Dear Manni

You left us yesterday.  Technically it was yesterday, but really it was Valentine's Day evening.  We had a prior photography engagement yesterday and I was able to bury my head in the sand regarding your death, but I can't do it anymore.

It's my fault you died.  I'm so sorry. I can't go back and change what happened, and so I'm trying to forgive myself and move forward, but it really hurts my heart to know that if I'd done something differently, you'd still be here today.

I forgot to give you breakfast on Valentine's Day.  The day was a busy one, and you didn't even give me a reproachful look to tell me that you were hungry.  We went to meet a friend at the park for a playdate, then headed to Costco to finish getting our membership, and by the time we got back home that evening, we were already behind on dinner.  I put it on the stove while T was creating a flyer for the barrel race we were to take photos of Saturday.  By the time we'd all eaten, I was clearing the dishes and I saw your empty bowl.  I then realized that you hadn't eaten all day and felt my insides cringe with guilt.  I gave you two cups of food and poured some warm water over it for you, since you're getting old and like it that way now.

I admit, I wasn't paying attention to you while you ate.  I was putting E in pajamas and getting ready for bed.  I asked T to let you outside once more before bed.  We'd been laying in bed maybe ten minutes after you came back inside when we heard you knock something over.  I asked T to go see what you were doing, as my contacts weren't in.  She came back in and said that you'd been gagging and trying to vomit.  So back outside you went.  A few minutes later, she went to get you.  T came back into the bedroom and said that there was something obviously wrong with you, and could I come check.  I put in my contacts and found you right outside our door, sitting on your bed.

Your breathing was labored, your eyes looked like you were in a faraway place.  You were so uncomfortable, you kept trying to move, but you couldn't walk more than a few steps without laying back down.  Fairly quickly, I saw that your belly was full and hard and swollen.  I knew right off the bat that this was likely the end for you.  I called the emergency vet and loaded you in the back of the CR-V and off we went.  The vet told me that you had bloat, or gastric dilation volvulus.  As I'd feared, the treatment for this would likely be much, much more than we could afford.  I told the vet right then that we needed to euthanize you and stop your suffering.  He agreed.

I got to see you once more.  You were lying on the table, catheter placed in your leg.  You looked up when I entered the room, and your tail thumped on the table just once.  I reached for you; you put your head into the crook of my elbow, pushed against my belly.  I stroked your big head and kissed you right between your eyes.  I told you that it was going to be okay; that your pain was over and I was going to fix it.  I scratched behind your ears and tugged them gently one last time before the vet pushed the euthanasia drug into your veins.  You were gone before he even checked for your heartrate; I just knew.  I pulled your collar off before touching your sweet face in goodbye.

You've been a part of my life, a part of me, for nine years.  I'm really going to miss you.  And I'm really sorry that this is how our relationship has ended.

When I was eighteen, I wanted a Rottweiler puppy.  I went to an adoption at a Petsmart where I was told there was a rottie mix pup for adoption.  You were inside the little cat room with the Plexiglas front window, and I couldn't see anything but a tuft of black fur.  I went inside and you bounded up into my arms, a ten week old black hairball and a pink tongue spotted with purple. I petted you and hugged you and laughed at you for a few minutes before going to the table to fill out your adoption paperwork.  You sat in the window and watched me, tail wagging all along.

You certainly didn't grow up to be a Rottweiler, but you did grow up to be such a great dog.

There are so many things that I want to remember about you - so many things I'm afraid of forgetting.

You were always a sensitive spirit.  You sat on my feet, head in my lap when I'd cry.  When a baby cried, you'd rush to whomever was nearby but not holding a baby and look at us with those soulful brown eyes as if to say, "The baby is crying - why aren't you fixing it?"  If T and I were arguing, you'd tuck your tail between your legs and slink back and forth between us, trying to stop the raised voices and hurt feelings.  You loved sitting in front of the security door and watching the world outside the house.  When you tired of sitting, you'd lay down with your nose out the crack at the bottom of the door.  You would back up obligingly when E decided she'd rather have the front door shut, and she was going to do it whether or not you were in the way. You were so incredibly tolerant of babies.  All kinds of babies.  We fostered puppies and kittens and you loved each one, letting them chew on you or hump you or make nests out of the hair on your tail. You let our foster son and daughter pull your ears or fling themselves on you or open your mouth to examine your teeth and tongue.  And when E was born, you showed an attachment to her that melted my heart.  Your favorite place to nap was in front of her crib or under the kitchen table.  You were always so gentle with E, carefully taking the dog food she pilfered out of your bowl and insisted you eat out of her hand. You were always ALWAYS excited to see us when we came home - often to a point of annoyance because you wouldn't move out of the way so we could come inside. When we had visitors, you could barely contain yourself for want of running up to them and wiggling or sitting on their feet or sticking your nose in their crotch.  You were never the most graceful of creatures, but you were funny.  UPS, mailworkers, delivery personnel, Jehovah's witnesses, kids going door to door raising money for their team or club - people from all walks of life were TERRIFIED of the huge barking dog that lived in our house and frequently ran into the door because he didn't stop running in time. I never could convince anyone that all you'd do is love them to death.  You were so strange about food - sometimes it was like pulling teeth to get you to eat.  And you were so good about not begging.  You knew you weren't permitted near the table during mealtime and you politely waited at the edge of the dining room.  You were so scared of thunderstorms and fireworks.  We had a ThunderShirt we'd wrap around your ribs to help you feel safer, but ultimately you'd rather curl up under a bed or table or in a corner somewhere until the loud noises stopped.  You were amazing about only having accidents on hard floors rather than carpet.  I don't know how you taught yourself that, because I surely didn't, but you never had an accident on carpet.  And we really appreciated that.  You loved going for walks and car rides, even though you weren't terribly good at riding in the car. You had such a kind and accepting heart.  You thought all animals wanted to be your friend, even if they distinctly thought you were too excited, too big, too much to handle.  A dog trying to bite you obviously seemed like a dog who needed your love.  You weren't the brightest crayon in the box, but you tried so hard to please everyone.  And when I got frustrated at you, you'd lower your head and lay your ears flat and have the grace to look embarrassed. You loved to dig into the cool dirt in the shade and stretch out for a nap.  You loved escaping the yard and taking yourself on adventures through the neighborhood.

It's so strange to walk out of our bedroom and not have to step carefully over your sleeping form, or trip on your bed, or accidentally squeak your favorite Lambchop toy underfoot.  I keep seeing your empty waterbowl and thinking, "oh shoot, I need to fill that up!".  I drive up into the driveway and hope that E wasn't sleeping, because your barking at my arrival will surely wake her.  I no longer have to be vigilant about the gate latching all the way.  There's no black Houdini dog to push it open anymore. I vacuumed today - and I knew that it meant I was vacuuming up the last of your hair clumps.  It almost felt disrespectful to be getting rid of every last piece of you so soon after your passing - and having that thought feels foolish.  Leaving your shed hair in my carpet won't bring you back home.

You have been with me for my entire adult life.  To face the day without you now... well, it feels like stepping into a new chapter.  I hate the fact that E will probably never remember how much you loved her.  I hate the fact that you'll never meet any other child we may have.

We knew that you were getting on in years, and your hips and legs have only been getting worse in recent years.  We knew your time was close.  I just didn't realize how close.

Sleep sweetly and well, wonderful Manni dog, knowing that you were loved and that you did an amazing job of being our dog and our friend.  I'll miss you and your happy dog grin.

 Manni McGill
March 2005 - February 15 2014

Dear Grama

Today was your memorial service.  I've never actually attended a memorial service before, so I can't say how it compares, but I thought yours was fitting.  I think you would have liked it.

It was simple.
It was heartfelt.
It was full of love.
It had Pepsi.

We gathered together, everyone in one room, seated in burgundy plastic chairs facing a table.  On the table was a simple cloth, a 2 liter bottle of Pepsi in the center, two framed photos (one of you from your Navy days, one of you with your adult children around you), and two elegant vases of cut flowers - tiny sunflowers and daisies and baby's breath.  It made me laugh, because as my mother-in-law remarked, cut flowers were perfect for this because you always said you hate cut flowers. Cut flowers are for funerals.  And here we are.

Aunt Gretchen was our master of ceremonies, and she led us into a short but meaningful program where several family members recounted stories and thoughts of you, followed by the Lord's prayer, and finished up with the playing of Israel Kamakawiwo'Ole's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" remix.

Many people say, during times of grief and loss, that our loved one who has passed away wouldn't want us to be sad.  But I don't know if that's accurate even some of the time.  Today, I think you would have appreciated that we all are saddened at the idea that we'll no longer be making new memories with you.  Everyone wants to be loved.  Everyone wants to leave a mark on our ever-changing world.  Sometimes that mark is just a room full of people who weep to think that you've left us. Of course, you've left a more lasting impression than that in all the people who are here because you were here.

We walked out of the community room, where many of us allowed ourselves to truly feel the finality of your loss, and we left the darkness of the building for the bright sunshine of a desert winter's day.  A light breeze cooled the tears from our cheeks.  The great grandchildrens' shrieks and laughter filled our ears - the music of life.  We remembered to smile.  We gathered in groups, taking photos of people who see each other all too infrequently.

It was a gorgeous day.  I know you would have loved the warm sun on your skin, the crisp scent of fallen leaves in the air.

It was the perfect day for you, for your memory to be firmly embedded into each of our hearts.

Together, we will forge ahead.  Sometimes, we'll let the grief overwhelm us.  But that is no way to live.  So mostly, we'll keep living.  We'll live on with the lessons you taught us, the jokes you laughed at, the jewelry you left us, the photos we gave you that have now been returned.

And the next people to join the family?  The spouses to come, the children yet to be born?  They'll know you, too.  Everyone will know the infamous Nan, the matriarch of the family.

Thank you for sharing your life with us, Grama.

Another Goodbye

I fully intended on writing a blog to share all of the Christmas photos, but it seems that Christmas is going to continue to be overshadowed by loss.

Today is the memorial for my grandmother. I should be getting dressed.  I just can't bring myself to put on the outfit I picked out. I know its a memorial, most people will be wearing black.  I never in my life saw my grandmother wear black. For her entire family to gather, somber faces and black clothes just doesn't seem to be a testament to her very colorful life. 

Unfortunately, I don't really have anything bright enough to make that statement. I work in a theater, 95% of my wardrobe is black. So I will go put on my black blouse, and my grandmother's ring, and go find the comfort of family as we celebrate the life of my grandmother.

Dear Nova

Dear Nova,

Today's the first day that you're gone.  Today is hard.  We miss you.

When you came to live with my parents, you were just twelve days old.  When we saw your pictures, T and I both felt something strong.  I fell in love with you then.  We wanted to bring you home, to have you in our family.  We waited and hoped and finally, just before you turned six weeks old, it became official that you'd become a McGill.  The day before you turned eight weeks old, you had your spay and your scar adhesion removal surgeries, and we brought you home to Tucson.  That was a special day.  December 2nd.

Over the next weeks, you grew and you ate and you loved and you chased and you dug holes in the yard.  You ran and played and snuggled and grew some more.  We started leash training and went on daily walks.  We began working on basic commands - you loved to learn new things!  By the time Christmas arrived, you knew come, sit, up, down, crawl, and we were working hard on stay.  You were so quick, so intelligent, so curious.

You loved your little girl, E.  You were so gentle with her.  I really appreciate you being careful with our toddler, even when she tried to sit on your head or hug you too tightly.  She loved taking you outside and praising your potty training efforts.  "Good girl!" quickly became her phrase of choice. She loved you from the start.  You two were supposed to grow up together; we'd hoped you would sleep in her room and be her champion.

Christmas morning arrived, and you happily pulled your new quacky duck toy from your stocking and ran around stealing wrapping paper and ribbon.  You got your very own tag for your collar - it had just arrived two days earlier in the mail.  We took Christmas photos and hugged your silvery body and kissed your wet black nose.  You went to bed a happy pup.

But the morning after Christmas, you weren't feeling well.  You scarfed down your breakfast as usual, but then you threw it back up.  You wanted to go lay down.  That was already the beginning of the end, but nobody knew how seriously sick you were.  I'm so sorry, Nova.  I'm so sorry I didn't know.  I wish I'd taken you sooner to the vet, maybe that would have made a difference.  But you were so damn strong, you were acting just like your normal self until you could not do it any longer.

You laid on your little dog bed, your blanket tucked around you, all morning.  All morning we watched and worried.  I tried to get you to drink water, but you didn't want any.  I syringed water into your mouth and you swallowed it.  I listened to your lungs, they sounded clear.  Your heart rate was getting higher and higher and you started working hard at breathing.  We grew more concerned.  We called the vet and were referred to the local emergency hospital.  My dad started his car and drove us.  You sat curled up in my lap, shivering and breathing hard.

The vet did some x-rays.  You had pretty bad pneumonia in both lungs.  Even when the vet listened to your lungs he'd said they sounded clear, so everyone was surprised.  He also found that your belly was full of gas from you swallowing air while trying to breathe more oxygen in.  Your intestines were inflamed, he said from a "dietary indescretion".  We'll never know what had your intestines so upset, but our guess was that you had too many different new kinds of treats and maybe you'd eaten some plants in the yard.

Dad and I left you in the vet hospital's ICU, in the oxygen box to help you breathe.  They hooked you up with IV fluids, antibiotics, anti-vomiting meds, antacids, and some pain control.  Your oxygen saturation was at 97 percent.  We had to open a Care Credit account to pay for your hospitalization, but I was just focused on getting you home healthy.

After dinner a few hours later, my phone rang.  I recognized the emergency hospital's phone number and my heart began to deflate.  It was your doctor.  He said that despite all the treatment and being in an oxygen saturated environment, you were looking worse and your oxygen saturation was down to only 91 percent.  He suggested that we come back to see you and make a decision about your continued care.

We packed up the family and drove to the hospital.  You lay in the oxygen box on your side, belly clenched tight, head up on a folded brown towel.  You had an IV in your leg, a temp probe and an oxygen sensor attached to your lip, and you were shaking with the effort to breathe.  Your eyes were open, but not focused.  I put my hand in through the small opening in the plexiglas door and touched your velvet nose, rubbed that soft little hollow between your eyes, and then I held your paw while the vet talked.  He left T and I with you to make a decision.  I took my hand out after we'd talked, and went to go get the doctor.  T said to wait, that you were upset I was leaving.  She said you tried to get up, you lifted your head and looked for me.  I came right back, but my hand through the opening and held your sweet face.  You looked into my eyes.  At that moment, I thought you were asking me to not to give up on you.  I think that's what I wanted to believe.  We decided to give you a few more hours to fight.

We let my parents come in to visit you while we played in the lobby with E.  A few minutes later, the next shift vet came running out to get us - you'd begun trembling violently and barking out.  We rushed back in and I again placed my hand on your head.  You stopped barking, but I could feel the vibrations through your skull of you groaning and growling as your eyes rolled halfway under your silver lids.  I knew that you were done.  I knew I couldn't bear to watch you suffer a moment longer.

Gently, the vet asked me if this changed my decision.  Tears spilling down my cheeks, I nodded and croaked, "I can't ask her to fight like this anymore." He touched my shoulder before going and getting the meds he would need to help you go to sleep. A tech gently lifted you out of the oxygen box and placed you on a table, leaned up against my body.  Your little girl came in and she wrapped her arms around your neck and hugged you one last time.  She touched her forehead to your head, and then she waved at you and said, "Bye!" so brightly that it cut me down deep.  T carried her back out to my parents while you and I waited for the end.

I curled my arms around you, I kissed your soft head and I whispered how much I loved you and how wonderful you were into your ears.  T came back and held us both as the vet injected an overdose of anesthesia into your little body, and I felt all your weight slump into my arms.  He listened to your chest with his stethoscope and said quietly that your heart had stopped.  It felt like mine had, too.  Tears upon tears slid down my cheeks as I hugged you again and kissed you and stroked your wonderful face one last time.  I laid you gently on the table and left as quickly as I could after shaking the vet's hand.

The feeling of your warm body in my arms is all too real.  The scent of your puppy breath, of fresh dirt in your fur, they are stuck in my nostrils.  The memory of you doesn't even feel like a memory yet; 'It can't be true! She can't be gone!' my arms cry out.  I cried off and on the whole drive home from Phoenix.  I cried myself to sleep.  I woke several times during the night, convinced I heard your little voice again.  I cried myself awake.

Your toys were still strewn about the house this morning.  Your pen is still set up by the table.  E is still carrying around your dog bowl and pointing at the backyard, asking me, "Good girl?"  And I have to say, "No baby, Nova isn't here anymore."  And I cry.

I've gathered up your things.  They're in a pile.  I think I'll donate your blankets and puppy pads to a rescue group, and your puppy toys if the rescue will take them.  I don't know if I could bear to see them around the house for Manni to play with.  Your collar with your brand new tag sits on top of the pile.  Those I'll keep, though I don't know where.  You looked so beautiful with your periwinkle collar and your copper tag with stars stamped into it.  You only got to wear your tag for two days.  It should have been a lifetime.

I miss you so much it hurts.  But I thought you should know how very much you were loved.  I wanted so badly to do right by you, and I hope upon hope that I made the right choice.  And I hope that one day, I'll find you again, my Little Grey Dog.  You were a wonderful piece of our lives; you touched hearts and you will be remembered.

Goodbye, SuperNova.

Love always,
A

Happy Christmas

I got up this morning before the world turned to see the sun.  For the first time in years, I am awake almost as early as I used to be as an excited kid.  Granted, this morning I was up early to start breakfast instead of anxiously awaiting the appointed hour at which time it was acceptable to wake my parents, but it has been a nice reminiscence.

It reminds me of everything I love about Christmas.  Many of my favorite parts are likely borne of all the years my brother and I would spend almost the entirety of Christmas Eve decidedly NOT sleeping, but waiting for Santa to arrive and taking turns slowly creeping out into the living room to look at the Christmas tree and its bounty.

I absolutely love looking at a softly lit Christmas tree while the rest of the house is shrouded in darkness. Even moreso once some gifts begin to accumulate beneath its branches.  I gaze upon each ornament, trying to remember when and where it came from. The glow from a Christmas tree in the night is what fills my soul with fond memories and love from a time past.

The meaning of Christmas is debatable, and I know there are plenty of "reasons for the season", but a warm Christmas tree in a cold room helps me try to live each year like the child I once was: full of hope and excitement.  I don't truthfully wish to live Christmas as an adult, because it is full of stress and deadlines and complications and arguments over which family gets which piece of Christmas. Like a pack of coyotes fighting over flesh. Without the childlike wonder... Christmastime is not all that pleasant.

And now I am a mom. This is E's second Christmas, though she still doesn't understand about Santa and she doesn't yet expect gifts, it is still full of more magic than all my other adult Christmases combined. I look forward to all the years to come with my children, but I especially look forward to seeing my kids' tired faces on Christmas morning, knowing that they'd been up all night, huddled together in bed, wondering what was waiting in the living room.

Yes, I think Christmas should be about family and togetherness and kindness and love.




But it should be first about magic.

Something us adults could stand to remember.

December 18th

A young woman, belly swollen tight with a full-term baby, feels the beginning of her labor begin.  It hurts her body; it hurts her heart.  She fights against the contractions, willing her body to hold tight onto that infant for just a bit more.  Not yet.  Don't take her yet. 

December 18th is the day of your birth.

Heralded into this world a week before Christmas, enveloped in sorrow and love and regret, you were born and became your own person.  You were given a name that nobody alive knows (or will admit they know).  You were cradled in the arms of a young woman who loved you desperately, though she couldn't keep you for her own daughter.  

Placed into the arms of another mother, you were left with a new family to grow up and discover yourself.  

Still, after all these years, you aren't much for celebrating your own birthday.  I cannot imagine how this day makes you feel.  When I was younger, I wondered how you managed to shrink away from a day that is, by definition, a celebration of YOU.  Now I realize that you don't see it as a celebration of you - not the whole day, at least.  In part, it's the day that changed the path of your life.  It's the day that you were given up by the person who is supposed to love you unconditionally.  It's a reminder of how many questions there still are, a memo that there's a whole other family out there who share genetics with you - a family that we have yet to find.  How could you celebrate yourself on such a day? 

But if you can't celebrate this day, know that I can and I do.  

I'm grateful for my biological grandmother.  I'm grateful for all the love and sadness she had in her heart for you.  I think that even as you grew inside her, you were already becoming part light and part darkness.  

You are the golden light that bathes the world as the sun sinks below the mountain tops. You see the good in all people, even when it's a single grain in a sea of rice.  

You are the blackness that shrouds the earth while she sleeps.  You hold your loved ones close and safe, while you shield us from the storm.  

You feel deeply; emotion flows thickly through your veins.  Your highs are higher, and your lows sometimes lower, than most. 

On this day, this 18th of December, I want to honor the person you've become.  I will think about the forty eight other December 18ths you've already lived, and wonder about who you were on each of those days.  I will hold your birth mother close, and offer that young woman in my mind a fierce hug.  Her story grips me; the idea of giving up a child breaks my heart and knowing that baby was you crushes me.  She had to be strong.  She had to be courageous.

And she imparted those qualities to her firstborn daughter.

You are kind.  You are generous.  You are loving.  You are empathetic.  You are passionate.  You are supportive. You are questioning.  You are enthusiastic.  You are interested.  You are selfless.


I admire you, Mom.  I love you dearly, and with each passing year I learn more about the depth of your personhood - and the more I learn, the more awe and respect I have.

Happy Birthday, mother of mine.  You are very special, and very important to me.  I hope you know that although this day is full of both darkness and light, I will always think of it as the day the world changed.  And I will always celebrate you.  

Imado (what I wanna do)

When I was pregnant, everyone wanted to know if it was a girl or boy, and then the name.

After she was born everyone wanted to know if I made through it without an epidural.

Once she was a few months old everyone wanted to know if she was sleeping through the night.

Now that she's over a year old, the question is "How much longer are you going to breastfeed?"

Do you want the short answer or the long answer?  I usually start with the short answer: I don't know. After an awkward pause I start rambling the long answer. It usually includes something about pumping and my work schedule, something else about sleeping through the night and teething. Sometimes I even go into the WHO recommendations and anthropological evidence that says "extended" breastfeeding is biologically normal. 

I'm not sure if it's there or if it is my own insecurities, but every time someone asks, I feel like the implied question is "Why haven't you weaned?" I feel defensive and judged. I have to convince them that I have actual reasons to continue breastfeeding and I'm not just lazy or "soft".

Part of it is that I'm not a pull-the-band-aide-off-quickly kind of mom. I don't like drastic changes, I'd rather do things slowly. That being said, the only change that I've made since she turned the magic age of one is that I don't stress about is anymore, or rather, I try not to. Most of my stress surround pumping and supply. I have a hard time keeping up with her when I work long hours, so we're introducing cow and goat's milk since we're quickly running out of frozen milk. I have to put in a lot of effort to not worry so much, and its really helping. I'm able to focus on work more and I don't threaten to throw my pump off the building anymore.

We've had an interesting journey to get here. It's been full of ups and downs, tears and smiles. Lately the smiles have vastly out numbered the tears and we are both happy with how our nursing relationship is. And its just that: OURS.

So whether or not you are judging me for nursing my one year old at the park/restaurant/work, it really doesn't matter.  The answer to the question is "When it seems right for us" and I don't know when that will be because it hasn't happened yet.

Having a milk break during her 1-year-old photo shoot