Menopausal Mother

Today, July 12th, marks one year since I lost my sweet girl pug Savi. They say that the grief gets easier over time but I'm not sure about that. The pain of losing her still lingers; she was my best fur companion and I loved her more than I ever thought possible. She left a hole in my heart that I fear no other pet can fill. The tears still come when I think of her---as I often do. I remember the way she stared at me just before she closed her eyes for the last time while she was being euthanized. And I remember how my heart felt like it was being ripped from my chest. I don't know if I can ever get past that painful memory. Of course, I'm grateful for the two pugs I still have---I hold them extra close now---but they are not like Savi. She was my lap dog, my shadow, my baby. She loved to be cuddled and slept beside me every night for nine years. In my dreams, she's still there---until I wake to the empty spot beside me and remember she is gone. 

Unless you have owned a pet that you loved more than you ever thought possible and considered a member of your family, you will not understand my need to write this eulogy for my four-legged friend. I know people are not supposed to compare the loss of a pet to the loss of a human, but grief is a tricky thing. No two people experience it the same way, and it's impossible to put a degree or timetable on the pain. 

On July 12 at 1:30 a.m., we had to help our sweet pug Savi cross the rainbow bridge. As many of you who follow me on social media know, our pup became unexpectedly and gravely ill 5 weeks ago. She was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease as well as a bad gall bladder. We did everything we could for her---got opinions from four different vets, numerous blood tests and ultrasounds, made sure she had the necessary surgery (removal of gall bladder and spleen), transfusions, multiple medications, and two weeks in a canine ICU. We spent every dime we had left because the prognosis for her was good---she had an 85% recovery rate. For a while there, we thought we had a miracle dog---she bounced back so quickly, even the doctors were astonished. But last weekend she had a major setback---she stopped eating, stopped drinking, and did nothing but sleep. I knew it was the beginning of the end for her and started counting the hours until the dreaded day came. Everyone warned me that I'd know when it was time to let her go by the look in her eyes, but I refused to accept that. I was confident she was not in pain yet and would hopefully pass peacefully in her sleep. But there was still that little spark of hope in me that she would somehow bounce back again. 

She didn't. Late Monday night her breathing became hard and rapid. I held her for the longest time, and when she looked up at me, I saw it in her eyes, just like everyone said I would. She was telling me it was time. My husband and I drove her to the clinic in the middle of the night and said our final goodbyes.

Next week, we would have celebrated Savi's 10th birthday. I have lost family members, friends, and numerous pets before, but this ranks right up there as one of the most painful losses ever---maybe because it went on for five long weeks of hell. 

Savi came to us from a pug rescue group 9 years ago, and it was love at first sight. She has been my constant companion, my fur baby girl, my sweet angel. She was family. She loved to sunbathe on the deck and her favorite food was salmon. Whenever I took warm clothes out of the dryer, she would hop on the pile, roll over on her back and take a long nap. I called her my "little piggy" because she had a plump, pink belly. There were so many kisses and snuggles with her---she was the most loving dog I have ever known. Savi sat on my lap every time I plopped down on the couch to rest, and she always slept beside me in bed for the nine years we had her. I got so used to her pug snores that they actually comforted me and helped me fall asleep. Now I cannot even sleep in that bed and instead have moved temporarily into our guest room. To say that my heart is broken is an understatement. My heart is completely shattered. 

RIP Savi, I'll see you on the other side, precious girl. This home will never feel the same again without you. 

  

 
   October is a difficult month for me. Even though I love the crisp fall mornings, the abundance of pumpkins, and the fact that my birthday is celebrated on the 15th, it's also a time that I'm reminded of the sister I lost.

     Cherie was the oldest of the four children in our family, and I was the youngest, but the six year gap in our ages never bothered her. My sister carted me around on her hip, let me play with her pet parakeets and snuck food into my room whenever I was banned from the dinner table for talking back to my parents. Those tiny care packages wrapped in paper napkins were offerings of love and sympathy from a sister who knew all too well the wrath of parental punishment.

     So much of my childhood was spent in my sister's room. We shared hours together cutting out patterns for Betsy McCall Paper Dolls, drawing Arabian horses on her giant sketch pad, and singing along to her Herman's Hermits albums. She taught me how to play Crazy Eights and War, and sometimes our marathon card games lasted long past my bedtime. Her room was my sanctuary; a peaceful place that smelled of sandalwood incense, leather, and fresh paint from her art set. Every inch of wall was covered with posters of Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, peace signs and slogans protesting the Vietnam War. At night, she'd turn on a black light that made the patterns on her psychedelic posters come alive in the eerie blue glow from the lamp. We told stories in the dark and dreamed of faraway places where mythical creatures lived. And in that dim blue light, we made promises to be there for one anther no matter what happened in the future.

     Our relationship evolved the way long term friendships do----with immeasurable trust and a strong sense of loyalty toward one another. We fought occasionally as all siblings do, but neither one of us carried a grudge. All it took was a joke or a funny face, and within minutes we'd be laughing over the absurdity of the argument. She understood me better than most, and never judged me for my failings. She always had my back and defended me at every turn. We often joked that we were the black sheep of the family----so different from our siblings and parents, but in truth, it's what bonded us from the beginning.


     Once we grew older, got married and had families, I didn't see Cherie as much. We were both caught up in work and raising our families with little time to visit one another. Her life was not an easy one; she went through two difficult divorces and ended up raising a son mostly by herself. Over the years she developed an eating disorder, along with several other health issues that appeared as a result of her obesity. I knew she was broken, but I didn't know how to fix her. I was battling my own eating disorder demons, and the painful reality of seeing myself in my sister's struggles was more than I could handle. I stood by helplessly as she spiraled downward into a vicious cycle of yo-yo dieting and emotional binge eating. It frustrated and frightened me to the point that I avoided her invitations to get together, especially if the outing involved food.

     Now I'm left with guilt and a deep sense of regret for turning away from the woman who was once my best friend. We knew each other so well, yet I ignored all the warning signs. It was too painful to acknowledge that my sister was slowly killing herself. She was lonely and unhappy, but I pretended not to see it because it was easier to live in denial. I blindly convinced myself that she would realize how much she had to live for, and that she'd seek professional help before spinning completely out of control.

     In 2009, Cherie succumbed to pneumonia during the early hours of Halloween. I hovered over her hospital bed when she was in a coma and prayed that she would open her eyes. Even during her final moments, I refused to believe that she would never wake up. I thought of all the things we needed to do together, and promised her that once she was well enough to leave the hospital, that I would take her up on her invitations to feed the hummingbirds at Butterfly World, sip margaritas at our favorite Mexican restaurant, bake cinnamon rolls together in her kitchen and do "movie nights" once a month to watch all the classics from her extensive video collection.

     Her heart gave out as I stood by her bed, and the shrill buzz from the hospital monitor after she passed away still haunts me to this day. The tears I shed were not from sorrow, but anger. Anger at her for giving up too soon, and anger at myself for not keeping my childhood promise to be there for her whenever she needed me.

     Although it has been seven years, the grief still lingers. Cherie was so many parts of me, and now that she's gone, it feels as if I've undergone a partial amputation of my heart. The wound will heal in time, but the scar it leaves behind will be a reminder of the gentle spirit that once graced my life with a love that only a sister can understand.

This fall as I watch the leaves turn to golden hues and scatter across the sky, I think of Cherie. And I will never, ever stop missing her.

    Most people are familiar with the "Five Stages Of Grief" made popular by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in the early 70's. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance are all part of the grieving process.

     While battling a nasty head cold this past week, I realized that these five stages are applicable to what I'm feeling as I trudge through my coughing-sniffling-sneezing phase. I sound like a barking seal and have been holed up in my house for days because the cough is as loud as an air raid siren. No one needs to see me in my ratty bathrobe that has pockets bulging with used tissues. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear this is how a zombie apocalypse begins.

     I've also been taking that "feed a cold, starve a fever" saying way too far. I don't have a fever, so I feel justified in stuffing my miserable, aching self with a stack of pancakes and a warm bowl of mac & cheese. There's a reason these gastronomic pleasures are called "comfort foods." This is also why I'm living in my bathrobe lately….because chances are my jeans won't fit.

     If you've already been slammed with this season's new illnesses, I'm sure you'll relate to these five stages of a head cold:

DENIAL:  "I don't have a cold. It's just my allergies acting up. And the only reason my body aches is because I overdid it at the gym yesterday. There's no way I'm getting sick right now---only two days before my vacation begins. I'll just drink a gallon of orange juice, pop some throat lozenges , and go to bed early. I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning."

ANGER: "Who the hell gave me this cold?!? No one else in my family has been sick. I'll bet it was that guy hacking up a lung behind me in the 10-Items-Or-Less line at the grocery store. This is all his fault. How dare he set foot in public. He may have started a flu pandemic! If this coughing gets any worse, I'm going to put myself in an isolation tank for two weeks. At least it will get me out of doing housework for awhile. I'm far too weak to push a vacuum."

BARGAINING:  "Dear God, if you wipe away these cold symptoms right now, I promise to stop cursing so much at bad drivers. I'll even build a habitat for all the ferrel cats in the neighborhood. Better yet, I'll make dentures for all the elderly crocodiles living in the Everglades. I promise to do anything you ask, if you just make this head cold disappear."

DEPRESSION: "10 days and I still can't get out of bed. According to Web MD, I have a rare disease that comes from exposure to the dust on a rhino's horn. Although I have not been to a zoo in five years and as far as I know, no one on the block has a rhino stashed in their backyard. I'm exhausted and drowning in nasal spray. My gawd, I'm going to die right here in my recliner….in my ratty bathrobe, with two Vick's Inhalers shoved up my nostrils. If I die tonight, the mortician won't need to embalm me because I'll have enough cold medicine in my system to keep my body preserved for years."

ACCEPTANCE: "Okay, I'm not dying, even though I look and sound like I have the Black Plague. I just need to adjust to breathing out of my mouth and having a head that feels like it has been filled with sand bags. At this point, I'd be willing to convert to Scientology if it meant having one phlegm-free day.

     Now that I've been through the five stages of a head cold, I've forgiven the stranger who shared his germs with me at the grocery store, bargained my way into a larger size pair of jeans and decided that there will be no more trips to the rhino exhibit at the zoo.

 




     Whenever I see a drawing of a bird, I think of my sister. Cherie had a fascination with birds and an encyclopedic knowledge of every species. She worked at a wildlife center and fostered the injured birds, but she had a particular fondness for the birds of prey. She took beautiful photographs of hawks, eagles and owls, and sketched them every chance that she had.  Her artistic skills were impressive, and whenever I studied her drawings, I felt more than her admiration for these birds; I saw a desire to share their fierceness, beauty, strength and freedom.

     Like a phantom limb, I still feel her presence here and an ache deep in my soul, hollowing me from the inside out.  When I close my eyes, I see her standing at the top of Beartooth Pass in Montana. She waits beside a meadow patchy with snow, a camera dangling from her hand as she gazes up at a cloudless sky in search of eagles. She turns to me, grins and aims the camera. I try to smile but my eyes burn from the snow's glare. The light is blinding.  My breath is shallow in the thin air, as if I am breathing in broken glass.

     Her ashes now drift across that meadow. I remember smoothing the white hospital sheets that covered her still form and thinking of that snow.

     I see her now in the hazy dreams of midnight where hundreds of
photographs fan across the years, breathing life into memories of her that still linger here:  horseback riding through the rugged mountains of Wyoming;  tears shimmering in her eyes at the Wagner Opera;

laughing with the sweet juice of bing cherries on our lips at the Pike's Place Public Market in Seattle; her radiant grin the first time I saw her holding her newborn son; the quiet reverence we shared in the butterfly garden when hummingbirds hovered above us; jumping in puddles up to our knees and knowing how silly we looked---two young women dancing  in muddy water while a storm raged around us. So many nights when I was young, she'd steal me from sleep for a drive along the beach. I curled beside her and watched the stars race past our window like silver glitter scattering across a black velvet sky. I had always thought she was racing against the moon. And I never knew why.


     My sister had an eating disorder. She was killing herself slowly, and I didn't know how to stop her. No one did. She wore her loneliness and disappointment like a heavy winter cloak, and I stood by helpless as the light in her bright hazel eyes dimmed to gray. A storm was raging inside, but she was no longer dancing in its rain. Something had broken inside her, leaving her heart cracked in too many places. She became like the wounded birds she once cared for.


     When the call came, I raced down darkened streets, saw the moon spin past my windshield and wondered if she remembered its pale, yellow face peering above the ocean's rim so long ago.
     Cherie was already in the deep sleep of a coma when I arrived at the hospital. I touched her cool hand and felt her standing at the foot of the mountain. Monitors then screamed their flatline goodbye and I knew she had already taken flight like the eagles.

     I drifted for hours, suspended between anger and guilt. The tiles on the hospital floor were cold against my cheek like snow; like the brisk air that had stung my face on the top of Beartooth Pass where I knew she had gone.


     I never said I was sorry. I stood at her funeral and delivered a eulogy to a crowd that needed to hear that she lived a beautiful and graceful life. And I was a hypocrite because I knew far better than that. She had been dying inside for years, and no one could save her.

     An autopsy report claimed that my sister died from pneumonia with a heart three times its normal size. Obesity does that. I prefer to think her heart was large because she loved so much.
     What I never said, never shared, was that morning after she died, a Red-Tailed hawk circled my yard and settled in the pine branches above me. I looked into his dark, unwavering gaze and saw my sister watching over me.
     Her ashes, now swirling over a snowy mountain top in Montana, will never settle. They'll twist inside my grieving heart until I feel the last breath of winter.






     

   
 You probably don't recognize me with these little lines around my eyes and a figure that went south after giving birth to five children. There's nothing to be ashamed of here; these lines by my eyes came from years of laughter and the scars on my belly are a badge of motherhood I proudly wear.
   
     When you get into high school, stop worrying so much about what other people think and be who you want to be, not who you think your peers expect you to be. Embrace your individuality---it will be the ticket to your success one day.

     Although the school years feel like nothing more than a popularity contest, in the end you'll be happier sticking with a small circle of friends who love you for who you are. They'll be the ones holding a catcher's mitt when life throws you some curve balls.


     Forgiveness. This is a tough one for you, but the bitterness will only weigh you down. Let go of the anger you feel towards those kids who poke fun at you. What you don't realize is how unkind their life is. Their spirit has been broken and they've learned the hard way how to protect themselves by preying on vulnerable people like you

 You waste too much energy berating yourself in front of the mirror. Society has fed you a warped perception of beauty---don't let its definition convince you that you fall short of everyone else's expectations. Stop punishing yourself with starvation diets and binge eating to mask what is really bothering you. The people who made you feel stupid and small inside were wrong. I know how much you're hurting; you just haven't figured out yet that inner beauty outlives physical beauty every time. The mirror is not your enemy; see yourself through your own eyes and know that others love you even though you don't love yourself.


     There will be some unimaginable losses in the years to come---don't be afraid to face them head on. You're going to walk through a valley of grief but you're going to come through the other side a stronger, braver woman. You'll need these experiences to hold up the others when life knocks them down.


     I know you feel as though your parents are judging every move you make and you hate living under a microscope. Strict curfews, lost phone privileges and being grounded from social activities may seem unreasonable, but your parents really do have your best interests at heart.  If they didn't love you, they wouldn't care what you did. Boundaries and rules are a sign of good parenting and tough love. You'll figure this out once you have kids of your own.


     Appreciate the time you have with your family. Those summer vacations in Montana won't last forever. Take your father up on that trip to Scotland before it's too late and spend more time in the garden with your sister. Don't assume she'll always be there for you because she won't. She'll be gone sooner than you think and her absence will leave a hole in your heart that time cannot mend.


     You're going to fall in love several times while you're young, but be more conscious of the men you choose. Your happiness shouldn't depend on them. One will break your heart and in the process break his own. Others will come and go, but each one will teach you a valuable lesson in love that will prepare you for the man you're going to marry. Stay away from the sly one at the bar who asks you to dance. Noting good will come from this. His lies will hurt you more than his fists. He'll tear you down to keep you from standing back up but you will. You are a survivor. One day you'll meet your soul mate and he'll help you find your smile again.



     Life is full of twists and turns; don't be afraid to stray from the well worn path that everyone else is walking. Embrace the challenges you'll face and don't let the fear of failure box you into years of regret.  How will you ever learn anything if you never make a mistake? Trust your intuition, listen to your heart and fight hard for what you believe in. Stop wasting precious time running down hollow streets in search of happiness. You'll find its been inside you all along.



     Don't be in such a hurry to grow up. Slow down and enjoy the ride. Even though you are struggling with some tough, emotional issues, each experience is a small piece of the puzzle, a composition of the beautiful person you'll become.  Every day will be your happiest---live life to the fullest. It will never be this way again.