Grief Stories~For the Love of a Pet

All of the posts so far on Grief Stories have been about human grief and loss. Today I have a beautiful piece from one of my former fellow Her View From Home writers about pet loss. I can remember one of the only times I ever saw my dad cry (before Joey got sick, of course) was when our childhood pet, the cutest ugly mutt you ever saw, died when I was 14. My dad and I sat on my bed together and cried. With humans, there are all sorts of complex emotions involved; but with pets, it's just about love. Welcome Kelly!

"Grief is so painfully real, regardless of its origin. The love of, and attachment to, an animal friend can equal that of human relationships. Likewise, the loss of an animal can be just as devastating." -Rev. Joel L. Morgan

My first “baby” was a tiny grey kitten named Bailey. He was far from my first pet and definitely not my last, but he was my first grown up out in the world on my own pet. Bailey was around for my college life moving from place to place. He was there when I got married. He was there through family deaths and the deaths of other pets. He was there for me when friendships faded and new friendships were made. He was there when my husband and I moved out of our college town to our first “real” jobs in a bigger city. He was there when our first two children were born.

Always stoic, he could sense when we needed him and cuddled close. He was a smart cat and used to alert us to “danger”.  Like the time the wind blew a screen out of the window while we were at work. He didn’t even try to escape into the real world; he just waited by the garage door for me to come home from work and meowed until I followed him to check out the damage. When there was something wrong once with the wiring in an outlet and he sat under it and meowed off and on until it was replaced. Or anytime I would use the self-cleaning option on the oven and he would meow until it started to cool down, certain we were about to burn down the house. He used to meow to get my attention and then lead me to other things too, like his food bowl if it was empty or his litter box if it needed changed. Even though he acted as if he could live without these tiny humans we brought into his life, when my children were babies he used to sit outside their doors when they would cry at night or naptime until I could get to their rooms and check on them.

He was an unusual cat in so many ways. He used to love going on car rides (probably because of all the times I moved him around when I was in college). Sometimes he would even stick his head out of the window like a dog. We had to keep all fruit except for bananas and apples in the refrigerator because he would jump on to the counter at night or when we were gone and eat them. He especially liked cucumber, cantaloupe, and nectarines. We used to joke that he would tell on himself before doing something naughty. We always knew he was about to jump on the counter because he had a certain meow he would do right before jumping up.

As he aged we used to say he was turning into a grumpy old man cat. Even though he lost his kitten playfulness and moved a little slower, he was still the sweet loving cat he always had been. Then one day his fur starting looking extra scruffy and he wasn’t eating or drinking like he should. I knew something was wrong, something beyond old age. He eventually stopped grooming himself and would hide for most of the day. The kids had become too much for him to deal with. I made an appointment to see the vet and he went downhill quickly. By the time I took him to the vet, he had completely stopped eating and was barely drinking water. For the first time in his twelve years of life he didn’t quite make it to the litter box.

At the time my son was four and my daughter was one. We told our son Bailey may not come home. We also didn’t want him to worry if a human in his life got sick they would go to the doctor and never come back. So we decided at his young age to tell him that sometimes pets get sick and there just aren’t as many treatments for animals as there are for people, which is one of those half-truths. The ones you tell because it’s too much to explain to a four year old that prolonging a pet’s life is expensive and often is done more for the human not the animal. Because it is so hard to say goodbye, even though we always knew we would out live our cat. That most of the time it’s just better to let your pet die, because they can’t tell us how much pain they are in or how much they are suffering. And all the other reason we as adult must consider when making the decision to end a pet’s life.

We said our goodbyes, had a last cuddle, and then I left my family at home and took my fur baby to the vet. He was always a mellow cat and rarely freaked out about car rides or vet trips, but this time he was just lethargic as I took him in. I knew deep down it was the beginning of the end. I knew that if it was something bad I would end his suffering, no matter how much I wanted to keep him around. They did blood work and came back to tell me what I already had guessed, his kidneys were failing. They gave me the options. The treatment plans, the daily medications, or putting him to sleep. I told them my choice was to put him to sleep, and the vet comforted me by saying it was what she would have done too.

Then they left me to say goodbye to my friend. The one who never cast judgment, who was there through tears and laughter, who stayed by my side when I was sick, who slept in my bed almost every night, the one who loved me unconditionally. Even though I knew I had made the right decision I cried as I told him how sorry I was, how much I loved him, and what a good cat he was. I stayed by his side to the end, not wanting him to be alone with strangers for a moment. I wanted him to have a familiar voice and scent to hopefully give him some comfort. The vet gave him the shot and thankfully he went peacefully.

Bailey wasn’t the first pet I have had to say goodbye to, and he won’t be my last. It never gets easier, but the rewards for sharing part of your life with an animal (if it’s the right pet for you and/or your family) are worth the heartache in the end. 

Bailey, courtesy of Kelly Maeser

Kelly is a stay at home mom to a son (7) and two daughters (4 and 3 months). She mostly writes about movies and books, but also throws in musings on life on her blog Pieces of Me. She is also working on editing her first YA novel and hoping to get it ready for an agent search soon! You can find her movie reviews on Her View From Home. And you can follow Kelly on Facebook and Twitter.

Grief Stories~My Father, My Self

Today's Grief Series contributor is Debra from the blog Just Jack (I love that name). She is sharing a story that many of us have faced or will face soon as our own parents are aging. She writes with raw honesty about flying to her father's side as he faced a life-threatening illness. Her story is gripping, and I thank her for sharing it with us. A version of this post originally  appeared on Woman Around Town.

Writing this piece is difficult, because words cannot adequately express how I felt as I walked into the Central Florida intensive care unit where my dad lay, possibly dying. How do I find the “right” words to describe, on a visceral level, what seeing him in that condition did to my soul? Was I changed that day, on a cellular level, much like the nurses told me my dad was due to his disease? All my memories of us together when we were both much younger – camping, fishing, going to the movies, laughing – flew through my mind like a faded home movie as I stared at him in shock, realizing that those times had long ago passed from this world. So I’ll just write and hope that the words that do come to me do justice to us both.

Less than 24 hours earlier my uncle advised me that my father had been taken by ambulance to a local hospital. They just happened to be on the phone together when he heard my dad gasping for air. Within hours my combative, stubborn father (he did not want to go to the hospital) was in the ICU, sedated with Propofol, his hands tied down by his sides. I wasn’t listed as an emergency contact, so when I called the hospital for information, it wasn’t easy to get. After I supplied them with his birthdate, we got about this far:

“Do I need to come down there?”

“Your father came in with severe respiratory distress. It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

My father suffers from COPD — Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease — which is a leading cause of death and illness worldwide. It is a progressive disease, punctuated by flares, or exacerbations, that can kill. My dad smoked for 50 years (he’s nearly 68 now) and, although he’d said he quit, apparently that was not the case. He’d begun to give up on life, so I suppose he figured if he resumed smoking, it would hasten the end. And that night, it nearly did.

Seven years had passed since I last saw my father. My parents divorced when I was two, but my dad had weekend visitation rights. Growing up, we were very close but once I turned 18 and moved from Maine to New York for college, he moved down South. Although distance and lack of money kept us from seeing each other regularly, we remained close – by phone and snail mail. I knew if I didn't go see him now, I might never have another chance.

I immediately flew down to Orlando, rented a car and drove an hour and a half to where my dad lay, unconscious. How I accomplished all this in such a short amount of time, my head throbbing and my heart scared, I have no idea. I also grappled with feelings of guilt for spending money I did not have to travel down there, and leaving my husband and toddler son behind. And I felt angry with my father for continuing to smoke. ..and for not asking for help sooner.

When I finally walked into the ICU, my father’s friend, whom I’d apprised of the situation prior to my arrival, was sitting at the foot of his bed. We’ll call her “Angel.” As soon as I saw Dad lying there, my feet stopped moving. It was as though I were stuck in a puddle of super glue. A friend of mine had told me that this trip would “test your mettle,” and he was right; I immediately hid behind the curtain and cried.

Angel walked over to me. I composed myself and together we walked over to him, my eyes scanning his emaciated, 5’7” frame. The man whom I hadn’t seen in seven years lay hooked up to a ventilator, oblivious to the fact that I’d just flown there from Connecticut. He had no idea his “little princess” was standing by his side. His tongue hung out of his mouth like an exclamation point. His skinny leg (he now weighed 107 pounds) jutted out from beneath his bed sheet, his dirty toes straddling the bedrail. Technically we’re all dying, really, but seeing my father looking so old and frail drove home the fact that this is not a man who has the gift of time. The fact that his mother, father and brother all died young was also not lost on me. Suddenly I, too, felt much older. Mortal.

At 36 years old, I was facing the imminent loss of a parent to a cruel disease that, according to his nurses, pulmonologist and the dizzying amount of literature they handed me each day I was there, will end his life.

“Perhaps not this time, or the next time, but eventually, COPD will kill him,” they’d said.

On Friday, Angel and I stood there as the nurse told me more things I did not want to hear.

“Your father suffers from encephalopathy,” Friday Nurse said, explaining the brain damage that occurred and that it could either be reversible, partially reversible, or permanent.

The information overload became too much for me and I turned around and looked out the window. I stared at the plethora of palm trees, crying as the nurse continued talking to Angel and, presumably, my back. I also marveled at the juxtaposition of this difficult news set against a backdrop so inviting, so verdant. Shouldn’t it be overcast and drizzling outside? I thought.

That night at the cheap hotel in which I found myself for the next few nights, I spent a lot of time on the phone with various friends and family for comfort. I’d been in Florida for a day-and-a-half and Dad still hadn’t regained consciousness. Every time the doctors tried to rouse him and remove his ventilator tube (which apparently can’t be done unless a patient is awake), my dad’s body flailed “like a wild man” and he had to be sedated again. I’d asked them to wait for me before trying this maneuver, so I could try and “assist” with moral support, but my request fell on their proverbial deaf ears. Before I left the hospital Friday night, I reminded them that Saturday was my last day there and to please wait for me.

I knew Dad would be amenable to coming off the tube if I were there because of something that had transpired earlier on Friday. We were alone and I, exhausted but unable to nap at the hotel because I knew these might be the last days I’d ever spend with him, held his hand and stroked his hair. As I did so, I realized I’d done the same thing to my own three-year-old son when he was hurting. It came naturally.

I spoke calmly but firmly to him, telling him that I was there. His eyes began to move under their lids and flickered open ever-so-slowly; it was like watching a newborn foal stand for the first time. I willed him to somehow communicate with me, which of course he really couldn’t do verbally with a tube down his throat. He stared at the ceiling, unable to turn toward me. But as a tear fell down his cheek and his breathing changed, I knew he was happy I was there.

Sleep soon overtook him again.

On Saturday morning – my last day in Florida – I was in the I.C.U. as early as they’d allow. I held my father’s hand as he finally awakened from the Propofol. He looked panicked and mouthed, “don’t leave.” I could see the fear in his eyes, the confusion.

“I won’t leave, Dad.”

The doctor told him to exhale as they removed the tube, which was then followed by a lot of coughing up of phlegm. At one point my dad handed me a tissue filled with it, and I threw it away, not letting him see how it made me dry heave. The whole process was disturbing to me because my father wasn’t able to follow directions well and continued to try to speak as soon as the tube was out, even though they repeatedly told him not to. His voice was raspy and unrecognizable; it scared me. He also laughed repeatedly for no reason. I told him that if he didn’t stop speaking and laughing, they’d have to sedate him again, and we wouldn’t be able to have a proper visit. That did it.

I’m happy to say that the rest of that Saturday was what I’d hoped we’d get all along: time to catch up, for as long as he was up for it. What we said to each other is not something I wish to express in this essay; it’s only for me and my immediate family to know. But for me, that day also gave me a feeling of accomplishment…and closure.

Soon after my father’s release, and to the shock of many, he agreed to go to a rehabilitation center, where he stayed for several weeks. There he got exercise, solid meals and medical care he’d never really gotten before. Medicare and Medicaid picked up the cost, which was a relief to me, since I’m really not in the position to help him out financially. He’s in much better spirits now and seems determined to finally meet my son. His upbeat outlook reminds me of Dylan Thomas’s villanelle: I feel like Dad will “not go gentle into that good night,” but instead “rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Although my father’s back home now and a nurse no longer checks on him, Angel continues to assist both me and my father in making him comfortable. I’ve also advised him of senior services in his area, where he can have free meals and socialize with others. But he’s not only stubborn, he’s a tad misanthropic. Dad likes his solitude. It’s his choice whether or not to take advantage of these services, and I know there’s only so much I can do, but so far, I feel like I’ve done a lot. I think I can live with that.

Since I last saw my father on those difficult days in October 2012, his health hasn't improved.  Since he lives alone and keeps things close to the chest, I really don't know how much worse his COPD has gotten.

He was hospitalized twice more (that I know of) in the spring of 2013. These ICU readmissions took place a month apart, the second one over Father's Day. His friend, "Angel" called me on Father's Day to tell me. She also told me about the month before.  He'd told her not to worry me, since he didn't want me coming down to Florida again "for no reason."

Dad recently had a little family reunion with his father, brother and sister in Florida. They told me he was looking better, but he does still struggle to walk; he gasps for air.  He's also told me himself that when he goes shopping, he uses a cane to get to the front of the store, and then a motorized shopping cart to do his shopping. It kills me that he struggles so, yet there's just not much I can do.  His denial is a large part of the problem.

I call Dad regularly to check in on him, sending him pictures and drawings done by my 4-year-old son, Jack.  Whenever my dad doesn't answer the phone, though, I always wonder if he's still alive. It's hard to know the effect that's really having on my psyche. 

Debra Kirouac lives in Connecticut. She spent six years as a contributor to the Fairfield County Weekly, an alternative newspaper.  For them, she penned first-person comedic essays, reviewed plays performed at the Westport Country Playhouse, and participated in their annual Best of Fairfield County editions. Currently she is a contributor to the New York Press Club award - winning site, Woman Around Town, writing about everything from spending the evening with humorist David Sedaris to surviving a poorly-timed layoff with (fatalistic) humor and aplomb.  She’s also happy to have recently had a piece of fiction published in the Ultra-Short Story edition of the University of Maine’s literary journal The Binnacle.

Ms. Kirouac enjoys being strange and aloof, sitting in artsy-fartsy theaters with blue-haired old folks (it makes her feel young and hot), tripping down the stairs while holding her four-year-old son’s hand, and listening to Supertramp B-sides. 

In the past, Debra worked directly with singer-songwriter Michael Bolton and TV personality-entrepreneur Martha Stewart. That’s all she has to say about that.

Ms. Kirouac has a B.A. in Communications, and just realized this is starting to sound like a cover letter for a job.  But she does – she has a B.A., although it’s somewhere in the basement, stuffed in a box with other useless bric-a-brac.

If you’d like to read more of Debra’s work (who wouldn’t?!), check out the hyperlinks below:

Woman Around Town

Debra’s blog, Just Jack



feature image freedigitalphotos.net/tcj2020

Around the Pond with the Frog~Weeks Ending 2/9/14

Here's where I've been and what I've said the past couple of weeks:

• I talked about how hard it is going to be to move and leave behind the home where Joey lived and died. (This post was also featured on BlogHer.)
• I was at Mamalode talking about the moment I found out I was pregnant after Joey's death and how conflicted I was.
• I gave away a copy of The Cookie Jar Parable, by Binkies and Briefcases' Stephanie Giese. The giveaway is over, but you should check out this sweet book that helps explain death to children.
• I posted a review of the new Lego movie. 
• I welcomed another Grief Stories contributor to talk about losing a friendship.

I also have another post on Mamalode right now called "An Endless Series of Mondays." If you haven't read it yet, I'd appreciate if you would!

Stuff I loved from other bloggers:

• This post on trust and change from Shawnelle at My Five Sons. If you are doubting anything in your life, especially your faith, I promise she will make you see the beauty in it again. She is one of my favorite writers that makes me feel connected to my faith again - a matter that's been so hard for me since Joey's death.
• It's Olympics Time! But moms do their own version of the Olympics everyday.

Grief Stories~A Tale of Whys and What-Ifs

Today's Grief Story is something that I have experienced personally - the loss of a friendship. Two, in fact. I lost my two best friends shortly after college. Who knows why - was it silly girl stuff or something deeper? Thankfully, I have reconnected with both of them again (I guess that's one thing Facebook is good for). It doesn't always turn out that way, though, as our guest today has found. Losing a dear friend can leave you with a gaping hole in your heart, not so easily filled. Here is Sharon from Finding Vanilla Octopus to share her story.

picture source

I wish I had a tale to tell of a friendship that began in high school, lasted through school transfers, depression, college careers spanning two countries, and all of the heartbreak and joy that those experiences entailed; one that continued on as the two young girls reached womanhood, started families, shared their life adventures with each other. I only wish, because I had one that only almost did.

We had our share of big fights over the years, but the final one occurred in the summer before our senior year of college. I told her to “have a nice life,” and I thought I meant it, even as the heaving sobs overtook me before I'd even put down the phone. I didn't really want an ending, just a change, and though I'll never really know just what she wanted, I can guess by the final outcome. We've never spoken again.

That companionship lasted for eight years, and has been over for almost twelve. You'd never know it by the depth of sadness that I still feel when I think of her.

 

I thought that perhaps the ache would dull once I put all of the “firsts” behind me that, at one time, I felt sure she would be witness to: my wedding, my first pregnancy, the birth of my first child, the purchase of my first home. It hasn't really.

 

Then, I thought, as I forged new friendships and made new connections, that old memories of her would feel less relevant. They don't.

 

The dreams still come unbidden, in which I see her again after so many years. Sometimes ending badly, sometimes ending so happily that I wake up grieving for the loss of the fantasy. Poignant break-up songs still leave me feeling crushed and confused; though our relationship was platonic, my love for her was deep and enduring.

 

All the while, I wonder, wonder, wonder. What is her life like? Has she found happiness? Does she ever look back with regret, as I do? Can I even feel true grief anymore through the heavy veil of that regret, that desperate longing for a closure that will never manifest?

 

Though I don't imagine that the heartache is something that will ever leave me, some days I can look back and feel that I've come a long, long way from the worst of it. It's not so easy a perspective to keep when the pain comes calling again, but I've learned not to fight it. For every time I let the whys and what-ifs pull me under, I like to think I come back up again a little stronger, a little freer for the trial.



Sharon is a stay-at-home mom and referee to three babies, aged three and under. She tries to cram in blogging time as best she can in the midst of the chaos, for love of writing and the opportunity to share her amateur photography attempts. You can connect with her on her blog, Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus.

 

 

Around the Pond with the Frog~Weeks Ending 1/26/14

Some thoughts I shared this past month in the middle of this deep freeze:

• On the occasion of my third Blogiversary, I shared 13 Basic Tips for New and Wannabe Bloggers.
• Inspired by a novel I am reading, I shared ten events from the past decade that I would never want to forget.

I also have a post on Mamalode about goals and starting over and why Tuesdays always seem like Mondays for me. Head over and find out why.

After a long absence, Grief Stories was back, and it was one that touched my heart. Read Will I Ever Be Ready by Jessica of Domestic Pirate. You just may find yourself totally relating to her dilemma.

Finally, don't rely on Facebook to show you my latest posts (Facebook is being kind of a butthead right now to bloggers). You have three options: head up to the top of the page under the blog header. On the left in the green circles, you can click to subscribe via RSS feed (but I don't really understand that, so . . .) or you can subscribe via e-mail, though sometimes that lands in my spam folder. I think the easiest and most surefire option is on the right: Follow me on Bloglovin'.  It's super easy to sign up for an account, search for the blogs you love and regularly read, and you'll only get an e-mail when they post new content. It's my favorite way to follow all the blogs I read.


See you soon friends!!

Grief Stories~Will I Ever Be Ready?

After a long absence, Grief Stories is back! Today's contributor is Jessica from Domestic Pirate. She is sharing a dilemma that a lot of couples have: deciding to have another child or accepting their family as it is. For some, the answer is clear. But for others, what the heart wants and the mind accepts are two different things entirely. I love this post so much because I totally GET IT. Thank you for sharing this personal story with us, Jessica.

What do you do when your body and brain are at odds with your heart?

We've been telling people that, without a doubt, 4 children is plenty. This is it. We're done now.  Captain is absolutely sure. But, if I'm being honest with myself, for me, the feeling just isn't there.

I have always needed assistance to stop bleeding immediately after the birth of my babies. With The Kraken's gestation, my platelet count was low from the very beginning. When she was born, the nurses had to dump half a bag of pitocin into me and give me a double dose of cervadil to stop my massive bleeding.

Suffice it to say, childbirth is slightly more dangerous for me than the average woman.

My body has given clear signals that another pregnancy and childbirth would likely result in serious medical interventions. With four kids to care for already, an extended hospital stay would be awful for everyone.

I can look at my family and say, 'Yes, we are complete.'  My brain, hereafter referred to as sanity, is often at its limit already. I won't go into the list that every mom has ever posted about what she does with her day and what makes it hard. I will say that I know my limits, and they're stretched right now. So are Captain's. We know it won't necessarily get easier, but it will change as the kids get older, and we are eager to get 'out of baby jail,' so to speak.

So why is it so hard for me to accept that The Kraken is our last baby? When I think about never again feeling life stirring inside me, when I snuggle her, feel her frictionless skin, smell her sweet milky breath, watch her tiny fingers clutch mine, and remember the way it brought me such peace doing the same with each of my other babies, I feel a pang of despair. To know I will never experience this, in such depth, ever again breaks my heart.

This is the age I love the most. The sweetest, yet most fleeting.

The way it feels to have an infant cling to you.

The weight of a sleeping baby in your arms.

The rush of delight when the baby starts smiling at you.

The thrill of feeling your body naturally respond to the needs of a seeking mouth.

I don't ever want to stop experiencing it... but I have to, and it's devastating.

And, I understand now. I totally get carpe diem. I know why the youngest is forever treated like a baby. Because otherwise you have to let go. Letting go is admitting you'll never experience it again.  And that's such a hard pill to swallow.

So forgive me, as I become the lady who eagerly waits for an invitation to hold your new baby.  Understand that I won't be smelling your baby's head or kissing your baby's cheeks to be creepy, but to bring back the memories of what I used to have.

What I wasn't ready to let go of.

 How did you KNOW  you were ready to stop having children?

 

Jessica is the Domestic Pirate, Ren Faire Privateer Gone Mom. When she's not blogging about anything and everything, she's taking care of the Captain and their 4 Cabin Kids. She's obsessed with Facebook and Crossfit, and is convinced that the dough is always better than the cookie. You can also find her on Twitter and Pinterest.

 

 

 

 

Grief Stories~Sundays with Leonard

Today's grief story is that of a different kind. My sweet friend Anna from Random Handprints is sharing a story of a special friendship started to benefit the other person, which ended up having a lasting impact on her. She's sharing her story with us in the hopes that she inspires another friendship. Even though it's a grief story, it warms my heart.

When I was in my late twenties, I lived in Boston and spent my Sundays with Leonard.

 

Leonard was 80, lived alone, and except for Meals on Wheels and the visits from the home health aides, his social interaction consisted of: me.

 

I was a single woman - or as Leonard called me, "a career gal" which was really his way of saying "almost thirty and still not married."

I met Leonard through our local Friendly Visitors program, which paired volunteers with elderly folks who could use, well, a friendly visitor. The program mandated a visit of at least one hour, once a week. Being as I was a "career gal," I worked Monday to Friday and Leonard was an observant Jew, ruling Saturday out, leaving Sunday as our visiting day.

Sunday mornings I would give Leonard a call to let him know I was on my way, to see if I could stop for anything at the store, and then I'd grab "The T" from Boston out to Brookline making my way out to Leonard's apartment by around 11am. We would chat, I would help with a few small things around his apartment, and generally make sure he saw someone once a week, even if it was just for an hour, between 11 and 12.

I had been warned by the case manager when I first signed-up to for the Friendly Visitor program that sometimes the elders you were visiting wouldn't let you leave. But not Leonard. The second I said it was time for me to go he'd extort me to "Get outta the antique shop! Go! Go!" Some Sundays I would cancel, apologetically, and he would always reply, "What? You should be sorry for being young and having fun with your friends? Good-bye! Enjoy yourself! I'll still be here next week!"

After a few months of visiting, my Sunday stays got longer. Leonard, who was in poor health, could only walk with a cane, and with difficulty. At first, he would greet me at the apartment door and then retire immediately to the sofa. But in time, he began to take a walk to the bench outside his building and to wait for my arrival there. Eventually, he invited me to take a walk into town and that became part of our Sunday schedule. And in time, we even added lunch out together.

When the weather turned cold, we started watching old movies together - him for the second time, me for the first. Leonard would share where he'd been when he saw the flick the initial time around, and how it only cost twenty-five cents. I marveled that anyone could be - quite frankly - so old. His stories from his youth couldn't be more different than the ones from my own.

After about two years of enjoyable but perfectly uneventful Sunday visits, I lost my job. This was of course a crushing blow to me, but also to Leonard who was able to console himself with the fact I was single and approaching 30 by always referring to me as one of those "career gals."

Out of work, and with no prospects of work, I began going to visit Leonard two or three times a week, often staying the entire day. In the beginning my visits were strictly -- of course -- for the good of Leonard. If I wasn't working the least I could do was make myself useful around Leonard's place. Closets were organized and junk drawers were sorted. My newly found abundance of free time was being used wisely!

However, as anyone who has ever been unemployed can relate to, slowly but surely my peppy attitude began to diminish. After a few months, my jobless self showing-up at Leonard's place all the time had clearly become more about me and less about him. Gone were the cute career girl outfits I'd always put on to show the importance I placed on my visits to him. I started arriving disheveled, sometimes wearing gym clothes and sneakers (and not because I was coming over straight from the gym).

Instead of staying for an hour, I would stay a good part of the day, watching old movies and eating kosher Chinese food with a now 82-year-old man. While I'm sure he enjoyed my practically now constant company, Leonard began to take more and more of an interest in my future career prospects. He would clip job openings for me, call his friends, and friends of friends, asking around if anyone might be hiring, or might know someone who might be hiring a "really great career gal. You should see what she can do with the computer!"

The absurdity of the situation was not lost on me then, or now, reflecting back on it these 15+ years later. Somehow our friendly visitor roles had gotten terribly reversed.

 

Eventually, in time, I got a new job. And around the same time, a new boyfriend - a nice Jewish boy at that. He was even a lawyer! Leonard was overjoyed for me. Everything he had ever wanted for me was happening.

With the new job, and the new boyfriend, back came the cute outfits and the visits on Sundays, from 11 to 12. And not too soon after, the nice Jewish boy and I got married and moved out of Boston and to Manhattan.

For a while, I made visits back to Boston to visit Leonard a priority, but as I was still a career girl, and now a married career girl, the visits got spaced farther and farther apart. I wrote and called Leonard, but of course that's hardly the same thing. The one visit I did make sure happened was to bring our newborn baby, Molly, to meet him, her honorary Zadie, grandfather in Yiddish.

Shortly after that visit I received the heartbreaking news that Leonard had died. He was 85. It is impossible to put into words the sudden and shocking sadness I felt, and how long it lingered. Even today I still miss so much about him, both his kindness and his sense of humor. He was an interesting man to put it mildly, and it is one of the true honors of my life that I got to know him and his stories, and that he shared his hard-earned wisdom with me. 

 

A year after Leonard's passing our second baby was born, and there was no doubt that her Hebrew name would be an "L" for Leonard.

May his memory be for a blessing.

Being a Friendly Visitor was one of the greatest volunteer experiences in my life. I highly recommend finding a program in your area to make a difference in the life of an elder, as well as in your own.

Anna is a contributor to New Jersey Family magazine, Barista Kids, Wonders of Westfield, In the Powder Room and The Huffington Post. You can connect with her on her blog, RandomHandprints.com, on Twitter at @Anna_Sandler and on Facebook at /RandomHandprints and /InstructionsformyHusband.

 

 

Grief Stories~One Loss; One Diagnosis - Double the Grief

Sometimes it seems as if 'when it rains, it pours.' This was the case with Emily of Oh Boy Mom. After going through one devastating loss, she was shocked with another terrifying diagnosis. Just when she thought it was more than she could take, she realized she was receiving strength from a special person.

After almost a three-year battle with pancreatic cancer, my mother passed away right after her 75^th birthday on April 29^th. Although I knew she was fighting an incurable disease, I never expected her to succumb to chemotherapy toxicity, rather than the cancer itself. She had been in the hospital for almost six weeks and each day I was by her side. On the one day off I took, my brother called my cell phone with the dismal report: I think she’s nearing the end. My throat tightened and went dry. I raced into the city and the three of us sat vigil until her heart and lungs eventually gave out.

What I discovered soon after my mother’s death was that my grief was pure and un-complicated. I felt blessed to have had such an amazing role model and nurturing parent. I was able to cope and move on with my life. I missed her, but I was doing okay.

Until I experienced another knee-buckling phone call, with news that no parent should ever hear.

A mere two months after my mother’s death, my nine-year-old son was diagnosed with a rare, cancerous tumor in his bladder. Needless to say, our entire world was flipped upside down, as we quickly learned that our son would have to endure 46 weeks of chemotherapy in conjunction with radiation, surgery, or both. I was terrified of chemotherapy, not just because it meant cancer, but also because it contributed to my mother’s death.

I lost seven pounds in three days. I wasn’t sleeping. And yet, I managed to initially hold myself together, probably due to a combination of shock and adrenaline. It wasn’t until I was on the phone with my sister-in-law taking a break outside the hospital when I broke down.

“How am I supposed to go through this without my mom?” I wailed, making sure to be heard over the blaring New York City noise.

I had no idea how I would function without my mother - my biggest supporter - by my side. As it turned out, my husband felt the same way.

“We need your mom”, he said to me one night.

I looked at him, nodded, and then I cried.

 

My husband and I had each other to lean on of course, but we both felt very alone with this challenge. His family was not local and neither was mine, except for my dad, who was still mourning and vulnerable from losing his wife of 52 years. My dad was a huge help to us from a medical standpoint, but emotionally, he was still managing his own grief. I had a cousin and aunt in the area that continually offered to help us, but I knew they couldn’t replace my mom. I worried that their support would make me feel worse. I avoided their calls and sent emails to them that we were okay, even though we weren’t.

 

The friends that I had made in our wonderful community over the past decade immediately swooped in and rescued my husband and me, throwing us a life preserver before we drowned in helpless sorrow and worry. They brought us meals, gifts for my son, and anything else they thought would help sustain us. Naturally, my instinct was to call up my mom and tell her about the beautiful acts of kindness that were surrounding our family each day.

 

When news of our crisis first filtered out, I had one friend who said to me, “I don’t know why, but I think you’re being tested.”

 

I agreed with her, even though I searched for another reason why this was happening to our family so soon after losing my mom.

 

Was this God’s way of distracting me from my grief about my mother? I wasn’t a very religious person and neither was my mother. I could imagine her response to that theory: “oh please, that’s horse crap.”

 

I never considered myself to be a strong person. I was overly sensitive for sure, with feelings that could easily be hurt if someone spoke harshly to me or looked at me with disdain. I did not have the resilience for this. At all.

 

I suppose the upside is that I didn’t have time to think about my strength and capability too much. I had to act, not react. The early days of arranging my son’s medical care were a blur of tests, appointments, research, procedures, and finally starting treatment. Every mother wants to protect her child and in the face of a scary illness, you don’t want to reveal your own fear. I smiled, made jokes, and did everything possible to make our hospital visits into adventurous episodes, rather than a frightening ordeal. Most of the time, it worked. Sometimes, my son needed me to lay in bed with him and hug him. I realized I needed the cuddling just as much. But, other times, when his care was going smoothly and almost becoming routine, I’d crack jokes, be silly, and try to make his treatments “fun.”

 

And then it dawned on me: That’s what my mom did with me during her illness.

 

It all made a little bit of sense now. My mom was preparing me to be a courageous mother for my son, just as she had been for me. I know she’s proud of me now and every day I feel her smiling her trademark crooked smile, as my son and I walk hand in hand into the hospital, laughing and joking all the way there and back.

Emily is a writer and blogger at Oh Boy Mom. She is a mom to three boys,(ages 10, 13, and 16) and one girl dog. Emily is also an iced tea junkie and a tennis-playing fanatic whose game never improves. You can connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.

 

 

Around the Pond with the Frog~Weeks Ending 11/10/13

Here's what I wrote:

• I told the story of the small fire we had at our house as a cautionary tale (which my old stomping grounds, Her View From Home, cross-posted).
• I told the story of our first Halloween trick-or-treating with the boys.
• I shared the CheckedTwice giveaway. You have to check out this great site and enter for a chance to win $500 - both of which will make your holidays easier. You have until 11/18 to enter.

Here's where I was:

• I was asking "Why?" questions on the Sunshine After the Storm website (Remember, you can still get the book - just follow the Amazon link above).
• In my latest on Mamalode I talk about my response to those comments people make about moms and their kids.

Finally, my Grief Stories guest, Stacey from Nurse Mommy Laughs, was stealing hearts and causing tears with her heart wrenching story of losing her full-term baby.

Here's what I loved:

• This important post about doing the right thing in the face of bullying by Tara at You Know It Happens at Your House, Too.
• Some ecards at Sisterhood of the Sensible Moms.
• This analysis of the classic Wizard of Oz by Bethany at Bad Parenting Moments.
• This post about what a little child can teach us about finding the beauty in life by Michelle at They Call Me Mummy.

Grief Stories~You Quickened My Heartbeat

Today's Grief Stories contributor is Stacey from Nurse Mommy Laughs. You may remember that I guest posted for her a while back sharing ways to help a family cope with child loss. Now Stacey is opening her mama heart to us with the story of her first beautiful baby Emily and the unexpected tragedy she never could have imagined.

The day had finally come! I was to deliver my first child at 40 weeks and was scheduled to arrive the night before the morning of my inducement.  My husband and I were nervous, but terribly excited to meet our baby girl.  We had met her when we had our 4D scan at the OB/GYNs office and watched her wiggle around and suck her thumb for the camera. Little did I know that would be so important to us later.

9 months prior…

I had just married a wonderful man and since we were no spring chickens – in our thirties – we decided it would be best to start a family as soon as God thought it was time for us.  We knew of many friends who struggled with infertility problems, and we didn’t know if we would, so we decided it best to let nature take its course. What we didn’t know was that Mother Nature would come for a visit on our honeymoon!

Yes, that first week of marriage we conceived our child and after we got over the initial shock, we were ecstatic.  Why wait? We desperately wanted a family to fill our home.

Being a pediatric RN, I followed the baby books and instructions closely. No alcohol, no over-the-counter drugs, no smoking, not too much exercise - but enough to keep healthy, and watched what I ate (OK, sometimes I had to have Taco Bell, but the baby was demanding it!). The baby was growing at a perfect rate.

The only problem was I was retaining a LOT of fluid in my last trimester. My abdomen was gigantic and my cankles were like Frodo in the Lord of the Rings, with a little bit less hair.  When retaining this much extra water, medical advice is to drink more water to flush out the extra. But guess what?  I was a chipmunkesque whale, storing fluid for the drought.

My OB did every test imaginable to see what was wrong, but all tests came back negative. My blood glucose levels, BUN and creatinine, and my blood pressure stayed well within the normal range.  Plus, the baby was growing appropriately.

When my resting heart rate skyrocketed, I began to worry. Even if I was lying down watching dolphins swimming my heart rate, which for a normal person ranges from 60-80 beats per minute, was running around 130 bpm.  I felt as if I was on speed all the time.

My obstetrician sent me to a cardiologist who ran multiple heart tests finding a healthy heart, which happened to be racing a 5K at all times.  They said they didn’t need to do anything on their end and they didn’t think it should hurt the baby.

So I tried to keep my feet up and not overexert myself the last few weeks of pregnancy. I had weekly appointments to see the OB (maybe more, I can’t remember) and she would check my blood pressure and the baby’s heart rate. They were fine. My heart rate…CRAZY!  But still sent me home.

Ten days before I was to deliver, I was at home getting the house ready. Of course, my husband and I decided to remodel the kitchen during my pregnancy. I went upstairs to lie down in bed because I had been standing too long, was hungry and angry that no one was feeding me, plus there was NO KITCHEN WITH FOOD!!

As soon as I got into bed, a hormonal whoosh like none other came over me. It is indescribable. Except to say that the largest tears poured down my face and I didn’t think I would ever be able to stop.  My husband came in to check on me and found me in this state and was scared. I told him I was just hungry.  But I also knew that I hadn’t felt the baby kick in a few hours.

He brought me back some food and juice to give the baby some sugar to jolt her back into moving around, and I called the doctor’s office.  They said to give sugar or caffeine and to see if it made her start kicking again. Thankfully, as I was rolling over, I felt her move and tears of joy helped soothe me a bit.

Three days later, one week before my scheduled delivery, I went to the obstetrician, and she listened to the baby’s heartbeat. I remember saying, “That doesn’t sound like her.”  But the kind OB patted my hand and reassured the stressed-out first-time mom that the baby’s heartbeat was 135 bpm and that was where she should be.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! went my heart monitor as I lie in the hospital bed with quiet hubby smiling beside me. The nurse was doing her normal small talk as she kept readjusting the heart monitor band around my belly to pick up the baby’s heartbeat. 

“Maybe you need to get another belt?” I politely suggested. Not trying to be pushy, but I was very pregnant, nervous, and annoyed that I got the newbie nurse.

When she left, I told my husband if she couldn’t get it right with the next belt, I’m calling in the nurse manager for somebody competent.

The same nurse entered with the “backup nurse” and they both attempted to get the new belt to work. No luck.

“Could you please send in the nurse manager?” I asked suppressing agitation.

The second nurse in the room answered, “I’m the nurse manager. We are having difficulty with our machine, so we are going to call in an outside radiology tech to do a special test.  Unfortunately, since it’s night, it might take her awhile to get here.”

Then everything went blurry and my life turned into vignettes of time:

• “I’m so sorry. Your baby didn’t make it. You will need to deliver the baby in the morning,” said some random doctor.
• Crying with frustration, “Can I still have an epidural and extra drugs now since it won’t hurt the baby?”
• Calling our parents on the phone and matter-of-factly telling them their grandbaby was dead.
• Seeing all four of my bridesmaids show up unannounced to help me deliver my precious baby.
• Sitting in a supply closet in the middle of the night after giving “birth” to my baby, I rocked behind the nurses’ station; holding her, cleaning her face and hands, and sobbing uncontrollably for hours.

Planning a funeral for your child is a necessary part of healing for a parent, but I sure can’t remember that one. I know who attended only because of the sign-in book. However, once a year, with a tear-stained face, I read those hundreds of names and am thankful for their gift of showing support to us.

We are facing what would have been Emily’s 10^th birthday. A lot has happened since then. I gave birth to 2 other precious girls, 14 months apart…the following year!

And…I had to quit my job as a pediatric nurse. I gave the excuse I wanted to spend more time with my girls. That was part of it, but grieving is a powerful beast and can be all consuming. Mixed with post-partum hormones and two new babies, I just couldn’t handle it all.

I needed to find the joy in my life again. I wanted to laugh like I had before Emily ascended to heaven, leaving God and me weeping. So one day when my babies were asleep, I started a blog.  I called it, “Nurse Mommy Laughs.” Now I would have a sense of hope, promise and a daily reason to laugh.  I had to. It was my job.

Thankfully, my blog no longer feels like a job. Nurse Mommy Laughs saved my life, my family and my marriage many times. My blog’s tagline of “cause laughter is the best medicine” was true for me and hopefully for others.

Through much counseling, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety medications and talking about Emily as much as I could were the main things which helped me heal. I will always be Emily’s mom and I will always cry when I smell a Star Lily, but every year gets easier for the new me.

March 30, 2004, my former self died, but I’m happy to say I’m starting to like the new me – a mother of three girls, two here on earth and one in heaven.

 

 Stacey is a former musical theatre starlet and pediatric RN, who turned her love of laughter and theatrics into her favorite career yet. You can connect with her on her award-winning blog, on Facebook, and on Twitter.

 

Around the Pond with the Frog~October Wrap-up

Whew, is it almost the end of October already?!

I think I changed my mind about doing a monthly wrap-up. That's too much to keep track of. Plus, I can't pimp out my wonderful bloggy friends because I can't remember what they wrote. So, I think I'll try every two weeks now. Hey, my blog, my crazy mind.

Here's what happened during the month of October:

• I was very honored to be asked to contribute to a book for grieving parents. Of course I'm excited to finally have an author page on Amazon; but helping others work through their grief is really what it's all about. Snag your copy by following my Amazon link at the top of the page.
• Speaking of helping others, I was thrilled to be able to present almost $1,000 worth of classroom supplies to teacher and fellow blogger Courtney of Our Small Moments. If you haven't checked out her blog yet, you must. Her writing is beautiful and real and her photographs are amazing.
• I wrote a poem for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.

I also made the rounds around the www. Here's where I was:

• At Outsmarted Mommy sharing how I'm part of a mom club I never wanted to join.
• I shared the story of my three miscarriages on Her View From Home for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.
• I was at Mamalode again sharing a Vent about the things I've heard over and over since becoming a mom. My answer will make you feel good.

And finally, I had two powerful Grief Stories posts from amazing bloggers willing to open their hearts to us:

• This one about how a spouse's illness can rock us to the core.
• And this one about how early miscarriage is sometimes the hardest kind of all because often the mama suffers silently.

Stuff I loved from other bloggers:

• This simple list of ways to tell your son you love him by Building Boys.
• This beautiful reminder that faith and wonder are right where you need them to be when you need them.
• This hilarious reminder from Karen at Baby Sideburns that all moms are in the same boat, so just knock off the Judgy McJudgy crap. (Check out her new book while you're at it!)

Have a very fun, happy, and safe Halloween everyone!! xo