08-31-2011

Quick Quick

I wish... oh man... how I wish that I could capture moments like this on video tape...

BW just RAN thru the house chanting over and over "...isoneedtogopoop..."

I only wish he moved that fast when Charles and I need him to do something.

Herman on the Hill

Many people, those that are truly fortunate, have that one special dog, that one they connected with the first moment they met, the one that felt as though they were an extension of each other's personalities, the one they wait for at the end of the Rainbow Bridge.

For me, Herman was that dog.

Whenever I think of him or see an image of my boy, without even realizing it I smile, often shedding a tear. I don't know that I'll ever have another like him, and I don't know if I want to, he was that special.

After we purchased our first home, we visited a retired racing greyhound adoption group in the hopes of adopting a greyhound - one of the dreams we'd had since first being engaged. Since Charles was only interested in adoptable females, we were there to meet Miss Molly and one other little female. Adjacent to Miss Molly's kennel was a fellow named Herman, and there was a subtle magic about him that I noticed and I wanted to take home also, but Charles wanted to ease into pet ownership so Miss Molly came home with us.

Six months later, a male greyhound pup became available through the same adoption group and Charles expressed interest in him. When I inquired as to why a pup was acceptable to adopt, even with all of his health problems, but Herman wasn't, I received no reply.

I am stubborn, and once I've made up my mind, there's no getting around it. Charles, in his own way is stubborn too - but the reason we work as a couple is because we learned how to recognize that which is most important to the other of us and we bow to that. For Charles, this was one of those times.

I inquired in to the availability of Herman and found that he was still available, but that his days were numbered since he'd been up for adoption for nearly a year's time. Labeled a 'problem' dog who loved to chew and seemed stand-offish - I scheduled an appointment to pick him up. In passing I mentioned to Charles that I needed the truck (we only had one vehicle at the time) because I was going to visit the adoption group and that I 'might' be bringing Herman home.

Moments before I had to leave, Charles silently loaded the kennel into the bed of the truck and took his place in the drivers seat. After I took my seat we began a long and quite drive to the farm. After the paperwork was filled out, we silently loaded Herm-dogger into the kennel and drove home, and for the first time in six months I slept soundly with my dog on the floor beside me and my love by my side.

Dogger and I were inseparable. We looked to and for each other when I was at home. At the end of a long day at work I'd arrive home with my boy patiently waiting for me. When work required long hours of design work at home late at night he would be by my side, keeping me company and my feet warm.

He was always welcoming to guests at our home, but for me his tail wagged a bit higher, his ears cocked a bit more attentive and his eyes that much brighter. He'd 'roo' only with me and he couldn't 'sit' fast enough when I asked him to.

Once while at a 'meet and greet' we ran across one of Herman's trainers. Trainers spend most if not all of their day with the hounds during the dog's entire racing career, and they know each and every one on sight even years after the hound has been retired.

Upon seeing Herman, trainer Troy said, "That must be Herman. He was the most stubborn and destructive fucker I ever worked with." It seems that my boy hated racing, and destroyed every kennel he was contained in regardless of the material they used to confine him. While he was an incredibly fast dog, he would on occasion refuse to run during training sessions, which is a big no no for racing greyhounds. Ironically, we never saw a single indication that he had this destructive or stubborn aspect to his personality.

The month I became pregnant with BW was also the month that my beloved Herman was diagnosed with an inoperable form of lymphoma. He hadn't been feeling well, and had begun to have accidents within the house late at night. He was visibly 'shamed' when we'd find an 'accident', and he'd also begun to lose weight in spite of an active appetite. The cancer was located deep within his chest, we knew it was only a matter of weeks before we would have to say goodbye. His last meals were comprised of raw chicken and salmon, and it was by a miracle that with the medications we'd given him to control his discomfort we were able to have an additional four months with him.

His last day was an unanticipated series of tragedies, and he died in my arms while we were at the vet's office treating him for an accidental albuterol overdose. I was six months pregnant with BW, and Charles was out of reach, hiking the Grand Canyon on a once in a lifetime trip. Molly and I suffered the overwhelming loss of our dog Herman for three days before I was able to get in touch with Charles and let him know what had happened.

Herman loved the raspberry brambles in our backyard - and not even a single berry was harvested while he lived with us. He'd gingerly mouth the berries off the brambles and enjoy each bit of fruit as they ripened and use the brambles to scritch his back after a sun bath in the grass.

When were installing the raised beds for my garden he climbed upon the hill of fresh topsoil, dug himself a rill, settled in and was promptly declared 'king of the hill'. On the occasion when I'd lie upon the floor to read the newspaper, he would curl himself up within the hollow of my legs and there we'd lie until my legs lost all feeling or one of us had to pee.

His passing left a hole in the household, and it was three weeks later that Squirt became a member of the family. Though in many many ways she is eerily similar to my boy in looks and mannerisms, she is her own creature and could never replace Herm-Dogger and I'd never expect that of her. Nor would he.

Days of the Week

We met on a Tuesday twenty years ago when a friend introduced us via a comedy of errors, and we became fast friends.

It was on a cold autumn's Wednesday that he walked with me as I worked through emotions about life, relationships and the complexity of people and the vast future ahead.

On a Thursday later that year he wrapped his arms about me and said 'I love you.'

On a Saturday before break, he asked for my hand. Nine months of Saturdays later I said 'I do'.

We moved to Colorado on a hot summer's Wednesday, and started our careers on Monday.

We first saw our home on a Wednesday, and got the keys and moved in on Friday, later that spring.

Our son was born on a Saturday, after many hours of labor; his sister on a Thursday after many, many sleepless nights.

Together Charles and I have spent nearly 7 thousand days together 6,585 of which we've shared a married life. I wouldn't be who I am today, nor would I be able to tackle the challenges of mama, student, wife, lover and hopefully future healer without his support, love and encouragement.

On this, our 18th anniversary, a Sunday by-the-way, we stand together and celebrate all of the joys, sorrows and challenges that we've faced and those yet to be.

I love you my husband, my Charles, my friend and I hope that it is with you that we paddle the streams and raging rivers of another year - I can't imagine how I'd manage it without you, and I certainly wouldn't want to.

Last Words

Speak when you are angry

and you will make the best speech

you will ever regret.

~Ambrose Bierce

The last time I spoke with my father was in June of 2010; once the toils and turmoil of AunT's passing, her funeral, memorial service and the emotional tsunami associated with her death began to subside. It was not a cleansing conversation but instead a soul ripping, insulting and condemning tirade by my father. It was so hurtful and damaging that I would be surprised to ever share words with him again.

Grief does unpredictable things to people, so it was accepted as 'natural' when we were in Spokane for my sister's funeral that my father's sole mission was to 'speak' with me about my sister's will and the associated financial aspects of it. Given that he has spent his life in the financial industry, it was expected that he would focus his grief upon this outlet, this one familiar topic, using it as a distraction from the pain of my sister's unexpected passing.

We were (and still are) in a torturous hell of mourning; Charles and myself, my brother Gordon and his family, my brother Brady and his family, my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents. Thankfully though, during AunT's funeral, Charles and my brothers recognized the drive behind my father's single-minded focus and did their best to keep us apart. And I am eternally grateful for their efforts.

I would like to think that my father's behavior could be explained solely as grief. However, in my opinion and experience, my father is a tremendously effective bully. Over the course of my life I have seen him obtain anything he wanted with single-minded determination by way of arguments, threats, insults and pure harassment. People give him what he wants so that he will go away with the promise of never having to deal with him again.

Perhaps I should not have been surprised then that once enough time had passed that I would be on the receiving end of his methods. As a result of Charles's influence though, I've always sought to see the better side of people, to hope that any bad behavior is due to an unfortunate moment and not a flaw of personality.

When I called to speak with my father, to maintain 'transparency' about my sister's estate as he'd requested, it was a shock and a source of overwhelming sorrow to hear the last words I believe my father will ever say to me:

"Face it. You Fucked Up. You've completely fucked up your sister's estate, and in doing so you've fucked up my life and your mother's too. To be honest, you fuck everything up and you always have."

No child, regardless of their overwhelming success or failure should ever hear such words from their mother or father. 

In reply to my father, once his rage waned enough for me to enter a word, I replied with anger and incredulousness, "I fucked up? Really? Somehow I was hoping to hear a single word of gratitude. One. Lone. Word. For all that I've done to try and limit the pain  surrounding your daughter's death."

"No, not at all", he replied. "You've fucked it all up, and you have done a royal job of it. You have no idea how painful it is to lose a child. None whatsoever."

The child that he lost was the daughter that my family and I welcomed into our own for the last ten years of her life. Instead I get 'You fucked up? Not one single sentiment or gesture of gratitude for

• Obtaining, translating and passing along the information surrounding her death to anyone who was in desperate need of information when there was so little to share.

• Talking with the kind people with the New England Organ and Tissue Bank, answering questions no living person should have to answer about a deceased loved one.

• Taking the first flight to Boston the day AunT died at the expense of my children, work, school, obligations or responsibilities within our own lives when not one other member of the family did the same.

• Setting aside my shock and horror of T's death so that we could pack her belongings and send them home for further sorting and distribution with the grace and purposefulness required of the situation.

• Tending to the mourning and needs of those she left behind in Boston - especially her tender, young and inexperienced roommate who had never faced loss like this before.

• Resolving outstanding debts, contracts and obligations she left behind in her adopted city without fanfare, threats or guile.

• Tending to the most difficult task of overseeing AunT's preparation and travels to the area she grew up for her funeral, and then prepared for her transportation home, to her final resting place.

• Trying on the very clothes that AunT wore in her casket when she was presented to the family for their final goodbyes.

• Overextending ourselves financially until her life insurance policy came in to cover her required expenses, to the detriment of our children and our financial and emotional health.

• Serving as a memory of my sister, as I've been mistaken for my sister when walking down the street, taking classes or shopping for groceries. People who were unaware that my sister had passed accuse me of being aloof and stand-offish until they learn of AunT's passing. Each time the wound of loss is opened again and the scars take that much longer to heal.

After hearing again that I was a FU that I hung up the phone. We each have our own path to recovery, our own measure by which we determine we've reached 'closure' once someone we love, someone integral to our being has passed. Families pull together or fall apart when a loved one dies.

Unresolved family tensions and arguments rise to the surface and often harsh words are said. Yet it is not right or proper to attack, crush and destroy others, no matter the depths of your grief and many years ago I decided that I would no longer subject myself to that sort of hatred and anger.

More importantly, it distresses my children to see me in that sort emotional pain, especially when I'm unable to explain the complex and tumultuous relationships that are present in my extended family.

One day I hope that my parents are able to appreciate what it is that I spared them of, that someday they are able to at least acknowledge the sacrifice that my family made so that they might not suffer more than they had to.

But we will be living, creating and loving rather than waiting. 

08-24-2011

08-23-2011

08-22-2011

Not So

JB, not to be outdone by BW's interest in insects has, over the summer acquired and lost several 'pets'. Roly-polys, ladybugs, daddy-long-legs, crickets and critters of every shape and size. None of them are safe so long as JB and BW are in the area.

The latest pet was a huge brown crickety-cricket - "Actually, mama, it's a Grasshopper, but it's okay if you want to call it a cricket." (Only six and already she's an authority. I wonder where ever she gets that...)

After several days time, the fellow became a casualty of curiosity. Each time JB or BW would lay eyes on the grass and hopper filled jar, they'd question if he was still alive and shake it. Finally after four days the poor thing didn't move any longer. BW's buddy Jim was expected for a play date - so JB decided to keep the bug until he came over and she could show him off.

After knowing BW for so long, Jim displayed only a passing interest in the bug until JB declared that it was time to bury it. It was at this point that our dear bug's contribution to science took an unexpected turn.

While BW was preoccupied with the Wii, Jim and JB took the grasshopper outside to bury it... along the way, one of them wondered, "What do the insides look like?"

So, they dumped the grasshopper onto the driveway, picked up the largest flattest rock they could find, and with all of the logic in the world, squished the bug. Squeals of "EWWWWW" could be in the house as the two raced in and shared excitedly, that hopper's two biggest legs had broken off "AND his GUTS squished ALL OVER! IT WAS SOOO COOL!"

Later, after Jim had gone home and we were telling Charles's about the day's events, he looked to JB and asked, "I can't remember, what was hopper's name again?"

With all of the soulful melancholy a six year old could muster, she looked sadly to the ground and replied, "His name was Lucky."

Keep it simple S'pid

Charles and I love to cook, and each of us has our own dishes that we are best at. He can make a pie in which each bite will melt in your mouth, and the crust is so light and flaky it's as though angels themselves are born of it.

I, sadly do not posses that talent. I overwork the crust, and the resulting toughness is lacking in taste and fulfillment. However, I can make an appetizer or dish that will leave you wanting for more. As in life, our cooking abilities complement each other.

One thing that we have in common is a disdain for pompous recipes. Ones that are for simple everyday staples that are written such that even experienced cooks become lost in the unnecessary verbiage and drawn-out processes. Like the one for making simple white rice that requires "rinsing the rice in several changes of water until it the water is clear and sweet". To that Charles noted on the side of the recipe 'Rinse the damn rice.'

It's a running theme for us when it comes to cooking; Keep It Simple, follow your gut, and make it with love. This approach applies whether it's in how we cook, or in how we live life, and we have a tendency to point out the 'fluff' we run across, almost mocking it really.

We look to each other for our strengths and support each other in our weaknesses. In this case, it was on how to cook fresh green beans, as they were part of our weekly produce delivery. Since Charles has had better luck with them than I have, I sought his opinion when making them for dinner one night.

"Hey Charles, what's the best way to cook green beans?"

"Beans in a big bowl, no water, covered, microwave on fresh veggies selection. Remove when the final countdown occurs for maximum crunch."

"Thanks love!"

"I think that's a recipe, Post it! Oh, wait. You need some more steps like "rinse the beans using only purified water, and trim each to exactly 1.73 inches."

I think I might keep him around awhile longer.