Then there were three...

We said goodbye to our precious Lulu Girl yesterday morning.  Heart heavy doesn’t even begin to describe the depth of our sorrow.  Our hearts, all three of them, are shredded. 

It’s been a long, busy few weeks in our corner of the world.  Selling the big house was bittersweet and exhausting for sure, and attending to Luna as the ravages of cancer (and god only knows what else) overtook her body, was an added layer that kept us up at night and vigilant each day. 

What we wanted most of all was for her not to suffer, ever, AT ALL.  I can’t be fully assured that she was pain-free, we know she was increasingly uncomfortable, but I think we did our best to make sure her last days were as easy as they could possibly be, and full of snuggles and treats - lots and lots of yummy treats.

For weeks, I’ve maintained regular contact with our amazing vet, Kelly.  She and I communicated countless times as we worked to keep Luna’s quality of life in check.  In the end, we knew we needed to make the difficult, and humane, decision to let her go. 

Twelve and half years seems to have sped by in a blink, though we know this isn’t so.  Wasn’t it just yesterday when we brought the tiny, irresistible, fuzzy brown bundle of sheer cuteness and energy home? 

We fully understand that dogs never live long enough, but boy do they LIVE while they are here.  We should all take notice of how they capture each moment for all it’s worth, and find such joy in the small, seemingly meaningless bits that life sends their way.  They never question or ponder “what ifs”.  Humans will never be able to emulate the unconditional ways in which dogs give so freely, without regard for anything in return (though treats of any kind do help).  Dog owners get this.  You can be gone five days, five hours or five minutes (because you forgot your grocery list on the kitchen table again and had to return to the house), and their unencumbered, pure exuberance upon seeing you walk back through the door is unmatched. 

Our girl Luna was born on the night of a full moon, and so her name only seemed fitting.  She was also our Luna Lu, Lulu, Lu, Loonie, Best Girl, and of course, Coopie’s big sister, which means she should also have been named Patience. 

Make no mistake, though Cooper was clearly in charge of their relationship, he adored his big sister.  In fact, he relied on her for his sense of balance and safety in ways we may never fully grasp.  She was his security blanket, his snuggle buddy and his walking pal.  He is lost without her, which tears at my heart more than words can express.  We are all lost without her, and though we know her tired old body is now at rest and that we will find our way in time, today the heartbreak is crushing.

I will never forget bringing Cooper home several years ago.  He was a frightened, traumatized, malnourished wreck of an animal.  We tried a crate the first few nights in our kitchen, right next to Luna’s bed, thinking this would be the best way for him to settle in.  He was having none of it.  After three nights of cries and whimpers, and midnight attempts to settle him, I finally opened the crate door.  He immediately exited and curled up around his new sister, Lulu, and found comfort in the bundle of love that was now his.  She never balked or questioned, and spent many occasions with him wrapped around (or seated on top of) her.  There was no such thing as too close.  Lulu Girl was his comfort in the every-day and in times of stress, and their connection ran deep.

Thankfully for Cooper, and for all of us really, Lulu was, in a nutshell, the poster-dog of LOVE.  She adored humans of every kind, but especially the little ones.  Children were a dream come true to her, and anytime she could sidle up to one or lick the face of another, her wiggly contentment and joy was undeniable.  On her last days she still rallied from her weary state to wag her tail and let it be known that she was thrilled for the visit.  She was our happy, loveable goofball of a girl from beginning to end. 

I have braced myself for this day for several weeks now, and in that time I’ve called upon Lulu’s beloved Gramma Georgia to be ready for our girl when the time came.  In Luna’s early years, she and Georgia were quite a duo.  When Georgia still lived in her home just behind ours, she would always welcome a visit from her four-legged sweetie.  Cheerios at the ready in a muzzle-height kitchen cabinet, Luna would patiently (or not so patiently) wait as her “O’s” were poured onto the floor.  We would often leave Luna with Georgia if we needed to be away for a few hours.  They snuggled together on the couch, watching TV, or took little walks around the yard.  Luna always stayed close.  In Georgia’s eyes she was a perfect girl, which of course, was nothing short of absolutely true.

After Georgia needed to move from her home, Luna would gaze up the yard or take a visit to her back door, never quite understanding where her precious Gramma had gone.  As the ugly grips of dementia took Luna from Georgia’s memory, it broke our hearts to know that our girl had been forgotten.  But I fully believe that she wasn’t forgotten at all.  I believe in the power of spirit energy, and with that comes great comfort.  I know Georgia has been waiting for Luna all this time, and was there on this difficult day, to welcome her home with open arms and plenty of “O’s”.  It is what gets me through the agonizing moments when I look for her and catch my breath, remembering that she has meandered on up the road.

We were all together when the time came for her final visit to the vet.  In perfect Luna form, she sought out treats from the staff and wagged her droopy tail.  She gave some final kisses and received many more from us.  Then as the sedative began to take hold, she lay between us in a restful, peaceful state.  Cooper, the prince that he is, climbed over me and lay alongside his Lulu, head to head, to the end.  How do you even make sense of that?  Love.  Pure love, is all I can wrestle up.

I wish I could say we found an instant sense of relief and peace in that moment.  I suppose we did in some ways, but her passing has unearthed a deep well of loss.  It isn’t meant to be any other way, I suppose.  I’ve yet to figure out how to dodge heartache in its truest forms, and this one is no different.  We are heartbroken.  The loss of our girl has left a hole of immense proportions.

Animals aren’t meant to be humanized, or so the experts say.  I don’t even know who these experts are.  It doesn’t even matter.  What I do know is that Lulu Girl held the position of CEO of Love in our family.  Anyone who knew her, like it or not, recieved a lick (leg licks were her favorite) and a side-snuggle.  If you can’t find goodness in that, then well, so be it.  She was our best girl and those licks will be sorely missed.

Bob and I have grappled with our decision the past day or so.  To keep her here any longer would mean suffering on her part.  To let her go, leaves us holding the bag of precious memories of a girl we will forever miss.  It is that darn, breath-stopping missing that has set in once again  - an impossible, but inevitable result of letting someone deeply precious go.

We brought our beautiful girl home, still warm to the touch, and we buried her between the apple trees behind our garden.  Anyone who knew our Lulu Girl knows that apples were her favorite (among pretty much every other kind of food!), and so we thought it only fitting that she rest beneath the shade and bounty of these beloved fruit trees.

Not surprisingly, but surely heart-wrenchingly, Cooper is lost without her.  I desperately hoped that wouldn’t be so, but it is.  This too shall pass.  We will all find a new rhythm.  Me and “my boys” will make our way one day at at time. 

What is most striking, I suppose, is that our family is small to begin with and Lulu Girl became, therefore, the matriarch (in a goofy, furry, loveable sense).  She was our day-to-day touchstone who saw this family through many dark days, and brightened them in her ever-faithful, undemanding, honey-sweet way that only a Lulu Girl could do. 

We know this is why our hearts feel so shredded today, and likely in the days to come.  Someone deeply cherished has left our family, and we are forever changed once again.

Rest easy, Best Girl.💛

These two...

July 4, 2018

It’s hot today.  It’s been crazy hot for days, ungodly hot some might say.  Heat weary folks remain in the cradle of air conditioning (if you’re one of the lucky ones), they head to the water, any kind of water, the shade of a park, or to the darkness of the movie theater.  The bookstore was crowded the other day as big and little humans escaped the unrelenting heat, tucking into corners to see what treasures might be found.  Bookstores are good like that, and those with a corner cafe with ice cold beverages are even better on days like this.  Even the dogs looked at me this morning with mournful eyes… when will this be over?  When can we go for a walk again?  Soon I told them.  Soon. 

As I’ve rambled unproductively around the steamy surroundings of our home the past few days, I came across a quote that gave me pause - Let go of the illusion that it could have been any different.  And as I’ve sought creative strategies for remaining cool and ungrumpy in a house not equipped with central air, I’ve given this notion a fair amount of thought   No doubt, things could be different.  We could install AC, but that is not the point I’m getting at, nor do I believe this is where the deepest meaning of those words reside.

It can be easy to get trapped beneath the illusion that things could be different, and by that I mean the big stuff, which I believe is exactly where the essential meaning of this quote rests.  Let’s face it, we can buy different shoes, decide to eat more plants (or not), choose to paint the room a different shade of off-beige.  We can find another parking spot or plant more lettuce after the (adorable) bunnies devoured the first crop.  These little life dilemmas can always be made different.  But the big stuff, as much as we’d like to think otherwise, we just don’t have as much of a say.  And so letting go of any illusion to the contrary opens us up to move forward, and most importantly, onward to what is.

Ten years ago, on a beautiful, blue-skied July 4th morning, Bob and I started down an unwanted, uncertain path, at times equal parts frightening and infuriating, as well as humbling, united by gratitude, faith and hope.  Each year, as the calendar circles back to that dreaded day, the madness of it all seems like yesterday, and a million years ago. 

The truth is  -  it could not have been any different.  I do not subscribe to the “everything happens for a reason” mantra, because I think it’s just a giant load of bull.  But I do buy into the truth that our journey, like the journeys of nearly everyone else, has been fraught with challenge and struggle.  Despite this, or perhaps because of it, our life is as it is meant to be - that complicated and that simple.

Two years ago, when we lost our most cherished, most beloved father, there could be no illusion that it could be any different either.  It was his time.  We could not have been gifted with a better man to call our own, and our hearts will forever miss his tremendous spirit, and will always, always hold him close.  I think of him every single day, imagining his face, his smile, his warm embrace, and know how lucky I have been and how deeply my heart longs for him.

At this time of year, on hot summer days teeming with vacations, backyard barbeques, long, meandering sun soaked afternoons and July 4th celebrations, it's not unusual for me to reflect upon these complex experiences of struggle and despair, and a long held deep determination to persevere and accept what is.  The calendar seems to demand it, despite any inner objections I may have to thinking about it at all. 

This year, what has become crystal clear is that at the very heart of all of life’s messiness is, quite simply, love.  I know.  I know.  It can’t be paired down to such a simple notion, some will say.  There she goes with her head in the clouds again, others may think.  But yes, in fact it can, I contend.

For anyone who has faced adversity and hardship, which is everyone to one degree or another, I would like to think that along the way they experienced love in some way, from someone, in some form that brought light and goodness to their life.  I know for us that is most certainly true, no illusion there at all.

Bob and I have been gifted with the love and support of many friends and family over the years.  Never did we expect our life to roll out as it has, but we remain blessed and grateful for the bounty of love extended to us along the way.  And on days when the struggle feels heavy, I am reminded that love comes in many forms… in the tender, knowing nod from a long-time friend who has been a faithful witness and champion to us along the way, in the impish smile from the young girl serving coffee at the bakery, in the hug received from a fellow yogi at the start of class, in the calm that settles inside when one’s breath falls deeply into the well of the belly, in the handwritten note received “just because”, in the pinks and blues and grays spanning the night sky, in the silly chatter and song of young nieces and in their heartfelt musings of a grandfather unconditionally loved, in the droopy eyes of an old dog who has loved you since the day she first climbed into your lap, in the photos of times gone by and loved ones passed, in the words and small gestures of those still here to hold us up, in the shade of a giant tulip tree planted nearly 100 years ago when Bob’s dad was just a boy, in the whir of Georgia’s mixer used countless times as she baked from her heart, in the memory of hands and arms used to embrace us, and in the flutter of the leaves when the moon is full and you’re certain and reassured once again that your dad remains forever by your side.  All of this, and so much more, is love. 

And so on this day, in the spirit of love, I remember two of the most precious people in my life.  One is intense, impatient and fiery, with an active, brilliant mind teeming with details and inexhaustible scenarios.  In constant motion, a lifetime of projects ahead of him, he is shrewd, inventive and decidedly creative, with earnest blue eyes known to speak volumes all on their own when the words he wishes to say won’t readily come. 

The other was easy, unhurried, measured, with a lightness unencumbered by details and future plans, and undeniably thoughtful, with a spirited intellect quietly waiting to be shared.  His warmth, sweetness and infectious sense of humor was irresistible and profoundly unforgettable.  And that bear hug, well, it was simply extraordinary.

At first glance these two may appear poles apart, but their essences merge at one very key juncture… in the integrity of the heart.  Both possess a profoundly compassionate and discerning nature, loving and fiercely loyal.  It is in these two souls where tenderness resides and from which I have received, with no illusion at all, love unmatched.  How lucky am I to be loved not once, but twice, from the deep well of these two precious hearts.

The struggle is real, as they say.  Tomorrow is always a new day, though we will never know what it will bring.  I am forever changed by these two amazing humans, and from the love from countless others.  In the blistering heat of this July day, as the calendar reminds me of what was and what is, there can be no illusion that it could be any different.  That complicated and that simple.

In gratitude, and in longing for cooler days ahead… love to all.  

Onward.

Mama's Day Musings

While I listened to talk radio recently, an author reflected upon the memoir she published about her journey with weight loss.  The particular details of the interview did not stay with me. What stood out most was how she came to accept the need to stop dragging her feet and put her experience in print so that others might hear her story.  In essence, the sheer angst and dawdling procrastination about how hard it felt to do the work ended up being her chief motivator.  She had to move past her tormented idling and get on with it.  And so she did.

What she knew to be true is that she didn’t have all the answers, that her journey, forever a work-in-progress, is hers and hers alone, and only serves as a potential narrative from which others might find a connection, perhaps solace, or a mirror from which their own unique experiences may reflect. Or, at the very least, the telling of her story would be a brave and deeply personal mission from which she could continue to find her way in the world with strength, dignity, humor and meaning.

It is in this spirit that I too find the motivation to write today.  Here goes.

Anyone who knows me also understands that I was not able to realize the dream of becoming a mother.  Though Bob and I made every attempt, meandering through many years of trying, it was not meant to be. Thankfully, we are no longer living in those intensely painful years of repeated losses as our dreamed about family slipped out of reach.  We remain a family of two, for which I am grateful, but it has changed the landscape of our lives forever. Someone will always be missing.

Year after year I’ve grappled with a patchwork of feelings around this full-on, in-your-face “holiday” called Mother’s Day.  Between my inbox and social media a complete frenzy gains momentum in the days running up to today, with innumerable ways to celebrate, buy for, spend time with, honor, dine with and exercise with one’s mama.  The day itself is laden with endless photos, memes, remembrances and congratulatory high fives. It’s important to take it in stride and see it for what it is, but for those of us who live in a cloak of invisibility when it comes to parenthood, this day (among many others) can be a test of spirit.  

Over the years I’ve experienced feelings of so many designs that made it nearly impossible to make sense of them in a way that felt voiceable to others.  It’s always felt so hard to express what resides in my head and heart without risking sounding sour or ungrateful or, quite simply, pitiful, when I know I’m not any of those things.  But the days (really weeks) leading up to this largely Hallmark-driven day of honor has always poked at my heartstrings no matter how hard I’ve wished to face it with a casual disregard as if it shouldn’t matter at all.  

Each year I stumble upon an author or two who sympathetically and in good faith take a stab at keeping it real, knowing full well that Mother’s Day is not all that it’s cracked up to be and many women, mothers and non-mothers alike, for a variety of reasons share this collective agreement.  Lots of people see it for what it is -- largely commercially driven (apparently it's a 23 billion dollar industry) and socially endorsed in a peer pressured kind of way. Yet it remains ubiquitous and emotionally loaded on so many levels.

In the early years of trying, and then during the slow, bleary-eyed crawl to some form of acceptance, I always felt a bit dumbfounded.  I knew then, and I know now, that parenthood is crazy-hard work, not at all glamorous, and definitely not for the faint of heart. It demands a level of messy perseverance and vigilance that seems to require superhuman fortitude and is downright harrowing many days. That said, most parents I know wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

For me, experiencing pregnancy itself, with all its highs and lows (or so I’ve heard), is only one small loss of many.  I was never particularly hung up on the pregnancy thing or bringing our little bundle home wrapped in the pink and blue blanket.  

Instead, what echoed most in my heart was the loss of every little-big thing. It was never about the baby shower, but rather the countless little milestones we would never experience as a family  - the first smile or steps on newly found legs, waiting together at the bus stop on the first day of kindergarten with tears or perhaps no tears at all, temper tantrums and quirky personality expressions that needed their own space and time to sort out, parent night at school, leaving notes and cookies for Santa and footie pajamas descending the stairs Christmas morning as we all came down in a blur of excitement and sleep-deprivation, making memories with siblings and extended family… cousins, aunties, uncles and grandparents, sports or music or dance or outdoor adventures, that dreaded homework, proms and college tours, graduations, weddings if they were to choose, teaching them about our passions and watching them develop joys of their own, and perhaps one day the gift of grandchildren, and well, a million other things.  The good and bad, beautiful and ugly, heart-filling and heartbreaking. All of it. We wished for all of it.

One of the reasons I’ve resisted putting pen to paper about this over the years is because of the well-meaning but often diminishing, dismissive comments I’ve received.  I get it. We often don’t know what to say to others when faced with a loss or challenge so different from our own. Over the years I’ve heard lots of things  - - Oh, count yourself lucky you don’t have to deal with all the holy terror kid stuff.  You can have my kids anytime (nope, pretty sure you wouldn’t give them away).  It could be worse (maybe true, but ridiculously unhelpful and insensitive).  At least you have your dogs (said a women with two sons who I know for a fact wouldn’t trade them for two dogs any day of the week!).  Oh, you don’t have kids?  That’s ok (no, no it’s not) you’re a teacher, you have hundreds of kids (no, no I don’t).  I’m a mother and I don’t care about Mother’s Day (ok, I get that, but it’s so much bigger and more complex for us than that.)  And the best one of all -- in the years since Bob’s accident, which was less than a year after we put the kibosh on trying for a family, several people have told me it’s a good thing you don’t have kids because things would be so much harder and worse.  Really?  Unhelpful, thoughtless, hurtful, and well, ignorant.

Some people make the choice to remain child-free.  Others have it made for them. Those facing infertility are on a remote team all of their own, and of course no one wants to join.  Hell, we didn’t want to join the team! Women and their partners, and those going about it solo, who are on the infertility treadmill now are not finding joy in Mother’s Day or anything remotely related.  It is one of many painful reminders of what is wished for, what is still yet to be, and for some what will never come to pass. That said, we are not alone. Though our teams may take different forms, there are others who must take pause and steady themselves when the sadness finds them, as it most surely and inevitably does.

The list may be longer than some might think.  Mother’s Day (or Father’s Day for that matter… but that’s for another post) whether you embrace it or not, is hard for lots of people.  Dear friends and family of mine have faced miscarriage. Some have gone on to birth or adopt beautiful babies, others have not. Either way, the loss is still palpable and lasting.  

Folks might choose adoption, egg/sperm donation or surrogacy as a way to parenthood - great choices I might add - but even these routes are often steeped in careful, deeply personal grappling and the loss of a dream.  People who have been adopted themselves into loving (or not-so-loving) families, or found themselves in a foster care system, carry with them experiences that may be positive, or not, but potentially loaded with an array of mixed emotions.

There are families who have faced the inconceivable and agonizing death of a child for which this day and a multitude of others causes them to catch their breath and revisit their tremendous loss, reminded once again of someone who is forever missing.  

Others have lost children or mothers to estrangement, addiction, abuse, illness, circumstance or conflicts of all kinds that have yet to be resolved.   Some are simply living or working far away from home. Mother’s Day may be no less difficult for any of them.

Of course, if your own mom has passed, no matter the makeup of that relationship, it can be a heart-tugging reminder of what once was or could have been.  It is the missing, or regret, or strife (you name the feelings) that hits so very hard some days.

My heart goes out to all of these women and families on Mother’s Day and all the days in between.  I know. I know. There are lots of ways to “mother”. At this time of year, this notion is shouted out loud and clear.  Don’t get me wrong, I value my roles as a friend, a daughter, an auntie, a mom of four-leggeds, and a classroom teacher of little ones. But at the end of the day, I am part of a family of TWO, forever and always.  

Recently, Bob and I were walking along in the woods talking about all the different kinds of trees and the features by which each each one can be identified.  The conversation was light and easy and interesting until he said, “I always loved walking in the woods with my dad when I was a boy. I would ask him the names of every tree over and over again, and I would soak up all that he said like a sponge.”  My heart leapt up into my throat and I fought back the tears. If ever there was a man who had much to teach a son or daughter, it is this one, and my heart hurt. We will continue to find our way, we always do, and there are others who we will influence and love, but it was one of a million reminders of what was not meant for us.  Make no mistake, life is still good in so many ways and we are truly blessed beyond measure. But never will I be a mother in the truest sense, nor will Bob be a father. Ever.

No matter the vastly unique tapestry of beliefs, values, experiences and emotion that weave through all of our individual experiences, over time I've learned to take comfort in the truth that none of us need to feel alone.  I am grateful for the handful of friends or family members who reach out to me each year on this weekend. A long-time friend always sends me a “Happy friendship day” text for which I am always so appreciative. It’s simple, yet profound.  Another reaches out knowing that this can be a heart-heavy time for me and makes sure I feel her big-hearted love and compassion. Other "team members" gently make space for each other and our collective, hard-earned manner of coping and acceptance, which serves to remind us that not all is lost.

I suspect my feelings around this day, and others like it, will continue to ebb and flow as the years ramble along.  It certainly has gotten easier in many ways, and I can now find moments of lightness and humor in what used to bring so much sorrow.  Early this morning I found myself in a long line of fathers at a local bakery, toddlers and baby carriers in tow, as they ordered bagels and muffins for some version of breakfast in bed I suspect.  I had to laugh at the absurdity (and sweetness) of the whole thing. Hallmark clearly won this marketing campaign!

This is only one small part of the story.  Perhaps more will be written one day.  At the very least, I stopped dawdling and got to work on telling, at least in part, about what has been clattering around in my head for too long.  And just like the author on the radio, I don’t have all the answers; my journey, like all others, is a work-in-progress. But perhaps my words will allow others to find a connection or wee bits of solace, a new or broader awareness, or a mirror from which their own unique experiences might reflect, shine and be seen.

Peace.