Sunday March 1, 7:04 pm. I have written previously about my Aunt Alice on here. I won’t link, because I still can’t figure out how to do these fucking hyperlinks easily, and I doubt anyone cares that greatly about what I’ve said in the past. About an hour ago, my phone rings (or barks, as is my designated ring tone). It’s my brother Mike-the one who never calls me unless it’s something bad (which I’ve also written about). He tells me that Aunt Alice has just ‘passed away’. She fucking DIED. Why do we have to use these stupid ass euphemisms?
I’ve been ‘hoping’ for this phone call for almost a year or longer, because she’s had such a rapidly declining quality of life. I’m absolutely stunned and shocked with myself with how incredibly sad and upset I am about this. I really didn’t think I’d cry when this moment happened. But I am.
She was Mom’s oldest sister, the oldest of 14. Mom was #8. She took Mom after grade school and raised her. As such, Aunt Alice (and Uncle Orval) were always really more like Grandparents, more so than my actual grandparents were. My love of, and skill of cooking and baking are legacies from My Aunt Alice & Mom. When I was little, Aunt Alice always made my birthday cake, home-made Angel Food, in the long rectangular tube pan (that you don’t see anymore). Pies, cakes, yeast breads and cinnamon rolls, chicken (or beef) and home-made noodles were staples at every holiday or Sunday dinner. Ham and bean soup and corn bread; fried chicken, chocolate sheet cake, cherry pie, coconut or banana cream pie (the real deal-cooked custard base with meringue top (not this no cook refrigerator shit). Gourmet? No. Great cooking? Yes. Like most great cooks, when you ask for the recipe, she often didn’t have one. “I just make it.” About 10 years ago, in one of my rare moments of intelligence, I asked her how she made her cherry pie (and many other items), and wrote down the recipes. This doesn’t mean she didn’t use or have cookbooks. When she was moving from her condo to an assisted living home, without a kitchen, she let me come and select what I wanted from her cookbook collection. Many of which were the local church compilations that are done as fund raisers—each of them with many of her own recipes.
She also sewed. I still have the house robe she made me for Christmas over 20 years ago. I will never get rid of it. I still wear/use it. I have the original ‘sock monkey’ that she made and we played with at her house. The one she made for me was long gone, but I got the original from her sale when she left her house to go to the condo. I have one of her old quilts. She had reached the point of not being able to hand sew and I lamented to her that I wish I’d asked her to make a quilt for me when she was still able to do so. She made a quilt for each of her ‘true’ grandsons. When moving from her condo, she found one of her older quilts in her cedar chest, and she gave it to me. It has some great older fabrics in it, which I love. It worked out best, as I’d rather have the older more than I would new fabrics. It’s lighter weight, and goes on my bed every summer.
When you hear of people referred to as Pillars of the Community, that was her. In the small farm town where I grew up, she ran a restaurant, and then ran the cafeterias at my grade school, then high school, from where she eventually retired. But people still hired her to make cakes and pies, and breads/rolls.
When I came out, Aunt Alice is one of the people I was afraid of telling. Her response was, “There’s a lot I just don’t understand, but I’ll always love you. I wish I would have known you went through so much pain and hurt.” It was one of the most genuine and real responses that I received from family at that time.
When I was home at Christmas, Aunt Alice had declined greatly. Physically, she was much more frail, and mentally, the Alzheimer’s was really progressing. She still knew who I was, and asked me about my best friend by name. But, she couldn’t find her way back to her room on her own. Reading her Christmas cards, she had to spell out each word before she knew what it was. Then when it got to the names signed, I’d have to read that to her, and she wouldn’t know/recognize the names. It was so sad and painful to watch. A few weeks later, she went to the hospital. She went back to the assisted living home for a few days, but was back in the hospital, and then went to a nursing home. She stopped eating, and an even more rapid decline spiraled much more quickly. When I spoke to my parents earlier this week for Dad’s birthday, Mom said I wouldn’t recognize her. I told Mom, “I just wish she’d go quickly. She has no quality of life. She’s not able to discern happiness. She’s lived a hard damn life. It shouldn’t end like this.” Mom started talking about ‘the good lord’, and I tuned out to keep myself from corrupting that moment with my feelings of what bullshit (and oxymoron) I think ‘the good lord’ is.
It’s going to be a strained week—with her grandsons(my first cousins once removed, who used to be more like brothers to me) and daughter-in-law whom I haven’t seen since my cousin (Aunt Alice’s only natural child) died over 3 years ago and since they’ve sold her condo out from under her and took the money. They left my Mom with all of the responsibilities of being the caregiver, while they fleeced their Grandma of what little she had. Yet another way in which her last years should not have been.
Whether or not there is a heaven, Aunt Alice is much better off right now. My sadness is much greater than I would have imagined it to be at this moment.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Monday, June 23, 2008
JOLT & A Weekend of Firsts
This is a two-fer posting, as I seem to have difficulty in my desired regularity in daily or multiple times a week in posting. I still haven’t continued the travelogue.
This post falls in line with the I Heart Chicago posting a month ago.
I took off Friday. My plan is to take every other Friday off during the summer to give myself some long weekends to do things like catch up on my blog. I obviously failed.
JOLT
Friday night I had plans with my friend Mark to go to the free concert in Millenium Park. Chicago does this wonderful thing of providing free concerts and movies in Millenium Park during the summer. Before Millenium, it was Grant Park. There is the Grant Park Orchestra and Chorus, who play (and sing) classical music. They also get big names to perform. After Taste of Chicago in July, they will start up with Tuesday night movies. People bring picnic dinners, their lawn chairs and blankets and settle in for a night of entertainment under the Chicago sky. (I’d say ‘under the stars’, but you really can’t see them in Chicago).
It’s great, because you have the melting pot that is Chicago at these events, from the white collar ‘suits’ of Michigan Avenue, to poor students from the Art Institute School, to the laborers, and immigrant families.
Anyway, Mark and I were going to picnic and go to the concert. (I don’t even know who was performing. The weather had been dicey most of the day threatening rain and actually raining. We held off until late afternoon, and we decided, yes the weather was going to cooperate. Then it rained a bit, and we opted to go see a movie instead. We have the rest of the summer for picnics and shows in MP. We went to see “The Visitor”—very good flick, I highly recommend it. Mark and I hadn’t see each other, talked in quite a while so we were catching each other up on our lives. In the El, on the way home, Mark says, “And how’s Euckie?” It was like I’d been punched in the stomach—no, it was like he had reaching down into my throat and pulled my intestines back out through my mouth. I stammered out, “Didn’t you get my email in April?! I had to have Euckie put to sleep.” He’d forgotten. He apologized. But it really threw me, because well, it really threw me. Although it’s become ‘routine’ to come home and know that she’s not there to greet me, it’s still difficult on occasion, when I first open the door and for that split second have forgotten that she’s gone, until I open the door and she’s not there. It still sucks shit. But, I was surprised that I had such a visceral reaction almost 3 months after the fact. Fucking grief that lurks around the shadows then sucker punches you when you aren’t expecting it—I loathe you. The times that are difficult, that you would think would be the opposite, are the times when I can be more spontaneous, and not have to worry about getting home right after work, or making plans to go out and be away during the usual walk and feeding times. I mean, I’m now freed up to be more spontaneous, and meet someone after work or go out Saturday afternoon and stay out without coming home in between times. (See story below.) In some ways, that makes her absence all the more profound. Let me repeat. It just sucks shit.
WEEKEND of FIRSTS
Unlike Marc Acito http://marcacito.blogspot.com/ , who has made it a point to do something new every day, I have made no such self-commitment. (Apologies to gdad--I tried making the hyperlink word, and couldn't get it to work--that Turrette's like string of obscenities you heard on Monday night coming from Chicago and me trying to make the freaking thing work.) Saturday morning I woke up early, as my body seems wont to do now that I no longer need to do so for early morning walks. I ate my cereal, drank my mocha latte, and checked things on the computer. I called my friend Bart, who I go with to the gym on Saturdays to see if he wants to go earlier. It’s usually noonish or after when we go. He didn’t answer, must still be in bed. (It was after 8:30 for the record.) I call a bit later and he begs off for the day. So, I get my gym bag, and hop the train. When I’m leaving, I check my phone and there’s a voice mail from my sister*, Karen. She and Brian (her husband) had tickets with friends (another heterosexual couple) for a concert at Soldier Field, and because of all the rain, and crop situation, Brian had to stay and do farm work. Would I like to go in his place. It’s county music—Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, Leanne Rimes, and Gary Allen. I’d heard of the first 3. I’m not a country music fan. I’m not anti-country music (mostly), it’s just not something I follow. It was a chance to see Karen, so yeah, why not?! It’ll be great to see Karen, and I’ve never been inside the Stadium at Soldier Field. This would be a first. I know it may be hard to believe, but I don’t have season tickets to the Bears games.
We made the arrangements of where to meet at outside the Stadium. The concert is to begin at 4:00. They’d been waiting 10-15 minutes when I arrived about 4:30. Karen dispenses the tickets, we go through the gate. We cannot take our open bottles of water in. Karen can’t take her umbrella. WTF, are we at the airport?! Are these guys TSA guards? Now, had I had a flask of Vodka in my back pocket, we could have gotten in easily with that.
Now, admittedly, it’s been many, many years since I’ve dated women. But I’ve don’t plenty of social activities with women in the interceding years. I don’t remember this: I think once we get in the stadium, we’re going to find our seats. My mistake. First, the woman friend wants to stop at the T-Shirt vendor to check on Keith Urban shirts. (Karen and her friend have crushes on Keith.) She doesn’t like them. OK, off to find our seats. Oh, no. Now they need to go to the bathroom. We find them one level lower. We get back to our level. Let’s get beer while we’re down here. OK, that’s copacetic. We get the beer. NOW, off to the seats. “Oh, why don’t we get something to eat while we’re down here.” I swear, I think it took us over 45 minutes from entering the gate to actually sitting our butts in the seats! Is this typical heterosexual married life? OMG, I was ready to scream. This is the stuff of sitcoms that are supposed to be parody.
The concert itself hadn’t started yet. The music we’d been hearing was recorded. I leaned over to Karen and said, “I don’t mean to be stupid, but who is this we’re listening to right now?”
The concert begins with the Gary Allen guy. He’s good. Then Leanne Rimes. I’d at least heard of her. She was good. Then comes Keith I liked him a lot. To me, he has more of a 70’s rock vibe, a la Eagles, America, Lennard Skinner. And, he’s really pretty hot. I now understand the crushes on him. Nicole was there. The jumbo tron showed her a couple of times. Friday had been Nic’s birthday, and Keith had the audience of 50,000 people sing Happy Birthday to Nicole, while the screen showed her blushing. And speaking of hot—there were a LOT of hot buff country boys at this concert. Who knew so many hot men liked country music. Damn, I may have to begin expanding my musical horizons. It was like the pretty boy section at the gay bars. In addition to the hot men, there were a lot of overweight women, wearing clothing that did nothing to hide, nor showcase their bodies in a flattering manner. With all of the hot men and fat women, it made me think I was the voyeur at a convention of pretty gay men and their fag hags. But, I digress.
I really enjoyed Keith. He’s an excellent entertainer. He did something I haven’t often seen. After he sang his first few songs, he introduced his band, and highlighted each member individually, giving them a turn in the spot light to play and/or sing. I liked that.
By the time it was Kenny Chesney’s turn, it was getting dark. Midway through his concert, the Saturday night fireworks went of at Navy Pier, and we were in a prime spot in the stadium to see the fireworks display over Lake Michigan. This was another Chicago first for me. It was after 11:00 pm when Kenny ended the show. It was a fun afternoon/evening. I had many firsts: Inside Soldier Field (for an actual event even), my first country music concert, my first outdoor stadium “Big League performer” concert, first time seeing the downtown fireworks from Navy Pier. The other firsts of my weekend are not for public consumption, so we’ll end the story with the concert.
* Karen, and her older sister Chris are the daughters of my Mom’s best friend from High School. Their parents are my Godparents, and who would have been my guardians had something happened to my parents when I was still a minor child. Karen and Chris have been more like siblings to me than my brothers, and for years we’ve introduced each other as sisters/brother when meeting one of the others friends. It’s the thing that gays have done so well in creating ‘family of choice’ when family of origin have not been what we need family to be.
This post falls in line with the I Heart Chicago posting a month ago.
I took off Friday. My plan is to take every other Friday off during the summer to give myself some long weekends to do things like catch up on my blog. I obviously failed.
JOLT
Friday night I had plans with my friend Mark to go to the free concert in Millenium Park. Chicago does this wonderful thing of providing free concerts and movies in Millenium Park during the summer. Before Millenium, it was Grant Park. There is the Grant Park Orchestra and Chorus, who play (and sing) classical music. They also get big names to perform. After Taste of Chicago in July, they will start up with Tuesday night movies. People bring picnic dinners, their lawn chairs and blankets and settle in for a night of entertainment under the Chicago sky. (I’d say ‘under the stars’, but you really can’t see them in Chicago).
It’s great, because you have the melting pot that is Chicago at these events, from the white collar ‘suits’ of Michigan Avenue, to poor students from the Art Institute School, to the laborers, and immigrant families.
Anyway, Mark and I were going to picnic and go to the concert. (I don’t even know who was performing. The weather had been dicey most of the day threatening rain and actually raining. We held off until late afternoon, and we decided, yes the weather was going to cooperate. Then it rained a bit, and we opted to go see a movie instead. We have the rest of the summer for picnics and shows in MP. We went to see “The Visitor”—very good flick, I highly recommend it. Mark and I hadn’t see each other, talked in quite a while so we were catching each other up on our lives. In the El, on the way home, Mark says, “And how’s Euckie?” It was like I’d been punched in the stomach—no, it was like he had reaching down into my throat and pulled my intestines back out through my mouth. I stammered out, “Didn’t you get my email in April?! I had to have Euckie put to sleep.” He’d forgotten. He apologized. But it really threw me, because well, it really threw me. Although it’s become ‘routine’ to come home and know that she’s not there to greet me, it’s still difficult on occasion, when I first open the door and for that split second have forgotten that she’s gone, until I open the door and she’s not there. It still sucks shit. But, I was surprised that I had such a visceral reaction almost 3 months after the fact. Fucking grief that lurks around the shadows then sucker punches you when you aren’t expecting it—I loathe you. The times that are difficult, that you would think would be the opposite, are the times when I can be more spontaneous, and not have to worry about getting home right after work, or making plans to go out and be away during the usual walk and feeding times. I mean, I’m now freed up to be more spontaneous, and meet someone after work or go out Saturday afternoon and stay out without coming home in between times. (See story below.) In some ways, that makes her absence all the more profound. Let me repeat. It just sucks shit.
WEEKEND of FIRSTS
Unlike Marc Acito http://marcacito.blogspot.com/ , who has made it a point to do something new every day, I have made no such self-commitment. (Apologies to gdad--I tried making the hyperlink word, and couldn't get it to work--that Turrette's like string of obscenities you heard on Monday night coming from Chicago and me trying to make the freaking thing work.) Saturday morning I woke up early, as my body seems wont to do now that I no longer need to do so for early morning walks. I ate my cereal, drank my mocha latte, and checked things on the computer. I called my friend Bart, who I go with to the gym on Saturdays to see if he wants to go earlier. It’s usually noonish or after when we go. He didn’t answer, must still be in bed. (It was after 8:30 for the record.) I call a bit later and he begs off for the day. So, I get my gym bag, and hop the train. When I’m leaving, I check my phone and there’s a voice mail from my sister*, Karen. She and Brian (her husband) had tickets with friends (another heterosexual couple) for a concert at Soldier Field, and because of all the rain, and crop situation, Brian had to stay and do farm work. Would I like to go in his place. It’s county music—Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, Leanne Rimes, and Gary Allen. I’d heard of the first 3. I’m not a country music fan. I’m not anti-country music (mostly), it’s just not something I follow. It was a chance to see Karen, so yeah, why not?! It’ll be great to see Karen, and I’ve never been inside the Stadium at Soldier Field. This would be a first. I know it may be hard to believe, but I don’t have season tickets to the Bears games.
We made the arrangements of where to meet at outside the Stadium. The concert is to begin at 4:00. They’d been waiting 10-15 minutes when I arrived about 4:30. Karen dispenses the tickets, we go through the gate. We cannot take our open bottles of water in. Karen can’t take her umbrella. WTF, are we at the airport?! Are these guys TSA guards? Now, had I had a flask of Vodka in my back pocket, we could have gotten in easily with that.
Now, admittedly, it’s been many, many years since I’ve dated women. But I’ve don’t plenty of social activities with women in the interceding years. I don’t remember this: I think once we get in the stadium, we’re going to find our seats. My mistake. First, the woman friend wants to stop at the T-Shirt vendor to check on Keith Urban shirts. (Karen and her friend have crushes on Keith.) She doesn’t like them. OK, off to find our seats. Oh, no. Now they need to go to the bathroom. We find them one level lower. We get back to our level. Let’s get beer while we’re down here. OK, that’s copacetic. We get the beer. NOW, off to the seats. “Oh, why don’t we get something to eat while we’re down here.” I swear, I think it took us over 45 minutes from entering the gate to actually sitting our butts in the seats! Is this typical heterosexual married life? OMG, I was ready to scream. This is the stuff of sitcoms that are supposed to be parody.
The concert itself hadn’t started yet. The music we’d been hearing was recorded. I leaned over to Karen and said, “I don’t mean to be stupid, but who is this we’re listening to right now?”
The concert begins with the Gary Allen guy. He’s good. Then Leanne Rimes. I’d at least heard of her. She was good. Then comes Keith I liked him a lot. To me, he has more of a 70’s rock vibe, a la Eagles, America, Lennard Skinner. And, he’s really pretty hot. I now understand the crushes on him. Nicole was there. The jumbo tron showed her a couple of times. Friday had been Nic’s birthday, and Keith had the audience of 50,000 people sing Happy Birthday to Nicole, while the screen showed her blushing. And speaking of hot—there were a LOT of hot buff country boys at this concert. Who knew so many hot men liked country music. Damn, I may have to begin expanding my musical horizons. It was like the pretty boy section at the gay bars. In addition to the hot men, there were a lot of overweight women, wearing clothing that did nothing to hide, nor showcase their bodies in a flattering manner. With all of the hot men and fat women, it made me think I was the voyeur at a convention of pretty gay men and their fag hags. But, I digress.
I really enjoyed Keith. He’s an excellent entertainer. He did something I haven’t often seen. After he sang his first few songs, he introduced his band, and highlighted each member individually, giving them a turn in the spot light to play and/or sing. I liked that.
By the time it was Kenny Chesney’s turn, it was getting dark. Midway through his concert, the Saturday night fireworks went of at Navy Pier, and we were in a prime spot in the stadium to see the fireworks display over Lake Michigan. This was another Chicago first for me. It was after 11:00 pm when Kenny ended the show. It was a fun afternoon/evening. I had many firsts: Inside Soldier Field (for an actual event even), my first country music concert, my first outdoor stadium “Big League performer” concert, first time seeing the downtown fireworks from Navy Pier. The other firsts of my weekend are not for public consumption, so we’ll end the story with the concert.
* Karen, and her older sister Chris are the daughters of my Mom’s best friend from High School. Their parents are my Godparents, and who would have been my guardians had something happened to my parents when I was still a minor child. Karen and Chris have been more like siblings to me than my brothers, and for years we’ve introduced each other as sisters/brother when meeting one of the others friends. It’s the thing that gays have done so well in creating ‘family of choice’ when family of origin have not been what we need family to be.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Never Enough
No matter how much time you have, it’s never enough. You want more. But you take what you’re given, and you learn to treasure the good, cloud over the bad—not completely, because hopefully in the bad you’ve gained a valuable life lesson. That part shouldn’t be forgotten. But you don’t want to hold on to the bad like you do the good.
In order to feel the exhilarating heights of joy and euphoria, the converse must be present. You also have to be able to feel utter despair and pain of grief. It’s the yin and yang. Not long after Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died, I felt very guilty because I was so grief stricken over losing her. I realized that I’d cried a lot over her, but never cried when my Grandma or favorite Uncle died. Did that mean I didn’t love them enough, because I didn’t cry when they died? Cognitively, I know that’s not the case. I’m not sure I can explain it. They were part of my life—a major part of my life. But they were not a part of my everyday routine. They did not impact my daily schedule. My Uncle had Alzheimer’s. For many intents and purposes, the Uncle/Man that I knew and remembered had died a few years before his body finally expired. In so many ways, it was a relief. Caring for him was taking an emotional and physical toll on my Aunt. Now the universe is repaying her with her own onset of Alzheimer’s. But, I digress.
There have been three times in my adult life that I have had a grief of this magnitude: Euckie’s death, which obviously is still very raw; when Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died; and when Bruce (henceforth known as the Stupid Fucking Mormon—SFM) told me he was leaving me and moving back to Utah to be with a man he met a two weeks before, when he went back to visit his parents. Ficus (the dog), I was prepared for—as much as one can be. I knew she had cancer. She was put to sleep the day the movers packed up my house for my move to Chicago. The good aspect of that, is that there were so many changes that happened at once. I was in a new city, in a new home which never housed Ficus. There weren’t constant reminders of her absence, because everything was different. That made the adjustment easier (or less difficult). It was 3 months later that SFM left me. As the man (a friend) who bought my house downstate commented, “Man, if you took one of those ‘changes in you life’ stressors test, you’d blow that fucker out of the water!” And so I did.
I wanted more time with Ficus (the dog); with the SFM; and with Euckie. The other thing about time is, when enough time HAS passed, after the grief making event, you are able to be grateful and hold the good memories, gently in your mind, heart, and soul. They do sustain you—even the ones with the SFM.
One of my neighbors gave me a bottle of wine, and told me to “Drown your sorrows.” I’ve never been a depressive drinker. I opted to hold on to the bottle, and will open it when I can drink a toast to the good times I had with Euckie—which is nearly all of them. Although there wasn’t enough time for my liking, in time enough when it’s less raw, I’ll walk our usual route, and it will feel good. It will feel right. She will look down, taking a break from chasing a squirrel, and will smile that crooked dog smile. And the sun will shine brighter for just a moment. ©wtf/rle
In order to feel the exhilarating heights of joy and euphoria, the converse must be present. You also have to be able to feel utter despair and pain of grief. It’s the yin and yang. Not long after Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died, I felt very guilty because I was so grief stricken over losing her. I realized that I’d cried a lot over her, but never cried when my Grandma or favorite Uncle died. Did that mean I didn’t love them enough, because I didn’t cry when they died? Cognitively, I know that’s not the case. I’m not sure I can explain it. They were part of my life—a major part of my life. But they were not a part of my everyday routine. They did not impact my daily schedule. My Uncle had Alzheimer’s. For many intents and purposes, the Uncle/Man that I knew and remembered had died a few years before his body finally expired. In so many ways, it was a relief. Caring for him was taking an emotional and physical toll on my Aunt. Now the universe is repaying her with her own onset of Alzheimer’s. But, I digress.
There have been three times in my adult life that I have had a grief of this magnitude: Euckie’s death, which obviously is still very raw; when Ficus (the dog, not the plant) died; and when Bruce (henceforth known as the Stupid Fucking Mormon—SFM) told me he was leaving me and moving back to Utah to be with a man he met a two weeks before, when he went back to visit his parents. Ficus (the dog), I was prepared for—as much as one can be. I knew she had cancer. She was put to sleep the day the movers packed up my house for my move to Chicago. The good aspect of that, is that there were so many changes that happened at once. I was in a new city, in a new home which never housed Ficus. There weren’t constant reminders of her absence, because everything was different. That made the adjustment easier (or less difficult). It was 3 months later that SFM left me. As the man (a friend) who bought my house downstate commented, “Man, if you took one of those ‘changes in you life’ stressors test, you’d blow that fucker out of the water!” And so I did.
I wanted more time with Ficus (the dog); with the SFM; and with Euckie. The other thing about time is, when enough time HAS passed, after the grief making event, you are able to be grateful and hold the good memories, gently in your mind, heart, and soul. They do sustain you—even the ones with the SFM.
One of my neighbors gave me a bottle of wine, and told me to “Drown your sorrows.” I’ve never been a depressive drinker. I opted to hold on to the bottle, and will open it when I can drink a toast to the good times I had with Euckie—which is nearly all of them. Although there wasn’t enough time for my liking, in time enough when it’s less raw, I’ll walk our usual route, and it will feel good. It will feel right. She will look down, taking a break from chasing a squirrel, and will smile that crooked dog smile. And the sun will shine brighter for just a moment. ©wtf/rle
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Sometimes the Universe...
…is a fucking bitch, with a twisted sense of humor.
Author note: If you've not read the previous post, this one will make less sense. Hell, it may make no sense if you've read the previous post. Just so you know, intrepid reader, I am going to be processing my grief (or some of it) by writing here on this blog.
I am NOT a morning person. I used to have no problems getting up when I needed to do so. But these days, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. I relish weekends so I can sleep in. I would take Euckie out before going to bed to empty her bladder, so she would not need to go out at 7:00 am. She usually let me sleep until around 9:00, before putting her paws up on my bed to get me up. This morning (Sunday). I wake up at 7:30. Wide awake. I lay back down. I’m not nodding off. FUCK YOU universe! Funny joke. Ha Ha. I’m not laughing.
So, I get out of bed. I don’t walk Euckie. I don’t fill her water and food bowls. I don’t fix us our Sunday morning eggs. What I do, after I have my coffee and breakfast, is re-bag almost 40 LBS of dog food, that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago. I took it to Anti-Cruelty to donate in Euckie’s name.
The thing I hate most about grief is how it hits you at strange times, triggered by completely unrelated, innocuous events. Yesterday was in the 60’s—the first time we’ve hit those digits this year. My parents drove up for the day. That was a genuine surprise. Well, it was a surprise Friday night when Mom called and asked if I was going to be around on Saturday. If so, they were going to come up for the day. My relatives are not necessarily known for their overt displays of affection or compassion. So, this was pretty monumental. I even got nice notes from my brothers. Sometimes my family surprises me in good ways.
When they left to go back home, I walked them outside to their car. As it was our first great Spring day, I decided to take a walk—I decided to take ‘our usual Euckie walk.” I didn’t expect a stupid walk to make me tear up. I take the repackaged dog food to Anti-Cruelty. I’m driving home. I’m on LSD (Lake Shore Drive, NOT the hallucinogenic), heading north. Radio is playing-Oldies station. “To Sir With Love”, the song from the TV movie in the early 70’s with Sidney Poitier. I know it. I’m singing along. “…who taught me right from wrong, weak from strong, that’s a lot to learn…” I fucking lose it. I’m driving and sobbing. It’s not even a goddamn song about a dog. WTF is wrong with me?!? I felt so fucking stupid, and embarrassed. The only good thing is that I was alone in the car. The mind and heart of grief plays tricks on the soul of grief.
An odd coincidence that I realized is that it was this same week, 13 years ago, that Ficus (the dog, not the plant) was put to sleep. WTF is it about the beginning of Spring and my dogs? Another thing that I’m pissed at the universe with is: It’s finally Spring. You make my poor dog suffer walking on ice in 20 below Chicago winter, you can’t give her at least some days of good Spring weather to enjoy before you start mis-firing her synapses?!
I’m re-reading “Dog Years”. I’m telling you people, buy this book! But I don’t think I’ll read this one on the train for the work commute. I want to try and keep my composure at least in public settings.
Author note: If you've not read the previous post, this one will make less sense. Hell, it may make no sense if you've read the previous post. Just so you know, intrepid reader, I am going to be processing my grief (or some of it) by writing here on this blog.
I am NOT a morning person. I used to have no problems getting up when I needed to do so. But these days, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. I relish weekends so I can sleep in. I would take Euckie out before going to bed to empty her bladder, so she would not need to go out at 7:00 am. She usually let me sleep until around 9:00, before putting her paws up on my bed to get me up. This morning (Sunday). I wake up at 7:30. Wide awake. I lay back down. I’m not nodding off. FUCK YOU universe! Funny joke. Ha Ha. I’m not laughing.
So, I get out of bed. I don’t walk Euckie. I don’t fill her water and food bowls. I don’t fix us our Sunday morning eggs. What I do, after I have my coffee and breakfast, is re-bag almost 40 LBS of dog food, that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago. I took it to Anti-Cruelty to donate in Euckie’s name.
The thing I hate most about grief is how it hits you at strange times, triggered by completely unrelated, innocuous events. Yesterday was in the 60’s—the first time we’ve hit those digits this year. My parents drove up for the day. That was a genuine surprise. Well, it was a surprise Friday night when Mom called and asked if I was going to be around on Saturday. If so, they were going to come up for the day. My relatives are not necessarily known for their overt displays of affection or compassion. So, this was pretty monumental. I even got nice notes from my brothers. Sometimes my family surprises me in good ways.
When they left to go back home, I walked them outside to their car. As it was our first great Spring day, I decided to take a walk—I decided to take ‘our usual Euckie walk.” I didn’t expect a stupid walk to make me tear up. I take the repackaged dog food to Anti-Cruelty. I’m driving home. I’m on LSD (Lake Shore Drive, NOT the hallucinogenic), heading north. Radio is playing-Oldies station. “To Sir With Love”, the song from the TV movie in the early 70’s with Sidney Poitier. I know it. I’m singing along. “…who taught me right from wrong, weak from strong, that’s a lot to learn…” I fucking lose it. I’m driving and sobbing. It’s not even a goddamn song about a dog. WTF is wrong with me?!? I felt so fucking stupid, and embarrassed. The only good thing is that I was alone in the car. The mind and heart of grief plays tricks on the soul of grief.
An odd coincidence that I realized is that it was this same week, 13 years ago, that Ficus (the dog, not the plant) was put to sleep. WTF is it about the beginning of Spring and my dogs? Another thing that I’m pissed at the universe with is: It’s finally Spring. You make my poor dog suffer walking on ice in 20 below Chicago winter, you can’t give her at least some days of good Spring weather to enjoy before you start mis-firing her synapses?!
I’m re-reading “Dog Years”. I’m telling you people, buy this book! But I don’t think I’ll read this one on the train for the work commute. I want to try and keep my composure at least in public settings.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Euckie the WONDER(ful) Dog
This is a long post. It’s been a while since I’ve written. I hope you will bear with me and read through to the end—not for me, but for the subject of this post. The pictures here are of Euckie. She was my constant and faithful, loyal companion for almost 11 years. Yesterday, (Thursday April 3, 2008) I had Euckie put to sleep. This is her tribute.
I adopted Euckie from the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. They thought she was about a year old when I got her. She had been badly abused. One eye was smaller, and that ear was cocked differently from the other. This was a result of being hit or struck on her head from her abuser(s). My personal theory is that she was hit by or dumped from a car, as she totally wigged out if we crossed a busy, high trafficked street or road.
About 2-3 weeks ago, she had a seizure in the middle of the night. The past 3 nights in a row, she had seizures again, each one progressively worse. She seemed to be more impaired after each one. She knew something had happened, and it just freaked her out. Last night it took about 3 hours to ‘bring her down’.
When I called to make the appointment on Tuesday, I knew/felt in the pit of stomach that we were going to the vet, and I was going to come back home alone. Wednesday night, I made her eggs with cheese. Eggs for breakfast is--was a weekend treat for both of us. Instead of her usual one treat per night, she got one every time she went to the cabinet and stared up at the cookie jar with her treats. We had a great night until the last seizure that night—less than 24 hours after the previous one. I begged to the universe, “Let’s us get through Thursday without a seizure. Let this day be as good as possible for her.” This was of course before I knew what the outcome of the trip was going to be.
The vet said that the exam indicated that the seizures were neurological in nature, and that most likely were the result of a brain tumor, given her age and other symptoms. He said I could have had a CT or MRI done to confirm, and if confirmed, there was nothing that could be done.
After the procedure he told me that if she’d been his dog, he would have made the same decision, which at least helped me to feel that I’d made the correct decision, albeit a hard one—actually, the decision wasn’t hard. Following through was. My best friend G (and Euckie’s favorite human) went with me and was with us. We stayed with her, and I held her while she received the IV.
She was the most loving dog I have ever known. Although I’m biased, this is a sentiment that myriad people have said to me over the past 10 + years, time and time again. Last Thanksgiving, at Mom & Dad’s, my sister-in-law told me she’d never seen a dog so devoted to its master before. The devotion was mutual, but I’m certain she was better than I. She was the most loyal and faithful companion, and greatly loved by pretty much everyone who knew her. I think that the best testament of that is this. As I’ve come home and told two different neighbors, they broke down, crying, with me. It wasn’t just for my loss, but because they loved Euckie for the great and loving dog she was. That’s a testament to her, not to me. People consistently have told me, “she such a lucky dog to have gotten you.” That’s not correct. I’m the lucky one. We-I {the fucking strikethrough function isn't transfering on blogger-italics followed by bold indicates what should be a strikethrough replaced word} currently live in a Co op. When I was buying this place, before my offer could be accepted, I had to be interviewed and approved by the other owners of the building. (It’s one of the differences between a co op and a condo.) There had not been a dog in the building before, so we both had to be interviewed, and ‘pass the test’. After we were accepted and moved in, I was told that J my neighbor P’s son, kept asking, not when is the new man moving in, but “When’s the dog moving in?” Euckie was already in like Flynn. The jury was still out on me!
I think that she chose me as much as I chose her 11 years ago at Anti Cruelty. I had been going back every Saturday, after I moved to my first condo. It was almost two months of returning either seeing dogs that had already been adopted, or not ‘connecting’ with a dog. With Euckie, it was immediate. Here was this emaciated, anorexic, terribly frightened dog, with a crooked face and smile, who looked like a patchwork quilt. As one friend commented, “She looks like she was put together by committee!” She was an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. She was damned smart!
They had given her some name that just didn’t fit. I don’t even remember what it was, now. I used to be a florist. My dogs have been named after plants. My previous dog that I got after college (the first time) was named “Ficus”. I wanted to continue the tradition. Since my new vocation was healthcare, I wanted somehow to tie that in. Eucalyptus is a plant with healing properties. It’s native to Australia. It was a trifecta—plant, health, native origins! It was shortened to Euckie.
Here are a couple of my favorite Euckie Stories:
Not long after I got her, I took her downstate to Mom & Dad’s. She didn’t do well in the car the first few times. (I think she’d been dumped from a car.) But she came to love car rides, especially to Mom & Dad’s because she could be off the leash and run free. The first time we did that, I took her to my old high school, across the street, and she ran in the practice football field. I apparently was not keeping up with her, enough to suit her anyway. She began circling big and ‘herding’ me to get me to go where she wanted me to be.
She loved chasing squirrels. She almost caught them couple of times. Had she not been on her leash, I have not doubt that she would have. She’s the only dog I’ve ever seen who tried (and nearly succeeded) to climb a tree, while chasing a squirrel.
When Mom and Dad came up here after my first shoulder surgery, I was unable to sleep in my bed and was sleeping my recliner club chair in the living room. In the morning, I heard Mom, whispering, “Euckie, come here. Come here. It’s time for your walk.” (Euckie was always eager for her morning ‘constitutional’.) She had camped out beside my chair, and would not leave my side. It wasn’t until I told her it was ‘OK to go’, and I had to get up and take to the door, before she would go with Dad for her walk.
A few months ago I read the book, “Dog Years: A Memoir” by Mark Doty, which is a great book. I highly recommend it. At the time I didn’t realize it was preparing me for today, but in some ways as I read it, I knew that it was. Now it’s almost spooky. I have many pages ‘dog eared’—how apropos. At the end of chapter 1 he writes about his dog Beau. As this is not a critical article, nor a review, copyright infringement prohibits me from excerpting it. So GO BUY HIS BOOK, especially if you’re a dog lover! But he talks about how during his dark times, how his dog(s) gave him his will to live. I totally got that. Euckie did that for me, when my life was at its worst. I wish I could have conveyed that to her. She truly was my savior. One of the serendipitous things about reading the book when I did, is that it made me much more consciously aware that Euckie was getting older, and it caused me to spend more time with her. Instead of sitting at the computer constantly, I’d stop and play ‘tug ball’ with her when she’d bring a toy up to me. Or, I’d stop, and go sit or lie down with her on the floor and pet her. She was nearly 50 pounds, but she thought she was a lap dog. I later regretted that I got rid of that green leather club chair a couple of years ago, because that was ‘our chair’. We didn’t have a good sharing place after I gave that chair away. She made me a better human.
I had her--We had each other for almost 11 years. She outlasted a serious relationship and a few boyfriends. I will--do miss her terribly.
My quote on my home page is the perfect closing. I would just add, if there is anything I’m certain of, if there is a heaven, Euckie is one of those dogs.
Randy
I adopted Euckie from the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. They thought she was about a year old when I got her. She had been badly abused. One eye was smaller, and that ear was cocked differently from the other. This was a result of being hit or struck on her head from her abuser(s). My personal theory is that she was hit by or dumped from a car, as she totally wigged out if we crossed a busy, high trafficked street or road.
About 2-3 weeks ago, she had a seizure in the middle of the night. The past 3 nights in a row, she had seizures again, each one progressively worse. She seemed to be more impaired after each one. She knew something had happened, and it just freaked her out. Last night it took about 3 hours to ‘bring her down’.
When I called to make the appointment on Tuesday, I knew/felt in the pit of stomach that we were going to the vet, and I was going to come back home alone. Wednesday night, I made her eggs with cheese. Eggs for breakfast is--was a weekend treat for both of us. Instead of her usual one treat per night, she got one every time she went to the cabinet and stared up at the cookie jar with her treats. We had a great night until the last seizure that night—less than 24 hours after the previous one. I begged to the universe, “Let’s us get through Thursday without a seizure. Let this day be as good as possible for her.” This was of course before I knew what the outcome of the trip was going to be.
The vet said that the exam indicated that the seizures were neurological in nature, and that most likely were the result of a brain tumor, given her age and other symptoms. He said I could have had a CT or MRI done to confirm, and if confirmed, there was nothing that could be done.
After the procedure he told me that if she’d been his dog, he would have made the same decision, which at least helped me to feel that I’d made the correct decision, albeit a hard one—actually, the decision wasn’t hard. Following through was. My best friend G (and Euckie’s favorite human) went with me and was with us. We stayed with her, and I held her while she received the IV.
She was the most loving dog I have ever known. Although I’m biased, this is a sentiment that myriad people have said to me over the past 10 + years, time and time again. Last Thanksgiving, at Mom & Dad’s, my sister-in-law told me she’d never seen a dog so devoted to its master before. The devotion was mutual, but I’m certain she was better than I. She was the most loyal and faithful companion, and greatly loved by pretty much everyone who knew her. I think that the best testament of that is this. As I’ve come home and told two different neighbors, they broke down, crying, with me. It wasn’t just for my loss, but because they loved Euckie for the great and loving dog she was. That’s a testament to her, not to me. People consistently have told me, “she such a lucky dog to have gotten you.” That’s not correct. I’m the lucky one. We-I {the fucking strikethrough function isn't transfering on blogger-italics followed by bold indicates what should be a strikethrough replaced word} currently live in a Co op. When I was buying this place, before my offer could be accepted, I had to be interviewed and approved by the other owners of the building. (It’s one of the differences between a co op and a condo.) There had not been a dog in the building before, so we both had to be interviewed, and ‘pass the test’. After we were accepted and moved in, I was told that J my neighbor P’s son, kept asking, not when is the new man moving in, but “When’s the dog moving in?” Euckie was already in like Flynn. The jury was still out on me!
I think that she chose me as much as I chose her 11 years ago at Anti Cruelty. I had been going back every Saturday, after I moved to my first condo. It was almost two months of returning either seeing dogs that had already been adopted, or not ‘connecting’ with a dog. With Euckie, it was immediate. Here was this emaciated, anorexic, terribly frightened dog, with a crooked face and smile, who looked like a patchwork quilt. As one friend commented, “She looks like she was put together by committee!” She was an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. She was damned smart!
They had given her some name that just didn’t fit. I don’t even remember what it was, now. I used to be a florist. My dogs have been named after plants. My previous dog that I got after college (the first time) was named “Ficus”. I wanted to continue the tradition. Since my new vocation was healthcare, I wanted somehow to tie that in. Eucalyptus is a plant with healing properties. It’s native to Australia. It was a trifecta—plant, health, native origins! It was shortened to Euckie.
Here are a couple of my favorite Euckie Stories:
Not long after I got her, I took her downstate to Mom & Dad’s. She didn’t do well in the car the first few times. (I think she’d been dumped from a car.) But she came to love car rides, especially to Mom & Dad’s because she could be off the leash and run free. The first time we did that, I took her to my old high school, across the street, and she ran in the practice football field. I apparently was not keeping up with her, enough to suit her anyway. She began circling big and ‘herding’ me to get me to go where she wanted me to be.
She loved chasing squirrels. She almost caught them couple of times. Had she not been on her leash, I have not doubt that she would have. She’s the only dog I’ve ever seen who tried (and nearly succeeded) to climb a tree, while chasing a squirrel.
When Mom and Dad came up here after my first shoulder surgery, I was unable to sleep in my bed and was sleeping my recliner club chair in the living room. In the morning, I heard Mom, whispering, “Euckie, come here. Come here. It’s time for your walk.” (Euckie was always eager for her morning ‘constitutional’.) She had camped out beside my chair, and would not leave my side. It wasn’t until I told her it was ‘OK to go’, and I had to get up and take to the door, before she would go with Dad for her walk.
A few months ago I read the book, “Dog Years: A Memoir” by Mark Doty, which is a great book. I highly recommend it. At the time I didn’t realize it was preparing me for today, but in some ways as I read it, I knew that it was. Now it’s almost spooky. I have many pages ‘dog eared’—how apropos. At the end of chapter 1 he writes about his dog Beau. As this is not a critical article, nor a review, copyright infringement prohibits me from excerpting it. So GO BUY HIS BOOK, especially if you’re a dog lover! But he talks about how during his dark times, how his dog(s) gave him his will to live. I totally got that. Euckie did that for me, when my life was at its worst. I wish I could have conveyed that to her. She truly was my savior. One of the serendipitous things about reading the book when I did, is that it made me much more consciously aware that Euckie was getting older, and it caused me to spend more time with her. Instead of sitting at the computer constantly, I’d stop and play ‘tug ball’ with her when she’d bring a toy up to me. Or, I’d stop, and go sit or lie down with her on the floor and pet her. She was nearly 50 pounds, but she thought she was a lap dog. I later regretted that I got rid of that green leather club chair a couple of years ago, because that was ‘our chair’. We didn’t have a good sharing place after I gave that chair away. She made me a better human.
I had her--We had each other for almost 11 years. She outlasted a serious relationship and a few boyfriends. I will--do miss her terribly.
My quote on my home page is the perfect closing. I would just add, if there is anything I’m certain of, if there is a heaven, Euckie is one of those dogs.
Randy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
