RIP Zip

Even though I hardly remember a time when there were no animals at my home growing up -- from dogs to cats to birds to fish. Including piranha! And snakes! -- I have never considered myself a pet person. Part of it is because ours were always outdoor pets, and outdoor duties went to my brothers (that's how it worked in my family). Beyond that, though, I've always been nervous about their sudden movements and start at fuzzy (or wet!) nuzzlings. And I'm not a huge fan of all the shedding.

Our dalmation, Zip (or Zipper, as I like to call him), didn't really have sudden movements. He was a beast and you could see -- and smell -- him coming a block away. When he got to you, he'd wag his tail so excitedly that you'd sometimes get a rather painful lashing. He was infinitely playful and cheerful, and never realized his own strength. I admit that I was scared of him in his early adulthood because he seemed so unpredictable.

As he got older, Zipper never lost his exuberance, never forgot about us. He would run to the gate whenever I came back to my parents' house, and whine until I reached over the fence to pet him. Then he'd sneeze -- always big, wet sneezes -- and get his slobber and fur all over my arms and pant legs.  Yum.

He got older and older. And arthritic. It gradually became harder for him to get up and run to me when I came over to my dad's house. My brother moved back home and started taking better care of Zipper, and he got better. But he didn't get younger. After my brother got back from a trip recently, he sent a concerned email to the familiy to let us know that Zipper would barely move and could hardly control his bladder or bowels anymore. I came to see him a couple of days after that and saw that he had weakened considerably since the last time I saw him. Still, my little Zipper came to greet me. He leaned all his weight into my leg, like he always did -- but was so wobbly that he ended up rolling over and ended up on his side. I helped him to his stomach, cleaned him up a bit, and took this picture. 



We said goodbye Zip last Saturday. It was so difficult to see him at the vet's -- my brother had to carry him into and out of the car -- his breathing had become so labored. He still hobbled around the room, sniffing at the different scents and chewing up pet treats. The veterinarian confirmed that there was nothing we could do that would restore him, and that the summer heat was probably making it more difficult for him...so we decided that it was time. I made sure to look into his face for a long, long while. So that I would remember him. So that he would know that he was loved. I think he knew.

I thought about what a luxury it is to be able to say goodbye to a loved one. I'm glad I got that opportunity with the Zipper. I'm glad I got to be there with my brother, that he didn't have to make the decision alone. We both agreed that Zip's quality of life wasn't very good at that point. That he had had a good -- no, great -- life, that he had brought us all a lot of happiness in all the ten or twelve years he was with us. That we were doing the right thing.

But it still sucked.

For the rest of the weekend I kept my mind and hands occupied with a lot of cleaning and ironing. The couple times I pulled up that picture on my phone, tears would well up and flow over. But I couldn't help it -- I mean, c'mon: that is one good looking doggy.

On Monday, I passed a woman walking her dog and mentally shook my head at the thought of her one day having to say goodbye to it, and that's why I could never have my own pet. But then it hit me: if I extended that thought to people, jobs, books, projects -- or anything, really -- I would never do anything. Or know anyone. Anything or anyone meaningful, that is. Just because something ends doesn't mean it's not worth having at all. Actually, it makes the time you have with that something even more precious.

I still don't see myself as a pet person, but I learned in that brief moment that memories are not lost; I can treasure them in my heart and mind. And, more importantly, I am not afraid of loving again, of loving more. And that's a very good thing.

Thanks for helping me realize that, little Zipper. I love you and miss you.

Tiptoeing @ TJ's

A while ago I picked up a call from a friend while shopping at my local Trader Joe's.

"Oh, you're right on time. I go to my TJ's about this time to check out amy single ladies."

"What do you mean? I always go around this time."

"Exactly. I bet you're holding a single basket, and there's a quart of milk and three bananas in it so far. "

"How'd you know?!"

"Because you're at TJ's now; that's when all the single people go. Just look around you."

Sure enough, lots of other lone shoppers with baskets carrying small quantities of food. I shared the story with some girlfriends and one of them posted to my Facebook wall soon afterwards, "Was at TJ's today; you were right!"

Since then I've been particularly self-conscious about my trips to TJ's. I feel like everything about the endeavor screams, "Hey, I'm single!" Especially when one of the cashiers said, "You shop here a lot, don't you?" Although I'm sure he was trying to be neighborly.

I felt extra self-conscious with tonight's haul:

On top of the quart of milk, there's the single-sized pizza and bottle of wine. "Hi, I'm totally single and have no Friday night plans. I'm just gonna eat and drink wine, at home, all by myself."

Not that I need to explain it here, of all places, but I did so most intentionally. It's the only night I've had to myself all week, and though I considered going out, the introvert in me won. It's been a pleasant and productive night of hanging up some holiday decorations and watching a cute documentary from China called Please Vote For Me, about an election for Class Monitor of a third grade class.

Now it's time for the true winding down: a shower, writing some Christmas cards, and maybe even a manicure. Not a bad night to be single.

Oh, and that pizza was pretty good!

Remembrance

[mama n' me]

It's been two weeks since my mom's first anniversary memorial and it blows my mind that she's been gone for an entire year.  I had left myself a buffer of a few weeks to sort out thoughts and emotions, but when it came down to it I was one.  hot.  mess.  Especially because Mom's was a week after the 10-year anniversary of 9/11, and those memories revolve a lot around my parents.  I sat down to write about my mom and the waterworks started -- surprising because I thought I was fully resolved that she had truly finished her life and was therefore okay with it all.  But the truth was -- and is -- that I will always, always miss this lady.

When I have bad days, I miss my mom's comforting hugs.  She always insisted that it's okay and I'm still young and it'll work out. 

When I have good days, I miss my mom's celebratory hugs.  I miss her comments on my haircuts and manicures.  I miss her guilt trips over my shopping, until I told her I got a good deal, and she'd say, "Good girl!"  I miss her curiosities over my knitting or sewing or embroidery projects.  I miss the way she said, "turtle," or "squirrel."  I miss her grammatically precise emails, how she always wrote, "perhaps," and never, "maybe."   And her texts.  I miss her laugh.  All the seeming little things that are such huge and gaping holes in my life, now that they're no longer a few miles down the road.

So, you see, I can't have a day that's not without missing some part of my mom.

My coworker saw my puffy red eyes coming out of the ladies room, put her arms around me and let me sob into her shoulder for as long as I needed.  She lost her mom a few months after me, so knew exactly how I was feeling and exactly what I needed.  Thank God for sending angels at just the right time.

As the weekend progressed, we observed the cultural customs.  At the Buddhist temple, we found Mom's photo on the big wall along with all the other people who've died.  Her coordinates are OO-64.  The feeling of being so separated from her was surreal and discomforting.  My younger brother had his mini-meltdown then.  The next day, when the extended group -- family, coworkers, high school alumni, college alumni, NZ alumni -- gathered at my dad's house, was another day of showing up.  I'm so grateful to my cousins who helped with all the food and serving!  My youngest brother had his meltdown then: in addition to mourning and missing Mom, he just found out that one of his housemates was killed in a hit-and-run bicycle accident.  Sadness and shock all over again.

The picture above is one I took of me and my mom at the black sand beach at Waia'napanapa on the island of Maui, when our entire family vacationed there in 2009.  It was our first family vacation since my brothers were kids, and Mom's first year of retirement.  We ate and drank and talked and faught and swam and shopped and drove and watched the sunrise and had a great time.  My SIL later shared that my mom actually said she had fun, that she did things -- like snorkelling -- she'd never done before and never thought she could do.  With all her kids.  At the same time.  How awesome is that?  After a lifetime of work and struggle and never thinking that she could ever rest, I'm happy that she had a couple years to relax before she left us. 

I won't try to wrap up this post in any succint or "lesson learned" manner because the truth is, this sadness and gladness over my mom will ebb and flow for the rest of my life.  I don't know whether that's okay or not; it just is.

Indelilbilities

Last month at brunch, a new-to-me acquaintance noticed the various birdsounds that we could all hear on such a quiet Saturday morning. I learned what a woodpecker sounds like! Later on, in the middle of a conversation, he leaned his head to one side, keen to identify another bird we'd just heard.

"Is birdwatching a hobby of yours?" someone asked.

"Not really," he replied, "or, not by choice: my ex wife was a zoologist, so I picked up a few things from her."

I don't know anything about this person's story -- how long he'd been married or divorced, nor the circumstances around either. But as I thought about what he'd said, it dawned on me just how much our significant others -- whether they be boyfriends or girlfriends, partners, spouses, or exes -- leave indelible marks on us. Indeed, they inject a part of themselves onto (or even into) us -- permanently, whether we know it or not; whether we like it or not. The person I met at brunch will probably always listen to a bird's chirping, and whether he can identify it or not, he'll listen, on account of someone who was a very important part of his life, even though she isn't any more. Amidst the sadness, or anger -- or whatever, like I said, I don't know his story -- of the situation, it was clear that there can also emerge something beautiful. A significant other's touch on one's life doesn't simply end at the breakup.

So it's okay to remember not just specific incidents or trips and occasions but also the mannerisms and phrases and other points of fact that were created in my relationship with DC. For my part, I know that among other things, certain news topics will prick my ears more than they would have before I knew him. As my running improves I'll remember that he's a runner, and how he got me out with him a couple times, and now I finally understand a bit better why he enjoys it (though I don't stray as far as to put the two together in a "what if" scenario).  Of course, I hope that as he remembers us, he'll be okay holding on to some of the things he learned from me, or that we discovered together, or that we simply made up and laughed at between ourselves -- but if he doesn't, that's okay.  No, I won't obsess or imagine -- I stopped doing that long ago! -- but the big takeaway is that I don't have to stomp out or feel bad about memories like I thought I had to or was supposed to.

That revelation stayed tucked in a shallow recess of my heart for nearly two months; I was reminded of it again when I went through my Post Secret ritual last week, during which I came across a secret that touched me for both dumb and profound reasons.  It read: "Our relationship left me listening to country music and believing in God.  You changed me.  Thank you." It resonated with me for obvious reasons, but particularly because for a nanosecond I hoped that it might be DC's secret (not gonna lie), whether published or not. But -- and more importantly -- this secret reminded me that it's okay to have changed or been changed by someone in a way I might not have imagined or expected.  And also because it brought me beyond forgiveness.

A lot of people (and books, and blogs) say that forgiveness is the point where you're no longer wishing that person ill but where you truly want their happiness. Admittedly, it's a big jump to make, especially if feelings of anger and betrayal have been engendered by the breakup. In my case, there was anger and confusion and fear and pain -- many of which were first-time feelings -- and, however briefly, I did harbor ill will towards DC.  Then there was the hurdle of my own ego: to realize that I was not the best thing that ever happened to DC hurt my pride more than my heart.  When I allowed myself to dwell on the injury to my pride it dragged my heart into the fray, which in turn led me down the path of regretful reminisces.  Learning to love myself and protect my heart meant admitting out loud that DC wasn't the best for me, either. This was scary because our relationship was so good in so many ways; it also challenged my faith to trust that God was preparing me for a better, future person.  Though it wasn't exactly a straight shot, I made the leap to forgiveness sooner rather than later (according to trusted friends, who, unlike me, had been there before). It was faster, cleaner, easier for me because my heart of hearts had always wanted -- and still wants -- the very best for DC.

But there's another leap: from forgiveness to gratitude. For all the breakup cliches I've heard, I like the one that says you should leave a person a little better than you found them. DC did that for me, and I'm certain I did that for him.  For me, gratitude is that place where I can thank DC for having been a part of my life. I am well favored and blessed that that relationship was such a good one. I can leave it saying not only, "Good-bye and God-bless," but "Thank you."  Which is pretty huge.  And though it took me a while to get here, and I'm not sure if I'm entirely "there," I at least know that I'm on the way towards a future relationship that will be much, much better than I can imagine. 

There's lots back there, in just the past few years.  A lot of it's good.  A lot of it's bad.  I'm okay with both.  I'm okay with glancing back now and then, knowing both are there and a part of me.  So I let myself glance.  But I don't go back there, I don't live back there.  I live here.  Now.  I look forward to tomorrow.  And it doesn't have to be a secret.

Onwards!

Almost all over again

When DC and I parted as a couple, he wanted to stay friends.  But I thought it a bad idea: if we remained friends and one of us started seeing someone new, we'd basically have to break up all over again; why go through that heartache a second -- and potentially more painful, because we'd be that much more invested in each other -- time? I needed to protect my heart. So we went our separate ways, as difficult as it was, and as certain as we were that we weren't quite done with one another.

I did entertain hope that one day we could be friends again (and to be really honest, I even entertained our breakup being a precursor to rebuilding a better, future JDC). In fact, what I missed most about JDC were all the seemingly mundane things we did -- talking about our days, our thoughts, our plans -- I missed my best friend, who also happened to be my confidant, travel buddy, supporter, challenger, and, of course, my lover.  It took a while to separate the love feelings from the friend feelings; indeed, for a long time I thought the two were inextricably mixed.  As my heart healed I realized that more than anything, I wanted what was best for DC, and I wanted, in some way, to be a part of that.

But how?  DC would faithfully honor my request not to be friends.  So I knew that if we were to move forward in any way it would have to be upon my initiation.  I tarried with timing, at times feeling ready, at times not.  I introspected -- Do I really love him or am I afraid that I will never find someone like him, whom I will love as much or who will love me as much?  Is my hope based on romantic ideals of my first relationship being my last?  And especially in light of these thoughts, whom do I choose to love?  At the end of the day (really, six months), I just wanted to catch up with my best friend.  So last week I picked up the phone.

In doing so I found out that DC is in a new relationship (in short: he didn't answer either of my two calls but responded with a very brief email). My think-the-worst tendency had prepared for such a possibility, but the recesses of my heart secretly hoped that our love was unshakably deep, or at least deep enough that we would still care for one another.  The reality of the news was shaking, but more so was its delivery.  I'm sad that DC did not wish to hear what I had to say and closed himself off to me entirely, unwilling to receive my peace and good tidings.  I typed out a reply and sent it off immediately, so as not to edit away my gut response.  As I look back on that email, the only changes I would have made were, in addition to thanking him for telling me about his new relationship, to let him know that I wish he had been more kind about it; and I would have signed off with "Good-bye" instead of "Peace."  Ideally, though, our final good-bye would have been one with mutual peace, love, and blessing.  Is that too ideal?  Is it too much to ask?  I thought of the song "Hate Me" by Blue October, whose lyrics read, "Hate me so you can finally see what's good for you."  Does that apply here?  To whom? I don't know. I don't know that it matters.

For all the sadness I feel at having lost any semblance of relationship with DC and having that (frankly, terse) interaction as a last memory, I am glad that he responded at all and that he told me anything at all; he didn't have to.  So now I know, and I can in turn close the door.  I've had the weekend to feel crestfallen, to ponder and mourn and, yes, get a little crazy (in my mind), but in the end as in the beginning, my heart of hearts wishes DC Every Good Thing.  I don't know whether he read my response or simply deleted the email, but that's what I wrote to him, and I would never wish otherwise.

Rather than getting caught up in thinking about (or imagining) what I did or didn't do, or what DC did or didn't do, I am focusing on what God is doing.  At church yesterday we sang, "It is Well with My Soul," a hymn written by a man who suffered not a simple heartache, but unspeakable tragedy.  I went to bed praying that it would be so with my heart.  And I know it will.