To My Boy, Barney

May 9, 2014

To My Baby Boy, Barney,

You left this world yesterday and, oh how much better it was because you were in it. For twelve wonderful years you graced us with your goofy smile, that signature tip-of-the-head, and that eternally happy wag of your fluffy husky tail. On our walks, strangers were drawn to pet you and always exclaimed, “Wow! He’s so soft!”  You made even the grumpiest smile.
 
You suffered countless health issues in your little life, yet you were always joyous. When one of us would come home, we were greeted by your enthusiasm and a tennis ball as you raced to get into the yard and begged us to throw it – rain, sleet, heat, snow…”I wanna chase the ball, Mom.” Of course we would oblige with a giggle and a few words about a silly dog.
 
You were a well-traveled pup – you lived in Traverse City, Las Vegas, South Pasadena, Lake St. Louis and St. Pete, often visited Tennessee, and either flew over or drove through every state in-between.  We knew traveling was not your forte, but once we got to our destination, the adventure and new animals to chase made it all worth the hassle.  Watching your expression change and ears perk up as you experienced new smells and terrain, and met new doggie (and swan) friends, brought us the utmost delight.

As the minutes tick by, the after-death movie of our escapades plays on.  Snowshoeing in Traverse City – you would race around and race around and then sneak up on us from behind and walk on the backs of our snow-shoes until one of us would trip. I swear you would laugh, then run away into the snowy night and come back and do it again a few minutes later.

When you were three, we moved to Florida and you became a blissful beach dog. You would rip so fast on the soft, white sand that it would squeak under your paws as rooster-tails of sand flew up behind you. You’d run full-force into the gulf, run out, turn around with a huge grin to see if we were watching, then splash in again. We had as much fun watching you as you did frolicking.

When we road-tripped to Vegas and then to Palm Springs for a weekend, you were a brave boy chasing coyotes in the dessert. From that enjoyment came a sprained wrist, along with a cactus up the nose from chasing bunnies. You seemed so proud of yourself, you didn’t care if you were hurt!
I think the best days of your life were between ages five and eight. You still had endless energy – yep, I never thought the walk to the park for an hour of ball chasing would ever end. It was the highlight of every one of my days. We’d get to our shady, gorgeous, flower-and-tree-filled park at the end of a long work day, and off the leash would come. Away you’d run – almost fly, I think, as I’d throw your rubber Life is Good ball about a block. You would start to run after it, jump in the water fountain on the way, never really stopping as you drug half the water out of the fountain with you, racing to beat the ball. You’d grab it, run back, jump in the fountain again, lower yourself just enough to cool your belly, jump out and proceed to stand in front of me shaking off the water and dropping the ball for more. There were people who came to the park just to watch you. Your happiness was contagious and it was my therapy.

I’ll never forget the first time you had filet mignon. Thanks to your daddy, who could not believe how deprived you had been (hahaha), you tasted nirvana at age five. After that, you turned yourself inside-out whenever there was steak and salmon on the grill. Very quickly, they became your two favorite delicacies. Life would never be the same without at least one per week.

You were my rock and my shining star through the many trials of my young life, and many times, because of you, I didn’t give up when things got really bad. I had you to take care of, to walk, feed and love on. When I was laid up with my back surgery, you kept me company, never leaving my side, making sure I could get around the house. When your daddy died ten months ago, I knew you weren’t feeling well, but you hung in there to get me through the pain, made me laugh every day, got me to experience the pure peace of early morning walks and the wonder of star-filled, late night outings in the yard.

Flashes of you walking with your half-folded ears flopping and tail up, treeing squirrels and tasting baby possum (which was quickly spit out – definitely NOT steak), laying in your grassy yard with ears blowing in the breeze, frolicking and burying yourself in the snow as a pup and an elder, sleeping soundly like an angel on your bed or the couch, and sharing my morning coffee and pizzelle – all running through my thoughts today.

I’m so sorry you got cancer, but I am eternally grateful that we got a few great months of puppy antics and tons of laughter. I know you waited to make sure your momma was happy and loved, and that your new papa had a chance to bond with you. It was your way of going out like you wanted to be remembered.

The last several days, you were obviously hurting and miserable, yet on the very last day, you woke up perky, smiling, posing for photos like usual, eating like a champ, chasing squirrels on your short walk and wagging your tail, all the while, reassuring me you were going to be okay. You knew daddy was waiting to greet you in heaven with a filet, some salmon and a tennis ball.

Letting you go was the hardest decision of my life, but I promised you no suffering. It was my gift to you to go in peace, in your home, surrounded by your babies and those of us who love you deeply. I already miss your presence, your wonderful, clean smell (never did smell doggy), the familiar sound of your nails on the floor and let’s not forget, doggie-drinking, doing the Barney backstroke in your water bowl.

Since my age of thirty-two, it’s been the two of us, taking on the world, lifting each other up, playing off of each other’s emotions, feeling the same pain and happiness beyond explanation. You were more than just a dog – most people agree, you were a little boy with fur who loved unconditionally and wholly, and shared that love through your gentle spirit. I am so blessed to have walked through the last twelve years with you, my amazing Barney, my kindred spirit.

I sit in my office this morning, looking out over the most scenic back yard I could've ever imagined I'd have...green, rolling hills, morning sun touching the tops of trees as old as me, shining golden against a silvery blue sky. There is a misty peace that hangs like a deep breath.



This is my time of day -- I've always been a morning person. The serenity envelopes me like no other time of day. This is when I process, when I do my best work, when I'm fresh and positive, thoughtful, grateful.



From the moment I open my eyes, thoughts of Ken run through my mind like a movie. Memories play out as if I've recorded them and I keep hitting rewind and pause. It's amazing the details I remember looking back over the years. The tough times are minimized, as our laughter and love take center stage.



When I look at my favorite swirled blue vase in the bathroom, I remember my surprise trip to Knoxville to see him for his 40th birthday. There was an art fair downtown where he had a condo, and he bought that vase for me. The entire trip plays out in snippets of what was most meaningful.


Then my mind goes to how lucky I was to have a man who sincerely liked to shop and meander. I review the many times we explored different shopping areas in every town we visited, he was always on the search for a piece of unique jewelry or shoes for me. He loved to buy me pretty things -- whenever he came to town that first year, he would buy me a pair of sandals at the Don Cesar shoe boutique. I still have every pair (20? 30? I'll have to count) and to this day, I get compliments on them, they are the most unique designs. I will keep them forever, they come with special memories of those weekends at the beach and his proud smile.



I am finding out how much we shared -- everyday little things. I want to call him and tell him how the autumn light is changing the look inside our new home as the day progresses. Believe it or not, he appreciated those details as much as I did. We couldn't wait until the deck was shaded during the day -- it's comfortable now by about 1:30 in the afternoon. I can't believe he won't be here to watch the 10 acres of woods beyond our yard in all it's brilliance as the leaves turn. I'm certain it will be an ever changing kaleidoscope. I now realize, life IS richer when shared with the person you love the most. I used to thrive on having my own life -- until I was loved so deeply by a person who appreciated my way of being in the world.  He gave me that ultimate gift -- to be open to sharing life. That's what it's all about.

Northern Michigan Summers..

I was just looking for a file on my computer and came across a story I had written about when I was a little girl and the excitement of summer...it's been a LOOOONG, COOOOLD winter up north. Think back to these precious moments (those of us who grew up near the beach) and know that it IS on it's way...

The Perfect Summer Day

Until I moved away as a young adult, the ultimate days of summer were lived at the beach. In my early elementary years, beach days were met with so much simmering excitement it was like shaking a carbonated beverage and then taking the top off. Usually, Mom would take a few of us, but the extra special days were when it was just her and me.  From late morning, when I would put on my colorful one-piece bathing suit until the short drive home at five o’clock, we had our own rhythm; it felt almost like a secret.

Around noon, she’d pack a bag with an old sheet and big towels, bright buckets and shovels, Coppertone lotion (SPF 4 – the highest factor back then) and her little black radio with an antennae and a roller to dial in the stations. The cooler held peanut butter and jelly or bologna sandwiches, Bugles and Cheetos, Chips Ahoy cookies and Kool-Aid for me, Pepsi for her.

Bryant Park was a mile and a half from our house, tucked away behind our little peak-roofed, half glass church. Once Mom parked our burgundy station wagon among the pine trees and unloaded it, she and I would lumber to the crescent-shaped beach to get a prime spot. We’d lay out the flowered sheet carefully to avoid immediately swishing it with sand (futile effort) and the radio would get tuned to WTCM. Tunes from stars like Charlie Rich would echo from the speaker, “When she lets her haaiirrr haaanng down,” and I’d sing along, heading straight to the sixty-degree bay with my arm floaties, mask and snorkel.  I would fall face-first into the frigid water with lightning speed to get brain freeze over with, then proceed to snorkel all day along the sandy shore looking for Petoskey stones, fish bones and pretty rocks.

Eventually, Mom would get too warm on shore and wade in slowly to gradually numb her limbs. She’d let me take off the water wings and help me swim – pure delight. After a few minutes, we’d head into the deeper, glittering blue and she’d let me dive off her shoulders. It brought splashes and giggles from both of us.

Mid-afternoon, I would drag myself to the sheet, sad to leave my treasure hunting, but with agonizing hunger, plop down and plow into my sandwich. The Bugles went on my fingertips and were eaten one at a time despite the request to “not play with my food.”

At the end of the day, probably around 4:30, Mom would have to start convincing me that we had to go. Despite pruned skin, yawns and goose bumps, most days she would have to take my hand, lead me to the sheet and with stern Mom Voice, coerce me to dry off. I hated saying goodbye to the fantasy world I had spent all day creating. As we’d pull away, despite my tiny age, I would burn the blue, green and tan scenery into my brain like a painting so I could dream about it until the next perfect day.

 Thanks, Mom, for the great memories!

Progress

I have been so bad about writing like I had intended. Each day is still full of non-stop activity but the end of the kitchen renovation is in sight. The pod-like containers holding what is left of my "life" are finally empty and out of the driveway. Some of my belongings are in storage and the rest are filling the third bedroom, part of the dining room, and a little in each of the other bedrooms. Ugh!



Though the above progress is great news, I have to admit, I've been a little out-of-sorts, or as Allan (and Barney) say, "Grumpy." Being the wildly Type-A person that I am, I do NOT like living in chaos. I don't know how hoarders do it -- I feel like I can't get organized no matter what I do! Once the kitchen is finished (end of this week most likely), I can empty all of those boxes and then there's room for the rest. Can hardly wait!



I'm trying to be more self-aware and less cranky, and in doing so, I've noted several other reasons that I'm not feeling like myself. Aside from not being able to exercise or hit the beach at all right now (a little surgery to remove a mole on my foot), I've not been doing anything creative or doing basic things like COOKING, not eating as healthily as I usually do (back to not cooking) and the biggest reason seems to be mourning my Lake St. Louis life. Surprises me too. I loved living there, mostly because of my LSL "family."



When faced with the decision to move back to Florida so rapidly, take the wild-card on love and go for it, I didn't think I'd miss what I left behind so much. It doesn't mean my decision wasn't the right one, it's just another BIG change in a year with no consistency. It's led me to ponder the fact that with every choice, there is always a positive and a negative. I am inclined to whine and say whyyyy??? but a wise man once said, "Don't ask why? (there is rarely an answer), ask what? instead." So I ask, WHAT can I do about it?



I can continue to feel the blessings bestowed on me. I am grateful every day to have my health and thankful every moment that I have found love again (still can't believe it some days) and how amazing it is, to know the true sense of the word friendship and love from so many. Though I have life-long friends I couldn't live without here in Florida and in Michigan, I have never been so deeply impacted by friendship as I have been by those wonderful people in LSL. I miss them daily and hope to bridge the distance with visits, though it's not going to be the same as meandering out to the deck to share a glass of wine, or walking to the park, watching the turkeys, enjoying the new spring days....



Again -- such a swirl of emotions. I am elated to be spending the winter with my sis, Susie, and that I was here for her when her beloved golden retriever went to heaven last Tuesday. I am happy for Barney that he's out of the cold and getting to enjoy his last few months in the warmth with lots of walks and a step-papa that he adores. Every time I look at Allan, I am overwhelmed by love and know that I am right where I'm meant to be. When I get to do yoga near the beach and feel the sea breeze, pure contentment reigns, and I realize this girl is a beach-baby.



Through my Cracker-Jack box of daily emotions, I remind myself that I am human, I've endured a shocking amount of change in a year, and that it's okay to be on the roller-coaster, as long as I ride it, feel it, and move on.



"We must let go of the life we planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us."
Joseph Campbell

PS: I am finally going to be published in a poetry book that'll be for sale at B&N and on Amazon! More on that next time...

Kindness

Finally a few minutes to write. Since I returned from Missouri, I've sat down several times in the evening to compose a blog, and before I can open my laptop, I'm dozing off. I've been back two weeks and each day is over before it has begun!

The trip to pack up the house was successful and crushingly stressful. The first day, my closest LSL friend and her husband came over to help me sort, pitch and pack. We started about 8:30AM and before I knew it, the sun was setting. All I did was sort and pitch. There was no time to pack. With Kellene's help, I went through Ken's belongings like a sergeant -- methodically, keeping emotions to a minimum. I had to read almost everything in order to know whether to keep it, pitch it, shred it or give it to family.

After about four hours of managing his things, we started on mine, giving it the same, cold treatment. When we came upon my ballet slippers, my baby clothes, my first raggedy teddy bear with one eye and no fur -- no exceptions. Garbage bag. It broke my heart for a while -- it felt like I had died a little too. I had to ask myself, why keep it and move it and store it? Who is ever going to want it? Kellene was the gentle voice of reason and reminded me of the impending move and the limited space in the moving container. All-in-all, 15-18 of those particular boxes and bins became four. And the Consolidation Award goes to...Kristin!

The rest of the trip was packing, pitching, sorting, and selling everything. I sold almost all of the furniture. Again, emotionally difficult and still stinging a bit. Not the material part of it, just how hard we worked and how proud we were of those few special pieces that we splurged on when we bought our first house together; the forever bedroom set we finally purchased when we moved to Missouri. Gone to the new owners of the house, to friends and neighbors. As sad as I was to see it go, I was grateful that everything sold as easily and quickly as it did. And, I am equally glad that much of it is still "in the family."

Four days, fifteen to eighteen hours a day of marathon packing, and the whole house was ready to go into two 16x8 containers for shipment to Florida. Each of those exhausting days was a kaleidoscope of determination, melancholy, disbelief, numbness, and regret, mixed with bouts of despair and crying laced with moments of happiness and love from the sweet texts that would come from Allan just when I needed them most. I wondered if I was finally losing it! (Yes, I know, you're thinking  I lost it a long time ago).

The saving grace for my sanity that week was friends and neighbors, who are now lifelong friends. I am utterly AMAZED at the kindness, love and support from people I have known for a handful of months. When Ken died, they took me under their wings, watched over me, fed me, hugged me, knew just when I needed them most and the doorbell would ring. They became my rocks, my laughter, my companions. And, once again, in my time of need, they all rallied around and helped me accomplish what would've been impossible without their help.

Ken's best friend, Tyler, his wife, Kym and their son, Colt, who moved to Missouri with us for work, helped immensely throughout the week, even though they too are still grieving. By moving away, I am cutting the ties to our new lives; the physical reminder to Ken, and yet, they selflessly support my move back to Florida and continue to show how much they care.

My time in Lake St. Louis feels like a dream. It was one year -- one short year, and yet it changed my life forever. I am a better person for having lived there, for knowing that there is a world where strangers willingly ban together, reach out and share their love with someone in need without expecting a single thing in return. A world where neighbors will mow your yard or blow the snow out of your driveway or watch your beloved dog on a moments notice without being asked, or if you do ask, say yes without hesitation. A world where you feel the true meaning of friendship every day and you know that you're never alone. What a gift and an example for my future interactions.

Kindness, according to book two of Aristotle's 'Rhetoric' it is defined as: "helpfulness towards someone in need, not in return for anything, nor for the advantage of the helper himself, but for that of the person helped". 

Thank you all and God Bless.

 

Swirling Winds of Change

How quickly my life changes...

I sold my house in Missouri yesterday. Three weeks. Can't believe my luck! As much as I wanted it to sell fast, I haven't gotten to truly settle in here in Florida yet. Though I suppose I'm not going to be settled without some of my "stuff" around. It has been hard living out of two states -- my neighbor and good friend has been a life saver mailing me things each week.

My emotions are swirling like a tornado, and I'm doing everything in my power to breathe deep and keep the enormity of what I have to do in perspective. I head back to MO to start the moving process Sunday. The daunting part is sorting, pitching and packing the details of the life I've had for so many years. I'm cleaning house -- selling most everything, starting over.

Getting rid of Ken's things -- ouch. I realized a while back that the stack of diplomas and certifications that he worked so hard to achieve get to go....where? a dumpster! Without kids to pass things on to, once we're gone, all our efforts and the things we're so proud of just go away. His favorite clothes, his photos from years of travel and his life before I met him -- who gets them? Some will go to charity, some will get sold, some will go to the landfill. I will, of course, keep OUR photos and memories, but I can't keep it all. So final.

It also makes me wonder why I keep moving, move after move, my school achievements and photos from when I was a kid, my old ballet slippers and boxing shorts, yearbooks...they may follow Ken's things this time!

I sit here tonight with warm, wonderful thunderstorms all around, and ponder the wild ride I have been on for years now. About four months ago, I told my friend, Kellene, "I'd like a BORING year of status quo. Nothing exciting, no surprises, no drama." Well, so much for that! She laughs and thinks that's not possible for me. I wouldn't know what to do -- she's probably right! I never could've dreamed the positive changes that have been bestowed upon me.

Through all of the ups and downs, THE biggest treasure has been the people in my life. The unconditional love I feel from so many -- old friends, new friends, family and now Allan, keeps me grounded and makes me feel blessed beyond reason. I can't quantify it, I can't explain how it moves me, but it is truly all that matters. When we are gone, what lives on? The memories and the love.

As I embark on the next phase of cleaning the slate of that which has become my life, I pray for stability and grace to not just get through it, but to feel it and release it like yoga breath. As I cut the final thread of the past ,I hope to weave it into the fabric of who I have become, continue to grow from my experiences, and embrace each new moment with dignity and gratitude. I am so blessed.  

"Opportunities to find deeper powers within ourselves come when life seems most challenging."Joseph Campbell

The Hours of Fading Light...

It's been too long since my last post -- I have been meaning to write for days. I've gotten my laptop out, set it on the coffee table and there it stayed, closed. Finally, on this Sunday evening, as the sky turns shades of sherbet and the sun sets on yet another perfect Florida day -- sunny, 70, breezy -- I finally feel moved (and brave enough) to write what I have to say without completely falling apart.

I found out on Tuesday that my baby boy, Barney, has cancer. I have known in my heart for months that he's not felt well, but it was finally confirmed by a medical professional. The poor guy has anal gland cancer and it has spread to a couple of lymph nodes.

I took the news with stoicism while at the vet and then proceeded to descend into despair on the way home. Once the tears started, there was no stopping them. I kept rationalizing with myself that he's twelve years old and I knew he'd only be with me a while longer, just by nature, but I never wanted him to suffer.

For now he is on prednisone, acting like a wild-child puppy, eating like a trash can, and has Allan wrapped around his doggy paw. Barn can get him to do anything he desires by using his mischievous blue-eyed stare and that head-tilt that he's famous for. I haven't seen him act this frisky in years. I am tremendously thankful for the medication since it may give him a few weeks/months of playfulness and joy.

I have vowed not to mourn him until he is gone. It upsets him when I'm upset, so I refuse to cry in his presence and do not ponder what's to come for more than a minute or tears spring to my eyes. I want to enjoy every single minute with him, smiling, laughing, playing, sharing people food (finally -- human food without restriction!!) taking walks, snuggling and smelling his doggy scent.

Those of you that I've shared the news with have all said the same thing -- he's been holding on to make sure I'm okay. Our connection is so powerful, he feels my contentment and knows that I have Allan to watch over me and love me, so he feels it's okay to let go now. We also know what a constant struggle his life has been -- one illness or ailment after another; I'm not sure he's ever been physically comfortable in 12 1/2 years.  

I am grateful to Allan who invited us into his home, never flinching at the amount of dog hair and throw rugs that have invaded his space. He's been amazing in the face of this tragedy so early in our new life together. His kindness and love have made this horrible news somewhat bearable. 

He went with me to the vet for moral support, and Tuesday evening, when I couldn't pull myself together and stop sobbing, he stayed home from work to hold me, let me cry it out, and then had me laughing by night's end. Once again, facing an epic loss and life-altering event, I have a reason to be thankful and feel blessed. Thank you, Allan!

One can never, ever know the unconditional love and joy a dog can bring to life until you've been loved by one, and given that love in return. It is on a level so different than human love because there is no judgment, no disappointment -- just pure adoration and constant forgiveness. Though it is always too short of a time that they are with us, they touch our hearts and change our lives for the better, forever.

"Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity."  Henry Van Dyke