To whom it may not concern

In the waning days of February, we were on tenterhooks, waiting for news of my terminally-ill mother-in-law's impending departure from this life.

Everyone had said their goodbyes, either in person, or by phone, or both. Mostly both.

It was down to a matter of hours.

You know how it is: Every time the phone rings (or makes whatever sound your phone is set to make for an incoming call, text, or email), there is a moment where you wonder if this is it.

So it was that one morning a few days before our loved one passed away, Greg (on his way out the door to work) asked if I'd heard his phone sounding off the previous night.

Actually it was a pre-dawn time frame. But it was still dark. And we were still. Still asleep.

No, I said, momentarily alarmed. Was there news?

No, he said. It was this. And he showed me his phone.

Let's pull over and park here for a mo. Greg does not own a smart phone. He prefers refuses to use anything but an old-fashioned flip phone.

The rest of us (the kids, and me) have been converted. We are an integral part of the iPhone nation.

It's funny because Greg is much enamored of his iPad (which I don't understand because I don't have one and have no need for one, being a devotee of the MacBook Pro), and he enjoys messaging the kids on it now and then, in the evenings when he's relaxing.

The kids and I text back and forth on our iPhones more or less at any time of the day or night (but mostly day).

(Through it all, I am a firm adherent to the adage that no news is good news.)

Greg does not text at all. Never ever. And he isn't likely to respond to a text. I may have texted him one time, and I cannot remember why. As I recall, he did not answer, either in words or emoticons.

And I am his wife. The old ball and chain. So if I need to get in touch while we're apart, I call. Repeatedly, if need be.

Ergo, for him to be texting with someone in what amounts to the middle of the night, is basically a nonexistent scenario.

But he had been forced to. This was what woke him:

Looking back I really believe this is what you've been trying to push me to all along lately by constantly bringing up negative stuff and always calling our relationship into question...I genuinely love and care for you and your son, but apparently you were anxious to move on for some reason. Perhaps I was in the way of something or someone else...

Whatever the case is, I hope you are happier and more satisfied and I'm sorry I could never do enough to please you or prove that I love you...

I'm sorry I wasn't awake to see my beloved's face in the dim glow of his flip phone, squinting, pawing the nightstand for his cheaters, wondering what was actually going down.

My slumber was undisturbed.

I inquired how Greg had responded to the heartfelt cyber-missive (which I believe was written by a female).

He said, I texted back:

Check your #!

No emoticons. I don't know if they're even available on flip phones.

See, I would have added a string of appropriately exasperation-loaded round yellow faces. Especially the one with eyes and no mouth. I love that one.

I likely would also have used the word moron.

But that's just me.

The funniest part is, a few seconds later Greg received a final text from Madam/Sir Lonelyheart:

???

Methinks she (or he; who knows) was inebriated.

The takeaway: Don't drink and drive. Don't text and drive. Don't drink and text.

And whether you're eight sheets to the wind or sober as a judge, unless they text you first, don't text anybody between midnight and eight o'clock in the morning.

Just to be safe.

Also: In the interest of leaving total strangers out of your cringeworthy lovelorn ruminations, remonstrations, and supplications, always check your number.

And that is all for now. I hope this post did not disturb you.

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend

I want to go where he went

If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.

= Will Rogers =

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I knew my little pet was getting seriously old -- dog years and all that -- but until a few weeks ago, I didn't know he was dying. Only last year, the doctor told us that Javier's heart was strong.

Even when I realized the worst, I was slow to pick up on the fact that it was time to "do the right thing." Until last Friday, when the penny dropped.

You get a sense that even though the thing you're contemplating is awful, you're not wrong to do it. It's odd. Nothing adds up and yet you're forced to accept the sum of the equation.

On Saturday morning, I called the vet and made the appointment for Monday. The eleventh of April. Three-thirty in the afternoon. I was crying. I may have been a bit short with the girl on the line because I felt she was dithering and not answering my simple questions. It was probably my fault; the act of making the call had upset me.

On Sunday we held Javier endlessly. He was lethargic and unresponsive. He could no longer eat or stand on his legs. His will to live had faded away so quickly. He had no interest in his surroundings or in any of us.

On Monday morning I awakened, after fitful sleep, plagued by second thoughts. Whose idea was this whole pet euthanasia thing? I asked Andrew. He let me talk it out. He said he supported me whatever my decision and he'd be with me throughout the day, no matter what it brought.

I called the vet. I said I'd show up that afternoon with Javier, but just to talk. If I didn't get good answers, I was prepared to bring him back home. The same girl I had talked with on Saturday was kind and patient. Jessica. She said whatever we wanted to do was fine; they were only there to help.

I hung up, satisfied. I'd allow my little dog to die at home! Wouldn't he rather? It was my choice. I'd hold him, giving him water with my fingertip if need be. I had nothing better to do. He'd probably pass away peacefully in his sleep anyway.

Why subject him to a trip to the vet where he'd be dispatched by lethal injection? Wasn't that cruel? What had my baby done to deserve such an end?

Then Javier moaned. Twice. It was the first time I'd heard his little voice in many days. Erica had told me on Sunday, as she cradled and comforted him, that she was sure he was in pain. I'd had my doubts.

Maybe I was wrong. I did a mental about-face and began a process of dull acceptance: We'd put Javier in his teal crate, drive to the veterinary hospital, and talk to Dr. Chambers. We'd learn that we were doing the right thing, the humane thing. Javier would be put to sleep. No more suffering and no more questions.

I looked outside. Andrew, who had been weed whacking in the back, beyond the pool and by the fence, had dug a small grave. There was a mound of red dirt and a shovel standing by. The white lights twinkled in the ivy and the pines sighed in the wind. It was a beautiful day.

At the vet, it was confirmed that Javier was in renal failure. He was never going to recover, in fact was all but gone already, except for pain from toxins flooding his tiny body.

Javier had had a long life, a good life, the doctor reassured us. He was suffering. More pain would follow before he finally expired, and no one could say how long that would be.

Later, after giving us all the time we needed (at least that's what was said) to hold Javier and say goodbye, Dr. Chambers calmly gave our bright-eyed boy a shot. Within ten seconds, Javier's little head sagged. His wide eyes stayed open and seeing that, I guess is when my heart actually broke. 

The doctor faded out of the room. Erica said she couldn't bear to hold Javier anymore. She was sobbing. I took him and I'm pretty sure I made a spectacle of myself, wailing and telling him I was so sorry. He didn't hear me. His little eyes just stared and he was our Javier still, only he wasn't. He had left us.*

Since then, in between crying jags, I have thought: What kind of person takes a hit out on their own sick dog? I'd written a check to pay them to kill him, and then I'd watched them do it.

The power of guilt is strong. The feelings it produces can be irrational. This article by Moira Anderson Allen helped me. A little. She calls euthanasia the "grand master of guilt." I concur.

And now there's an angel statue back by the fence, marking where our Javier is buried. Loving torture, I look out there a lot.

If you'd like to see pictures of Javier's burial, click here.

And that is all for now.

*In all of these photos, Javier was still alive. Except the one of the sky, and the last one.

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Happy Thursday

And then? My dog died.

R I P

= J a v i e r =

1999 - 2016

Click his little name for details.

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Happy Tuesday

Laugh. Cry. All together now.

March -- whether viewed as a directive or merely a month -- turned out to be a singular challenge this year.

I feel as though all I've done since three-one-sixteen is grieve, cry, travel, rinse, repeat.

But there have been happy moments. There always are, scattered amongst the sad ones.

Then there are those times when, without planning to, you laugh and cry simultaneously. 

Let me tell you about one of them.

I hope when I'm done telling it I won't say to myself: Guess you had to be there -- about the time I read my readers' collective mind and it's saying: What is she on about now?

Oh well. You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take. So here goes.

Last December, early in the month, we learned that Greg's mother was not well.

Consequently, once the hols had concluded, and the winter proving warmer than usual all over the country, Greg and Andrew made a trip north to see Mom/Grandma.

A few weeks later, Erica and I made the same trip.

(Stephanie and Audrey had seen her in late summer and hoped to visit again. There wasn't time before their grandmother passed away.)

But at Christmastime, we wanted to make sure we were thoughtful of her. 

So it was that one December day when I was keeping an eye on Dagny and Audrey was out shopping, I asked my daughter to locate and purchase a specific item for my mother-in-law's Christmas. The gift was to be from me alone.

You should know about my mother-in-law that, throughout her ninety years, she was a tall, slender, handsome woman. Since she loved clothes was an excellent seamstress, she made many of her own stylish outfits.

She always looked lovely. The type of clothes she favored were classic, tailored but soft, and -- especially in winter -- warm.

Since I am partial to soft turtlenecks -- be they mock or the fold-over kind -- as layering pieces during cold weather, I wanted to get her one.

So I asked Audrey to go to a department store and find a turtleneck that looked dressy but comfortable, in a pretty color. I provided her with my debit card.

She promptly texted me photos of two separate tops. I chose the one I thought my mother-in-law would like the best: a soft mock-neck in a vibrant shade of raspberry.

I wrapped it up with a Christmas card just from me to her, and Greg took it to the post office.

The holidays came and went. Grandma got sicker. When Erica and I were with her in February, days before her ninetieth birthday and scarcely a month before her death, she wasn't dressing in much besides her robe over pajamas.

Also it was fairly warm there at the time -- not like a normal Northwest Ohio February at all. And so I never saw my mother-in-law wear the shirt I'd given her. Nor did the subject come up.

When the entire family assembled the first week in March at the house that seemed to be missing her too, the girls and I went into Grandma's bedroom one evening.

It was empty except for her dresser and a few side tables, and her cherished phonograph player with her vinyl LP collection. She loved to listen to records that reminded her of her youth.

Her bed had been disassembled and stowed in the basement when the hospice workers brought in a hospital bed. She'd gone to sleep for the final time in that bed, in the room where she'd slept for nearly sixty years.

But we girls turned our backs on the empty room and began rummaging through Grandma's closet. 

Don't look at us like that. It's not as though she was going to walk in and catch us. I'm still not sure why we did it except, for one thing, we wanted to see if she'd worn the things we'd sent her.

(Audrey had picked out a dressy sweatshirt for her grandmother's Christmas. Grandma loved cozy shirts.)

It wasn't long before Audrey located the sweatshirt, the one she'd chosen in a classy shade of plum. She said: I'm taking this back and I'm going to wear it.

I said, I would. I knew Grandma would want Audrey to have that shirt back, and to enjoy it. And I continued looking for the raspberry-colored mock-neck I'd sent.

Not finding the shirt, I worried that she hadn't liked it.

Meanwhile, earlier that day, Greg and Andrew had driven the mile to the funeral home to check on a few last-minute arrangements. The funeral director, Brian, beloved to all of us since Grandpa's passing five years ago, gestured toward the viewing room.

Mom is in here, he motioned. We chuckled about that later, and repeated it a lot during those few days. Mom is in here. We thought it was amusing that he called her Mom. But she loved him, so it was fitting.

We girls asked the guys how Mom looked, and especially what she was wearing. 

Something green and blue, was the answer. That's as specific as the menfolk were able to be. I couldn't think of what outfit that might be, but I knew my sister-in-law Ruth would have chosen something appropriate and beautiful for her mother, so I didn't think any more of it.

The day of the viewing came and throngs of relatives were assembled in the lobby of the funeral home.

Faithful sweet Brian -- who told us we are his favorite family and he hopes to never see any of us again, alive or dead -- indicated that it was time for Greg, Ron, and Ruth -- the children -- and the brothers' wives, to spend a few minutes with Mom privately before the viewing was opened to other family and friends.

And so we followed, and the five of us approached the casket. And I began to laugh and cry at the same time, and Greg looked at me funny and when I explained, he began to exhibit similar emotions.

Because Grandma wasn't wearing blue and green. Well -- she was wearing blue: a sedate but soft suede-cloth jacket in understated slate. And underneath, a nearly-new raspberry-colored mock-neck.

The one I'd given her. The one I couldn't find in her closet. She's wearing it still.

The top and jacket completed an outfit that featured a skirt containing the same berry-and-blue colors. A granddaughter told us that Grandma loved the mock-neck because it was the first time she'd had a shirt that coordinated perfectly with the jacket and skirt -- both of which she'd made with her own hands.

She'd worn the top with the skirt once, and even twirled a bit in delight at the way it matched. Best of all, it was so warm. 

Sometimes things just fall into place.

Eventually we made the long trip home and began to feel normal again. March did what it does: marches.

But before it marched out, I learned that a dear lifelong friend had passed away suddenly.

Greg and I attended her funeral last week, in Atlanta. I miss her so much.

At my mother-in-law's graveside the family lifted our voices into the balmy, windy day and sang a verse of It Is Well With My Soul:

When peace like a river attendeth my way

When sorrows like sea billows roll

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say

It is well, it is well with my soul.

I know it is well with my mother-in-law's soul, and with my friend's soul too. And although I wept my way through March, this knowledge makes me happy. I'll be laughing before you can say April showers bring May flowers.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy April