grief

Rescue Me. Coco’s Story.

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It’s no secret that I’m a dog lover. Always have been, always will be. I was born into a house of dog lovers. And other animals too – cats, birds, fish, gerbils. You name, we loved it. Domestic and wild.

I’ve written about the day my dog Andy died and how painful it was, especially for my daughter and me. But also, for our next-door neighbour, who unwittingly became the hero of the night. For which I am eternally grateful. Although Andy’s death was a sad story and broke my heart, the death of his partner Coco, seven years later, is one that I still cry over. Like this morning.

I was out walking my sweet sleepy Schneagle Simon and started thinking about my walks with little Coco, especially the precious ones towards the end of her life. This in turn got me thinking about her final days. Coco was one of those stoic characters. No matter how much pain she was in, she would soldier on.

Nothing stopped her. She was a tenacious stubborn bitch. In my mind, I always imagined she had a whiskey, chain-smoking voice like Marge Simpson’s twin sisters Patty and Selma. And that she was always snarling fuck you or fuck off under her breath. I loved her for that. We spoke the same language.

Her stoic nature was no more apparent than when she was pregnant with her litter of five. Despite her growing girth, she walked with me every morning right up to the day before she gave birth. (Rhyme, not intended.) The final stretch of our early morning walks included a steep hill, which on the best of days, utterly exhausted me. It had to have exhausted Coco too, given that her belly was full and almost dragging on the ground. But she just kept givin’ er. Head up, tail high, eyes alert, one ear up and forward and one bent, her little rear-end swaying from side to side.

But she would not quit. I always admired that about her. Wished I had more of that in me.

We rescued Coco when she was around two years old, maybe older. No one seemed to know for sure. She was a barn dog, one of many – twenty or so Jack Russell Terriers – at the stables. She was one of the two Mama dogs, used for breeding, who roamed the grounds freely, not kept in the outdoor pen like the others. She had this swagger, and fuck-you attitude that I really respected. I used to see her around on Saturday mornings. While my daughter took riding lessons, I kept one eye on my kid and one on Coco. She was adorable, feisty, fiercely independent and sassy as hell.

But life on the farm wasn’t good for Coco, despite her freedom to roam the property and chew on horse nails and other barnyard delicacies. Somehow, she had a run-in with a gang of escapee JRTs and was severely pulverized. Shit-kicking doesn’t begin to describe it. One on one, she could have taken any of those male furballs down, but this pack was too much, even for the toughest of broads.

She was removed from the scene by the mom of one the other riders after she found her at the entrance gate covered in blood and one ear mangled.

Their family couldn’t keep her because they already had two dogs. But we could. Coco was my kind of girl and I just had to have her as part of our family. For the next five years she was Andy’s cussing companion, and then she spent another seven years keeping Rusty in line. There was no messing with Coco.

Towards the end of her life, she was almost deaf and blind which made walking her a dream. Once a reactive dog, ready to go at it with anything on four legs, she grew into the most chill laid-back chick on the block. Our daily walks became stress-free, quiet, focused, pleasant and peaceful.

On her last week, she stopped eating including all her favorite things that we tempted her with. On her last day and night, she slept peacefully on the mat in our downstairs bathroom. We held vigil throughout the night. The next morning Eric took her to the Vet where she took her journey over the Rainbow Bridge. He was devastated. Shattered. And vowed never to do that again. It felt like murder. Completely irrational, we know. But that’s how it felt. Don’t judge. And please, no platitudes about putting an end to her suffering. We get that. We aren’t selfish morons. Just brokenhearted dog lovers.

It was completely different with Andy. I was with him when he died on the floor next to my bed. I got to stroke his back as he took his last breath. I got to walk him one last time. To the foot of the Rainbow Bridge. No bright lights. No needles. Just him and me. I got to whisper soothing, tenderhearted, loving things to him. I got tell him it was okay. Everything was going to be okay. I was with him. I loved him. Always would.

This morning, as I was walking Simon and weeping in the dark, I wished the same for Coco. I wished that I had laid next to her on that little mat on our bathroom floor, with her sweet head cradled on my chest, while I gently stroked her back. I wished I could have held her and whispered, “It’s okay, girl. You can let go, sweetheart. Your job is done now. You rescued me.”

And of course, she would have looked up at me one last time, and in that raspy, whiskey-voice of hers, told me to “fuck off.”

Complicated Love. Complicated Grief.

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It’s been twenty-one years since Ma and The Old Man checked out of Hotel Earth. They died five weeks apart in the dead of winter. Like many things in their life together, Ma took the lead.

Ma died in the middle of the night in an antiseptic hospital room in Victoria. Although it was wonderful to have her close during her final year, it was also heartbreaking knowing that she wanted to go home to 204 and The Old Man. Made even more painful by the knowledge, the plain ugly truth, that the odds were slim to none that it would happen. She was alone, medicated into eternal slumber. The last lethal dose clung to her tongue like a leech as her gaping mouth grasped for her final breath and taste of being human in this manifestation.

Five weeks later and two thousand miles east, The Old Man died in the evening of Saint Patrick’s Day in a human warehouse for seniors, an old folks home, in a room he shared with another old man. My Old Man spent the last year of his life accusing this other old man of stealing his shoes. He died shortly after enjoying his last supper, dozed off unassumingly, and kept on dozing into eternity. I hope he met Ma there. At least that has been my prayer for the last twenty-one years. It brings me comfort, especially on my dark days during the interminable hour of the wolf.

My grief for Ma followed the classic seven stages. But it actually began eighteen months prior to her death when she suffered a heart attack so severe it was a miracle she survived at all, much less a year and half. Of course this is a testament to the feisty will and sheer grit of this formidable little woman. My grief was a slow and steady letting go, of releasing, of holding vigil, of saying goodbyes with kisses on the cheek, of laughter and tears, games of I spy. In the wee hours of the morning, when I received the news that she was gone, my initial reaction was one of shock and disbelief. Crazy, I know. We all knew this day, or night, was coming. And that it was soon upon us. But the heart often rejects what the head knows. To say I was in a severe state of denial is putting it mildly. Part of me sincerely believed that she would linger in this semi-life state forever, or for as long as I needed her to do so, until I was good and ready to follow her into the dark.

My grief for Ma was like my love. Plain and simple. Abiding. Uncomplicated.

My grief for The Old Man was the polar opposite. It was like my love for him. Complicated. Messy. A broiling brew of unhealthy emotions. They encompassed a gamut of the usual suspects — hatred, pity, indifference, frustration, embarrassment, anger, disappointment, sadness, sorrow, shame, confusion, bitterness.

But inside all that chaos and cacophony of consciousness, there was this other big thing. Love.

I loved him. And trust me, he was a hard man to love. Not always, but a lot of the time. Especially as he aged into being the proverbial grumpy old man. And as I age into the grumpy old woman, I have a different perspective towards him — as a man, a husband, a father. I’ve also acquired a deeper understanding of him and my complicated love. One of us has grown and evolved over the past twenty-one years. And since he’s dead, it’s safe to assume it’s me.

I’ve written a lot about The Old Man since March 17, 2001. I’ve explored his alcoholism and its devastating affects on our family; his love/hate relationship with his job as a Breadman; his love of sports, in particular baseball; his unfulfilled dreams of being a drummer or an umpire; his uncanny talent for playing the spoons; his volunteerism; his kindness towards the elderly spinster Jennie; his love of animals and birds; his obsession with shoes or kicks as he called them; his superb fashion sense; his capacity to laugh or cry at the drop of a hat; his faith in God; his ability to speak Finnish fluently; his hatred of his father and his devotion to his mother; his cursing and swearing at everything from wrestlers on TV to teenagers in souped up cars speeding past 204; his compulsion to purchase lottery tickets and chase get-rich-quick schemes; his love of a good joke, in particular those found in Reader’s Digest; his love of gardening and raking leaves; his depression, sadness and melancholy; his undying love for Ma, his fiery Italian girl.

It was through the telling of all these family stories, and our life at 204, that I processed all the emotions, all the things I felt towards him. At first I thought it was very simple. After all he was difficult, a nuisance, a pain in the ass, frightening and ill tempered, bigoted at times, a loser. His words and actions were unforgivable. I was rid of him. No missing this guy. I no longer had to wrestle with the polarization of my contradictory feelings. Hating him and wishing him dead every time he came home drunk, ranting and raving incoherently. And loving the good side of him — the kind, sensitive, shy, tender, generous, smart, funny, compassionate, caring and devoted guy. All the good things revealed in so many expressions of love over the years. The way he cradled our dead parakeet Petey in his hands and wept. Or the two-week, first-light ritual of spitting on my warts because he read somewhere that the first spittle of the day would get rid of them (and it did.) His extraordinary patience while teaching me to drive. His pride in his intelligent daughter after the annual meet-the-teacher nights. The way he hugged me when my heart was broken. And the wonder in his face as he held my son for the first time. How he ran selflessly to the aid of anyone in need. His inability to say no to me.

As the years have passed I have come to understand the full depth and breadth of this man. Yes, he possessed a dark side. He carried a backpack full of demons that haunted him all the days of his life. Demons so frightening that he self-medicated with booze and sugar. Depression so deep he hid himself away in shame and sorrow. In many ways he was typical of his generation. He didn’t talk about his feelings. No one knew about depression or anxiety back then. You didn’t go into therapy, at least not in our small northern town. That would be like admitting you were crazy or unhinged and needed to be institutionalized. It was a lock-the-door-and-throw-away-the-key mentality. No one wanted that. We chalked it all up to his drinking. It was the source of all our family woes, and our deepest darkest secret. What happened at 204, stayed at 204.

Eventually The Old Man did quit drinking. But by then it was too late. He became a dry drunk. Defiant. Obstinate. Hostile. Belligerent. Cranky all the time. Because the truth was, he still felt like shit. And there was nothing to silence the fear, pain and anguish. No crutches. Nothing to soften the edge. Reality bit him hard and it pissed him off. And in addition to his emotional pain, he suffered from a host of physical ailments. By the time he died, both of his legs had been amputated at the knees, as a direct result of diabetes and his unwillingness — or inability — to adhere to dietary rules.

This was where my complicated journey of grief began.

The thing about complicated grief is that it takes way longer to process. There were so many intricate and tangled feelings towards him that I needed to sort out. Thoroughly and exhaustively. And until I did, I was stuck. There was no moving on.

Writing, and the telling of our story, not only revealed the truth about him, but also about me.

Through this process, my compassion muscle grew and grew. Story by story, the layers were peeled away and the lens became clearer, sharper, more in focus. I began to see him for who he really was. Not just a grumpy old jerk. Or a pathetic excuse for a man. But a human being who struggled. Just like me. A human being who was broken. Just like me. A human being who tried to be courageous. Just like me. A human being who was overwhelmed by the world. Just like me. A human being who went to work every day at a job he didn’t always love. Just like me. A human being who was afraid to take risks. Just like me. A human being who was impatient. Just like me. A human being filled with self-doubt and self-loathing. Just like me. A human being who didn’t truly understand his worth. Just like me. A human being with weaknesses and addictions. Just like me. A human being who tried his best. Just like me. A human being who loved his family unconditionally but didn’t know how to express it in a way that was meaningful. Just like me. A human being who thought God had forsaken him. Just like me. A human being who was too sensitive for the world. Just like me.

Now, twenty-one years later, my grief for him is plain and simple. Just like my grief for Ma. It never really goes away. I’ve learned it’s never truly done and dusted. It washes over me in sweet gentle waves. Always unexpected but welcome. I weep for him now, in the same way that I do for Ma. Tears that are healing and restorative.

There is nothing left. But my love for him.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Wisdom Doesn’t Come Easy.

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Ma loved the shade her summer hats provided.

When my mother died two things happened.  First, I lost one of the people who were most dear and precious to me.  And second, she didn’t leave me with any words of wisdom regarding the “meaning of life and why we’re here.” She didn’t uncover any big secret during her life and impart that to me on her deathbed.  No, instead Ma, my daughter M and I played “I Spy with My Little Eye” on what would be the eve of her departure to God knows where.  We laughed at the grey wall.  I never knew it was her last night. I thought there was still time for her to cough up some tidbit that would help me understand what this thing we call life is all about.

I realize unearthing the meaning of life is a huge topic and probably an impossible burden to have placed on my sweet Ma, especially at the end of her life when she was so terribly ill but in my defense, she was a wise woman and I just assumed she would say something that I could hang onto for the rest of my life.  Put an end to all this seeking and just sail on through without any effort or care until we hooked up in the great Hereafter. I mean it’s only fair.  She was my mother for God’s sake.  She was supposed part with something really great, incredibly profound and comforting that would explain my purpose for being here.

Ten years later, I still grieve for Ma.  Not the way I did initially but I think of her daily and every now and again I am overcome with sadness and I cry.  These sudden spurts of emotion are random and always unexpected.  I can pass a photo of her every day for months and not think too much about it and then one day out of the blue I’ll see the photo in a completely different way, as if for the first time, and I start to cry.  Like a baby.  Inconsolable sobbing. Snot-faced and red-eyed ugly.  It isn’t just a photo that can reduce me to tears either.  Anything can trigger it: an elderly woman with veiny hands and long piano fingers examines a mango in the grocery store; a baby in the park with dark chocolate eyes glances my way; a dog barks in the dead of night; a piece of pie in the fridge looks cold; a fallen leaf forlorn; a rock; a bird; a plane, a hat.  Anything can set me off really.  There’s no rhyme.  And there certainly is no reason.

Why does this happen?  What is it about this random, seemingly unconnected stuff that reminds me of Ma and touches my heart so deeply.  Maybe because it isn’t so random after all.  And it is connected.  All of it.  To Ma.  To me.  To you.  To God.

As it turns out, I did learn something profound through that whole journey of Ma getting ill and ultimately dying.  This probably shouldn’t have been the epic revelation it was but I can be a little dim sometimes.  Anyway, here’s the thing: it wasn’t Ma’s job to tell me the meaning of life, nor answer the big question of why we’re here.  That wasn’t her responsibility.  It’s mine. This is all part of my quest, my journey.  Her’s was entirely something else.  Between her and God.  None of my business.  And maybe she did know something and wouldn’t tell me because by doing so she would have robbed me of the chance to figure this out on my own.  What greater gift.  Ma was wise.