Moving On...

Those words have a double meaning in our life these days...

The first is a feeble explanation of our path to finding our way back to "normalcy" without our Chester-boy. Is there an acceptable time for grieving the loss of a furry member of your household? I feel the world readily hands you an empathetic handkerchief for maybe a week or ten days, and then your allotted time for pet-grief is over and you are expected to jump back in the saddle and carry on.

But the hole is still there. Still deep. Still smarting. Our life is not the same. Nor will likely ever be, yet, each day we try to slap on a bandaid and pretend that all is well. Yes, we're so grateful to still have our little Caroline, God bless her, but she is not a dog who connects with you. She's not loyal (if you let her lick you as long as she wants, you shoot instantly to the top of her "favorite persons" list...until the next person lets her lick them with abandon...). She's not really attached to either one of us. Sometimes it seems she's more excited for a stranger walking by our door than she is for us to get home from work. She doesn't sense human emotion. She doesn't really care if she pleases you or not. She isn't a cuddler. She isn't a comforter. She isn't obedient. She's just her own dog, doing her own thing, and at best, she's happy to have a roof and some food each day (I guess?) so she can go back to doing her own thing.

She's cute. She's sweet. She isn't Chester.

So moving on also looks like accepting her for who she is, and not being constantly disappointed in what she's not.

I guess it's getting a little easier? It ebbs and flows.

Strangely, when Chesterberry left us, all my words seemed to just dry up without warning. Somehow the part of my heart that he resided in shut down the epicenter of creativity. And once he was gone, there wasn't anything left that wanted to write, make music, dream, take pictures, arrange flowers, to do anything that usually brings me such daily creative joy and fulfillment.

But now that paralysis is starting to slowly lift. Like a spring thaw, I feel the urge to tap into that part of me again. And it helps me feel so much more like myself. I'm grateful.

The other "moving on" in our life is quite literal. As the time frame to build our new home narrowed to a sliver and then sealed itself away within the constraints of our floft lease, we decided to turn our attentions to existing houses that needed renovation work.

We've looked at a fair few now. Some were snatched right out from under us, others needed more imagination than even I could muster (and I've got quite the healthy imagination! ha!), and some were simply the dreaded word: fine. Oh may I never be accused of settling for something that is "fine" in my life.

There is this one though... She spoke to us the minute we walked through the door. But then our practical friends and advisers (and bank account) started drowning out her voice... Inside she's looking mighty fine for her age: just shy of 100. But outside, she's rather an ugly duckling, with mostly ugly duckling neighbors.
Sure, there are lots of interior concessions too: greenish granite I'm not fond of...three separate entrances to the master bathroom(???)...two doors that lead to nowhere...a gas log fireplace (wood burners unite!!)...a huge front porch that needs to be fully redone...oh, and stairs...did I ever mention that stairs and I are arch enemies?

A Pride and Prejudice quote comes to mind: "But all this would be nothing...if you truly loved him(her)..."

Is she practical? No. Is she pretty? Not outside. Is she tiny? Definitely not. Is she an enormous risk that we might end up hugely regretting? Heck yeah. But in a roundabout way she still manages to tick a lot of the boxes on our list. And beyond all that, remember,

she speaks to us.

So.

We'll see where the next week takes us. We have four other homes to look at on Monday, and then we really should make a decision on this old girl. Unless of course someone else has, before we're through with all our characteristic hemmin' and hawin'...

One foot in front of the other...Right?! We're movin' on.

5 Ways You Can Help Someone Through Loss

So many of you sweet people have offered to help if we need anything during this time while the sting of losing our beloved Chester is so very raw and painful. That's such a hard question to answer in the moment though... It's tough to know how to articulate what your heart needs when you can barely put two sentences of thought together in your mind thanks to all the emotional trauma you're drowning in.

I remember feeling the same way when my grandmother passed away. People kindly offer, you really feel like you DO indeed need help, but you can't piece together an answer, and certainly don't want to be an imposition on anyone. Asking for/admitting that you desperately need the hand of human kindness extended to you is tough, even in the best of times. When you're in the midst of one of life's greatest challenges, it's nigh on impossible.

Last night as I lay awake at 4 in the morning wishing/praying/hoping to hear Chester's early morning "I'm awake and need to go to the bathroom" whimper and then couldn't go back to sleep, I really tried to give this some thought. I know how much I've wanted to be of help to those going through intense pain and loss over the years, but never really knew what to do, so I just offered the proverbial, "Please let me know if you need anything..." and never heard back from anybody, ever. - Now I know why. The very act of gathering ones thoughts, and reaching out for specific help is so insurmountably exhausting when your heart is sitting on the floor in a million pieces that it's just easier to remain in your grief and need, alone.

So, how can you help?

First, keep in mind that everyone grieves differently. These are just some ideas that I think might be universally welcomed; practical ministrations, fully initiated by those who love and desire to support the bereaved, without any decision making or reaching out required on the part of those who are painstakingly walking through the valley of the shadow.

+ Send Cards.
It is wonderful and comforting to hear everyone's immediate condolences when something bad happens, but the reality is, grief lasts a loooooong time. And starts to feel incredibly lonely after the first few days when everybody has forgotten about you and has gone back to their regularly scheduled programming. Sending cards helps those well-wishes, sympathies, and gentle thoughts extend a little further into the difficult journey those left behind must travel. And if you want to really bless somebody's socks off, set a reminder on your phone or calendar to send another card on the anniversary of the death the following year.

+ Send Food.
Especially for people who have special dietary needs like us (b/c they likely don't have a freezer full of frozen pizzas to live off of while they get their feet back underneath them), thinking about shopping for and preparing food seems impossible when it takes all the energy you can muster just to get yourself from the bed to the couch. For someone to bring over food, unbidden - even if it's just picked up from a local restaurant - is such a practical, life-giving, wonderful help. In the earliest days, those grieving may not really have any appetite at all. I know I couldn't eat a thing for 24 hours after my boy left this earth, and even today, I can only barely keep down light fare. So maybe dropping by some nutrient-rich smoothies, sippable soups, or the like would be best for those first agonizing days. If you plan to deliver your gift, text or e-mail ahead of drop off and ask if they would prefer for you to just leave it on their front stoop and run. Some people may truly be encouraged by a close friend or two stopping by for a cup of tea to condole (the extroverts, likely), and others would much rather be left to themselves (like us introverts). Certainly give them the option. Something that has caused me much anxiety is worrying that well-wishers might drop in unexpectedly. A surprise visitor in this instance, is nearly always unwelcome - often the bereaved aren't able to get out of their pajamas all day, their house might be a neglected wreck, and their eyes so puffy they can barely see...to muster up the energy to converse and paste a fake smile on, even for a minute, is truly asking too much of their weary soul. Side note: If you live out of town, you can still investigate local restaurants or food delivery services that can drop off some nourishment to your loved one's door. Food is always such a messenger of love and care.

+ Share Your Memories.
I'd never thought about this before, but something that has brought such a smile to our hearts has been hearing from people who have known and loved Chester right along with us through the years, and their taking the time to share fond memories they have of him. Whether it was how he always happily greeted my piano students by the door then settled down in his bed (and sometimes under the piano bench covering the pedals) to listen to their music, or comforted a sister when she was having a really rough day, how people enjoyed reading Chester's blog that he "wrote" for a time, how good he was for his groomer, how impressed his trainer was with the progress he made throughout his time in training school (even as an older dog), how his undeniable charm made a friend want to adopt her own little fuzzy lap dog, how encouraging his vet was of how long we advocated for him and loved him through his unbelievably difficult journey, how others saw the loyalty and attachment he felt toward us... all of those things have been a sweet balm to our hurting hearts. Especially since the last year or two have been such challenging ones and through that time his personality was altered so much by his illness, being able to remember what a special treasure of a pup he was for most of his life has been so healing.

+ Give Them Something To Look Forward To.
Life looks pretty bleak as you face the never-ending lists of firsts without your loved one - human or four-legged, you're reminded of them every time you turn around, and more than anything, just. want. them. back. Life without them all of a sudden turns everything a shade of black and gray and you wonder how you will ever laugh again. So why not give your grieving friend something to look forward to in the future? Maybe movie or concert tickets? Maybe a massage or manicure? Maybe a gift certificate to a favorite restaurant? They desperately need these things that bring them joy in their life, but chances are, they are hurting too much to actually pursue them on their own. So give them the extra push to start rediscovering joy, when they're ready.

+ Send Flowers.
The classic symbol of friendship and sympathy. And it is for a reason. Sending flowers that remind you of the deceased, or those that quietly speak love and comfort to those left behind are such a beautiful tribute. This isn't the time for loud and crazy "cheer up" bouquets. It is a time for sweet and simple peace. If you have the option to send plants that outlast cut flowers, your thoughtfulness will be doing it's work of comfort long into the grieving process, even more so if you elect to send a dried wreath or something similar that will last forever in memorium.

Whatever you decide to do to help comfort your grieving friend or family member, don't wait for them to ask. They really can't. But they will remember forever whatever way you chose to reach out to love them deeply in their time of need.

We Didn't Know.

Our Chester,

     We didn't know that today would be your last. The last time we would wake up at 5am to walk you, the last time you would whine for your breakfast (or try to steal your sister's), the last time you would ring the bells to go outside, the last time you would kiss us with your wet nose, or snuggle into our shoulder in the way that no other puppy on the planet could. I don't think we would have ever been ready to let you go, but today, I most certainly wasn't. It was too soon. You were too young. 

     But today was also the last horrible seizure that you had to endure. The way they ravaged your body broke our hearts every time. It was your last day to struggle through life on your poor shunted liver. The last bit of stress and anxiety that you had to feel. The last tremors. The last times you had to collapse because you could no longer stand, and your poor bony hips hit the hard floor with a thud for the last time too. The last day of confusion, and trying to shake the fogginess from your head. The last time you had to fall face first into your food bowl...

      Had we known it would be your last, I feel like we would have treated you differently today... Let you sleep in our bed (even if we wouldn't have gotten any sleep), given you steak for breakfast, that kind of stuff. But I know it would have been more for us than for you. I don't think enough of you was even still here to notice. I do hope though, that you knew how very much we loved you Chesterly. We tried to give you the best life possible with all of your physical problems, and did everything we could to help. We hope you loved being a part of our family as much as we loved having you. You understood me in a way very few humans ever have, and we shared so much of the same temperament. You were my perfect match...me, in canine form. And you were always there with willing comfort and empathy. We are thankful for all the joy you brought us - all your spunkiness - especially in your younger years. Nothing made us smile more than watching you have fun!

     I so dearly want to live a life of no regrets, but it's so hard to think that our move may have caused the escalation of your illness. I'm so, so sorry for that my dear boy... I wish we would have taken you on more of the adventures that you loved, but Caroline's carsickness caused us to often leave you both home. I'm sorry for that too. I'm sorry for the times we lost patience and yelled at you in the early mornings. We know now that much of your anxiety these last few years was likely out of your control. I wish we had more pictures of you, of us. The photographer in me will regret that until the day I die. But even with those regrets, and even for all of the pain that I feel today as you took your last breath on earth, I wouldn't have traded having you as our pooch for anything in the world. 

I love you. 

I miss you.

Wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge, k? I can't wait to snuggle you again,

     

                       Your Ma

My Chesterberry

This dog.

The first one that was ever mine (if you don't count the stray Sheltie I convinced my parents to adopt who promptly chewed up everything made of wood in the garage in appreciation for a roof over his head and a warm cozy bed...).

I was never really a "dog person". Not like most people are. I preferred the moodiness of cats. Their independence, and lack of smell (we were oft admired for our saavy catpan-odor-masking prowess), drool, and noise. I didn't particularly enjoy being licked in the face (or feet), and jumped on while being begged for attention. I didn't like the neediness of always having to let a dog out to potty (*cough* 5:00am *cough*), or having to get sitters when we traveled. 

But somehow, that all changed when we met our first Bichon Frise. His name was Spencer, and he was the perfect mixture of refined snobbery and fun carefree playfulness - i.e. a dog/cat hybrid. My husband and I were both instantly smitten.

Fast forward a year or so, and we found ourselves traveling to Maryland to meet a Bichon puppy who had been found abandoned along the side of the road with his sister. His hair was all knotted, overgrown, and full of briers, but his eyes were full of sweet trusting love and the longing for a forever home. 

We fell for that sweet little boy, and brought him back to live with us on a cold February day. We named him Chester Spring Alabaster Dunker III - Chester, Chesterly, Chesterberry, Ches, Chester von Schauzer, Chesterberizniah, etc., etc., for short. He was so typically Bichon: incredibly smart, incredibly stubborn, a bit moody, extremely silly, unendingly affectionate, very intuitive, and the world's best cuddler. 

Somehow we survived the long road of housebreaking a Bichon (many, many say it can't be done, but I promise you, it CAN - it's just not a task for the faint of heart!), obedience training, crate training, and adding so many tricks to his arsenal that he adored both learning and performing. He understands complete sentences, loves to make us laugh, adores travel and adventure, and has a personality the size of Texas.

Along with all of this though, came some dark storm clouds in the form of unusual health issues, likely through the inbreeding of puppy mills (though we are  unable to be sure of his past). Chester was always that 1 in 1 million who got every strange ailment, had every bad side effect from every medicine, dealt with anxiety and allergies, has disordered eating habits, and has stumped so many veterinarians throughout the years...

Only recently have we discovered that underlying many of his issues is a shunted liver...a birth defect that affects his bodies ability to process nearly everything. Including medication. Which ties our hands conventionally in most every difficulty he faces.

But he is worth this bumpy road. He has brought so much joy to our life. So many smiles. So much laughter. So much comfort. So much fun.

Having him as a part of our family has been harder than I ever imagined owning a dog could possibly be. And finding him a new place to live has been on the table multiple times, when we didn't think we could handle the load and strain any longer. His medical bills have been astronomical. The lack of sleep has taken a toll on our marriage and our general pleasantness to be around by spells. Being stuck at home to care for him and having to miss out on events, date nights, and even just getting everyday errands done has been really, really tough. But we always come back to the fact that WE were the ones chosen to care for him. We were the lucky recipients of his abundant love, loyalty, and affection. He needed people who wouldn't give up on him just because his body was "broken". Who would hold his paw all the way to his finish line. Who would still love and care for him, even though he could be a pill sometimes. I know not everybody would've stuck it out this far. And many of you probably think we're crazy for the commitment we have to this dog. But he is ours, and we want to care for him well, and make him feel safe and at peace until the end.

The end. I hate even typing those words. We don't know when it will be for him. Some days it seems much closer than others. He continues to struggle, but somehow, seems to still love life through it all. On days he can barely stand for his seizures, inbetween them he is happy and chasing his sister Cherry, whining for his next meal, or cuddling up on my shoulder. And as long as he is happy and not in pain, we will do whatever we can to ease his burden.

Not exactly what I thought the road of dog ownership would be like, no, not by a long shot. But who are we to question? It is ours to live. To love. To do the best we can with what we've been given.

And I'm so glad we've been given you, Chesterly.