and daughters celebrating their Dads. I thought of how I had planned to call my own Dad that Sunday and how his Father’s Day card would arrive on Monday, a few days too late for him to have received it. I thought of the bag of gifts I had purchased for my husband, a father of three, and the card for him I had not yet signed, and of all the future Father’s Days I’d see pass without my Dad. Despite this, I browsed the beautiful messages and pictures that came up on my feed on Father's Day. I didn't resent anyone's post.

This past week I witnessed disgruntled store customers making their way through cramped grocery aisles on the Fourth of July. I overheard people complaining about cell phone plans and broken appliances. And in the midst of my grief over the loss of my Dad, I have found myself smirking at all this. None of these concerns of people are “important”. But unless you are touched by tragedy, you don’t stop to think that way. And it’s my opinion that THAT is okay. It’s okay to live your life--proudly posting pictures of your Dad who is alive and well on Father’s Day or frustratingly complaining about cramped grocery aisles or broken appliances. It’s okay. Life goes on. And even when you’re the one affected by death, life’s reminder that none of us are immortal and that there are more important things to be concerned with, the world is going to continue turning. As it should. Pizza posts and all.

Several Funerals and a Wedding

With two elderly grandmothers, my great-uncle, and a handful of great-aunts, attendance at wakes, funerals, and cemeteries were a natural part of my childhood. I was never uneasy when I went to them. In fact, as my Mom used to tell people, at Aunt Irma’s wake, I even reached over my aunt in her casket and kissed her goodbye. I remember going to a number of funerals at St. Louis’ in Auburn. The ornate church was pink inside with numerous paintings. I can still recall sitting in the pews, gazing up at the beautiful arches. After the service, I followed my parents out of the church. Holding Mom’s hand, we stepped into a black limousine for the ride to the cemetery.

I never feared these services as a child. When I moved away from home, however, my attendance at funerals became less frequent, almost non-existent. There were a couple of heart-wrenching funerals for students of mine who died in accidents. At those, I steeled myself to face the faces of teens I knew who were also in pain. I went to a few wakes also, those for parents of a few of my friends. And then, a few years ago, my Dad called me at school, asking me if I would come home to sing Ave Maria at the funeral Mass of my Mom’s best friend, Pauline. I never considered saying no. So home I went. I stopped on the way to buy a dress and a new pair of shoes and I arrived at the church early enough to practice with the accompanist. I sang the song but I felt a little shaky. Instead of gazing up at the arches of the church, I saw the faces of Pauline’s children and grandchildren and memories of visiting Pauline over the years of my childhood flooded my head. In adulthood I had become so much more aware of the passing of time and of how sad it is to say goodbye to a loved one.

At my Dad’s funeral two weeks ago, I experienced something new. Knowing Dad had asked me to sing a few songs, I enlisted the help of my two daughters. I somehow knew that if I stood to sing alongside Sydney and Emma, I would find the strength to do as Dad had asked. I was right. Sydney played guitar and Emma harmonized as I sang my Dad’s favorite hymn, On Eagle’s Wings. The girls and I cantored the entire service and after Communion, I stood to sing Ave Maria. Unlike the way I had felt at Pauline’s funeral, this time I was completely calm. I sang easily. Every measure of music was an offering of thanks for the years I had with my father. I read my music but I looked out over the congregation of my family and Dad’s friends and I knew I was giving Dad the gift he had asked for. I think I even smiled.

There was no wake. There was no casket. No limousine ride. No visit to the cemetery. Dad had been specific with what he had wanted for his service and as in life, he was frugal. But it was a beautiful send off. I saw Dad’s children and grandchildren taking part---reading, carrying his urn, singing, speaking, honoring the good man who had helped raise each of us, and in my brother John’s face, I saw Dad’s pride that I had followed through with Dad’s wishes and had sang at the service. I don’t think I will ever forget seeing my Dad in John that day.

After the Mass, as we greeted those who had come to pay their respects, I embraced Dad’s loved ones and listened intently to stories and well wishes. After the people left, as I gathered up flowers, music, and programs, I took one more look inside the church where my parents had brought me to Mass each week. I saw my Dad sitting in his pew. I saw him lectoring. I saw him serving as a Eucharistic Minister. I saw him walking me down the aisle on the day of my wedding. I gazed up at Jesus on the cross and I told Him to take care of my Dad, the man who had most powerfully led me to my own faith. Turning back to find my husband and my children, I then crawled into my own limousine, a dented black Grand Caravan, and together we drove away.

Oh Dad. You're everywhere.

Oh Dad, from the time I was a child, being forty years older than me,  you reminded me that you would not be around forever. It sounded morbid. But I understand what you were doing. You’d talk about the circle of life and of all the generations that had come before you. Still, Mom and I used to tease you for your serious matter-of-fact talk, “Where you going, Dad? Are you leaving us soon?” we’d ask. Mom would brush off your talk. But you gave me decades of preparation for this. And in the past few years, you ramped up that preparation. You set out your wishes. You made clear your intentions. You did not fail us children in any way. Oh but Dad. I wanted another summer of daily living with you. I wanted more time. But Dad, this summer I am seeing and hearing you everywhere. I just can’t believe that you’re really gone.

You were everywhere today. I saw you in the faces of old men who held the door open for me, and in the Maine Maritime football t-shirt I saw another man wearing. I thought of you making pancakes for us and I saw you again pretend to drop mine on the floor. Oh how you’d laugh at the memory of how I called you out on that-- the one time you really did try to serve me a pancake that had fallen. Oh how I miss your laugh!

I saw you ordering ice tea with lemonade and I heard you call the waitress “honey” or “darling” before you stopped, attentive to my lectures to you on how those names sounded sexist or too flirtatious.  I had a panini for lunch and heard you exclaim how delicious these warm sandwiches are--how the cheese melts and the bread gets so crispy. I remember how thrilled you were with all the different kinds of cookies I baked and packaged up for you and Mom this past Christmas. Oh how I will miss cooking and baking for you!

I hear you snicker at how I prefer liquid soap over bar soap and tissues over a cotton handkerchief. I see movies and books I want to buy for you. I think of the list of movies you borrowed from me for those long winter months, and the way you’d loved the first Ken Follett The Pillars of the Earth book. While out shopping today I even saw dresses for me that I knew you’d exclaim made me look beautiful.

I see you bend over the recliner to ask Mom if you have kissed her yet today, and I see you brush her cheek with your lips before you turn around to wink in my direction. I love how devoted you always were to Mom. Always a gentleman. I hear you telling Paul one more time to make sure he wears his retainer now that his braces are off, and how you wish you had worn yours like you were supposed to, all those years ago. I hear you telling Eric about the next project the two of you would do at camp this summer. I hear you ask me where your packets of Sweet-n-Low are in my cupboards, and I see your flashlight on my bedroom bookshelf, the one you placed there so you could use it to navigate your way in the “Walker Inn Suite” each Christmas Eve.

When we went to Goodwill today, I thought of your joy at finding another bargain at the St. Martin’s Thrift store. I saw your old red truck behind me on the road and I could have sworn I saw your yellow AARP Fraud Fighter t-shirt in the audience at Sunday’s matinee. I heard you singing the show tunes from my latest musical and asking the girls to write down the lyrics so you could learn them.

It is the dailyness of life that we seemed to appreciate most when we were together. We were relaxed and natural in our time together. No formalities. No need to impress. They say that when a loved one dies, there are so many regrets. But, I don’t know, Dad. I know I never liked listening to you discuss the world I’d live in after your death, but I was listening, Dad. More than you may think I was. And one thing I know for sure, is that the only regret I truly have is that we do not have more time to enjoy all the little things we would have continued to share together. But I promise you, Dad. I am going to live and love this world fully. I am going to continue to appreciate each day and I am going to love my children fiercely until the day I join you again. Be ready for me when that day comes, Dad. I owe you a pancake with special seasoning.

Sleep well, my dear daughter

The past few years have been challenging, to say the least. The security of my home and my family’s well-being was turned upside down in 2011, after I took on the care of a troubled teenage girl. My beloved dog of nearly 17 years died that year too. The following year, we learned we would lose my mother-in-law to cancer. She died a day before my son’s 13th birthday last November. My husband had a tough school year after that and that stress took its toll on us. Then, this past month a mammogram directed me to have a breast sonogram which now leads to a biopsy tomorrow. In the midst of these various cancer tests, my Dad had a massive heart attack and died. Yes, it’s been hard couple of years, but I will not say that I have had it any worse than anyone out there. We all have our battles, and my blessings far outweigh any hardship I face. I fully understand and appreciate that.

However, feelings are feelings. I have a right to feel what I feel, and I give myself permission to express those feelings as I need to. You see, those challenges I have faced, and continue to face, have taught me incredible lessons. The most important lesson I have learned is that I know who I am and what I am made of. I know that I turn to writing to make sense of my feelings. In writing and in sharing my feelings with others, I heal myself.

I also know that I am strong and I am brave. I am trusting and loving. And when I open my heart, it does not happen without full acceptance of the consequences. Do I get hurt? Of course. I am not immune to heartbreak and pain. But I am not afraid of being hurt, because I know I can work through any injury life throws at me. I am not inviting pain; it’s just that I know I must risk being hurt because by opening my heart, by trusting, and loving fully, I reap great joy and I find peace.

So why am I writing these words tonight? Well, because I promised myself that as of July 1st, I would start writing blog entries again. But I made this promise prior to the unexpected death of my Dad on June 15th. Two weeks and two days later, I see the clock and it tells me I have less than 45 minutes before it is July 2nd. I’ve been thinking of this promised post for awhile now. I tried writing it a few days ago, only the words would not come. I felt scared. Threatened. Silenced. What could I say? How could I possibly write about my loss? And if I tried, how I could I ever find the perfect words?

Today, as I drove with my husband, we talked about my Dad. My words got caught in my throat at times, but I told Eric that one thing I am happy about, is that I was always honest with my Dad. We were honest with each other. We laughed, we talked, and yes, we sometimes argued. He was bossy at times but I can be bossy too. And he knew that I was smart and opinionated just like he was. He and I had a lot in common. We were both fierce and determined to meet our goals. We worked hard but we were affectionate and demonstrative with our loved ones. And whenever I could not say what I needed to say in person, I turned to writing and I shared openly with my father. My Dad also turned to writing and he always gave me credit for the way in which he began keeping journals in the last few years of his life.

Last January I was hurting. I was completely distraught after having a bad day complete with car problems, but more than anything I was suffering from an overabundance of guilt. I wanted to do more for my Dad and yet I could not. He was caring for my Mom and it was a lot of work to do so. As I cried to myself, I heard many voices late that evening. Voices telling me not to write to my Dad, not to share my feelings with him. Voices that tried to tell me to keep my feelings away from him, to not be so selfish in putting my own troubles on him. That I should hold back and keep quiet, out of some sense of protection of him. He had enough to deal with in caring for my Mom. But as I sat with the rest of the world asleep, I trusted my gut and I wrote to my Dad. I poured my heart out to him, just as I always had. I told him about my day and of my anxiety. I told him I had always envisioned doing better by he and Mom. I finished my email letter and I shakily hit “send”. Less than an hour later, just as I was about to power down my computer and head to bed, my Dad sent a reply. His letter to me gave me absolution and reassurance for all that I was going through, for all that I was feeling. After telling me that sometimes he wonders how I do everything that I have to do, day after day, my Dad wrote: “Sleep well, my dear daughter--I love you”.

Others may judge me for being as open and as honest as I am, for sharing my heart the way I do, and that’s okay. My way is not the right way for everyone, but it is right for me. And in regards to what I am feeling now? Well, I know what I had with my Dad and I know who I am and what I am made of. I am my father’s daughter and he is proud of me. There are no perfect words for this return to my blog writing. There will never be perfect words to fully express the love I have for my Dad or for the feelings I am feeling as I mourn this loss. But I am going to continue to trust my gut and to know that my father always had my back and he will continue to understand me. No voices will convince me otherwise. I realize that I’m far from being able to say everything just right tonight. But I’m being honest. And Dad, I will sleep well tonight. I love you.