Menopausal Mother

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. 

  

     I am THRILLED to be part of a new anthology, "Angel Bumps Hello From Heaven", compiled by my dear friend Anne Bardsley.
   
     Fifty writers from around the country have come together to share the heartwarming stories of their experiences with "Angel Bumps"---signs of reassurance received from their loved ones who have passed on. Anne describes an Angel Bump as "a luminous light in a dark room. Once you receive a sign from your loved one, you will never be the same. Knowing they are still so close will give you solace. The joy it brings is immeasurable."

     I'm sharing a portion of my own story that appears in Angel Bumps in the hopes that it will interest you enough in reading ALL of the stories in this lovely collection.


                       PENNIES FROM HEAVEN  


She comes to me in dreams, her smile radiant as she urges her horse up the side of Lone Mountain to a field of Indian Paintbrush. The wind brushes her long hair across her face as she studies the azure sky and points to a Red-tailed Hawk drifting overhead.

     This is the how I want to remember my older sister Cherie; a camera looped around her neck and a bird guide tucked in her back pocket.

     I want to remember her laughter when we were kids sitting in the back of the family station wagon and making silly faces at one another.

     I want to remember our phone conversations that went well into the night, long after my husband had turned out the lights. At times I had to muffle my laughter so that I didn't wake the rest of my sleeping family.

     I want to remember the warm cinnamon rolls she made on Sunday mornings that we shared over a cup of coffee in my backyard garden.

     I want to remember her gentle hands gliding across crisp sheets of white paper as she sketched magnificent birds of prey, her fingers stained from the pencils she used for shadowing their wings.

     I want to remember the summers we spent picking huckleberries in the mountains and the flowers we strung together to make daisy chains on a porch in Montana.

     What I don't want to remember is the night I watched a broken soul give up on life too soon; the woman in a hospital room who lay pale and unmoving under sheets as white as the pages from her sketch pad.

    My sister had an eating disorder. She was killing herself slowly, and no one in my family understood why it was happening, or how to help her. Cherie never had it easy; married and divorced twice, she was a single mother raising a rebellious teen and had to work long hours to make ends meet. By the time she reached the middle-age years, obesity had robbed her of living a normal life. Food replaced the love and fulfillment she sought but never found. It was the crutch that filled her emptiness. Loneliness and disappointment fed into her depression, preventing her from seeking the professional help that she needed. Something had broken inside her, leaving her heart cracked in too many places for anyone to fix.

     In the fall of 2009 at the age of 56, my sister succumbed to pneumonia after weeks of being sick. My family and I urged her to see a doctor when her symptoms became worse, but she was a stubborn woman, convinced that she could fight the illness with simple, over-the-counter medications.

     Cherie's son finally convinced her to check into the hospital once she started coughing up blood, but her lungs were already severely infected and had so much fluid in them that it made breathing nearly impossible. There was little the doctors could do to save her----the pneumonia, coupled with her obesity, was more than her body could handle. Her heart had become enlarged---three times the normal size---and one by one, her organs started shutting down.

     My sister died in the early morning hours as we stood praying by her bedside. It was still dark outside with only a few stars sparkling in the west like silver glitter scattered across a black velvet sky. The moon had slipped away, its shadow swallowed by a blanket of thick clouds.

     After Cherie's death, I was consumed with guilt for not forcing her to see a doctor earlier, and angry that she chose to give up without a fight. She left behind a son, a granddaughter, and a family who cherished her. It hurt to think that our love wasn't strong enough to give her the strength she needed to rise above the unhappiness that plagued her.

     I tried to ignore the terrible grief I felt, but there were subtle reminders of my sister everywhere. The Red-tailed Hawk that watched me each morning from the tall pine in my backyard; the smell of cinnamon in the kitchen; the cardboard boxes her son had given me that were filled with her cookbooks, the glass figurines she'd collected, and a few articles of clothing that still held her scent of sandalwood and vanilla. But the most painful reminder of her absence was the sadness I saw mirrored in her granddaughter's eyes.

     The finality of Cherie's death didn't hit me until a few months later when I found her favorite purse inside one of the boxes her son had given to me. I pulled it out, touched the soft, dark leather and opened the flap. Inside was a small cache of memories: my sister's comb, a few barrettes, pens and several sheets of tissues. She had terrible allergies and never left the house without plenty of tissues.

     I held the comb in my hand and felt a tide of grief wash over me, the pain so acute that it brought me to my knees. The memories unleashed a flood of tears that cracked the dam I'd built around my heart. The walls came tumbling down, and nothing could stop the deep ache that left a hole inside me that no one else could fill.

     For weeks I walked around in state of numbness and disbelief. Even though other members of my family tried to comfort me, there was no solace in the fact that I would never see my sister again. I felt disconnected from everyone and wanted time alone to work through my grief.

     And that's when the first penny appeared.

     It was old, the date barely legible on the worn, copper surface. I thought it was odd that I woke one morning to a penny sitting on my nightstand---I never carried pennies, and neither did my husband. I had been crying heavily the night before while thinking of Cherie. I wanted to believe that she'd found the peace she was looking for, and every day I had prayed for a sign of reassurance from her.

     Later that afternoon, I found more pennies in the house. They appeared in the middle of my living room floor, by the kitchen sink, across my desk, on top of the couch cushions and on the windowsill.

     Pennies started cropping up everywhere, and I soon noticed a pattern in their frequency. Whenever something upset me, a penny would magically appear. The day my husband lost his job and I was fearful of our future, pennies appeared in abundance. The same thing happened when my mother became ill and I was consumed with worry. I found the pennies everywhere while she was in recovery.
 
     I didn't understand the significance of the coins. They seemed to pop up out of nowhere whenever I became agitated or depressed, and I went so far as to scold my husband for dropping them around the house. He promised me that he had nothing to do with them and admitted the he had been finding quite a few himself.

     The mystery of the pennies continued for several months until I discovered.......

WANT TO READ MORE?? YOU CAN BUY THE BOOK HERE: https://www.amazon.com/Angel-Bumps-Heaven-Anne-Bardsley/dp/0997587113/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1506474762&sr=1-1-spell

 
   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.

 




     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.