Lessons on Grief

Last night my son learned about grief and regret. It was a difficult lesson for a five year old, but instead of feeling awash with sadness that he was learning this lesson so young, I felt proud. Proud of his capacity for feeling, proud of his ability to evaluate himself and his actions, and proud of his new found compassion.

Our dog, Reef, is 13 1/2 and probably won't be with us much longer. I have been putting off taking her to the vet because she didn't seem to be in pain and I couldn't imagine what they could really do for her at her age. Last night, however, I sat down next to her and put my hand on her and felt her tremble. She has always been a bit of a trembler, but this was different. I realized that she was in pain, just silent pain. I started to think about what that meant and I realized that I would have to take her to the vet and they would likely say that we should put her to sleep. The twins were sitting with me, watching my every move, aware that something was happening, but not sure what it was. I put my head on her head and began to murmur to her and caress her as my tears began to fall. Soon little hands were on my face and next to mine on Reef's head. The twins were bent over, peering into my eyes and mimicking my caresses for Reef. This only made me sob harder and eventually Kyan walked in and asked what I was doing.

I have to admit that, these days, it is a rare sight to see me sitting on the floor petting Reef. She has been with me for more than 13 years, since she was 5 months old. She has traveled with me, she has moved cross country with me, she has flown to and from Hawaii with me, she has been shipped to live with my parents in Ohio briefly when I couldn't find an apartment that allowed dogs, and then back again when I found a new home. She was my baby. Until I had a baby. Then everything changed. The truth is that I was never a dog person, but the morning I found Reef my then boyfriend pulled into the Humane Society in Boulder, Colorado after we had a hungover breakfast at a local greasy spoon. I moaned because I didn't think my stomach could handle the stench of the dog pens, but I reluctantly followed. I remember walking up and down the rows of cages, disinterested, queasy, and unaffected. Until I saw Reef. There she was all cute and cuddly and wagging her tail for dear life. She was clearly out of place and she was BEGGING for someone to save her. I called my boyfriend over and we knelt down to stroke her nose as she stuck it out of the cage and wagged her tail so frantically that I half expected her hind end to lift from the ground in mock flight. We immediately asked if we could take her outside to the visiting pens and bring his dog in from the car to meet her. The attendants agreed and informed us that she had only been put in the pens about 10 minutes before we walked through the door. She had just arrived that morning. We took her outside and the people in other pens began staring at her, whispering, nudging...they ALL wanted her! She was a stand out among mutts. She looked like a dalmation, but with muted spots and a chunkier tail. She was sweet and docile and terribly loving. We fell in love, but I immediately began making logical arguments against taking her home. We were about to move in together, but the move wasn't taking place for about 3 weeks and I could not have dogs in my apartment. He lived in a very small place with his dog and couldn't add another to the mix. We reluctantly handed her over, but had the foresight to put a hold on her in case we could figure out a way to make it work. We were the first hold. By the time we left there were 10 names under ours. We had 48 hours to make a decision. I agonized over it for about 36 hours and finally realized that I couldn't live without her.

I brought her home to my "no dogs allowed" apartment with cream colored carpets and a great view. She immediately shat on the floor. What ensued was a 24 hour battle and in the end I called my boyfriend and told him we would have to take her back. She shat and peed on every inch of cream colored carpet and EVERY time she did I would run her down 3 flights of stairs to the patch of lawn out front and cross my fingers that no one would see us! It was maddening! He talked me into giving it a little more time and I gave in only if he agreed to stay at my place and shoulder the burden with me. Somehow we made it through those first days and decided to keep her.

I used to sleep with her spooned on my bed, ride with one hand stroking her back while driving, cuddle with her on the couch, and coo in her silky ears.

When Kyan came along, however, I had a fairly intense bout of anxiety the first weeks he was home. During that time I began to see her as a threat or a hazard to my sweet, clean, fresh little baby. Her hair was on his clothes, her nails came too close to his eye when she pawed at him in affection, and god forbid she should sit on him! Eventually the crazy wore off, but something about how I looked at Reef changed. She had been the stand in for my baby for years, but now that I had my baby he was my focus. It wasn't a conscious shift, but I see it clearly now.

In the five years since Kyan was born Reef has been shoved aside and neglected, not in a cruel way, just in a  shrug of the shoulders, nothing to be done, these things happen kind of way. I yelled at her more, telling her to lay down, or leave the kids' food alone, or get out of the way while she tripped me carrying multiple babies or knocked a newly walking child to his feet. Kyan watched these interactions without my knowing that he was watching them and he began to imitate them. He began to yell at her and call her names and get visibly angry at her when he was about 3 or 4. He has taught the twins to react to her in the same way, even stopping them when they pet or cuddle her. I take full responsibility for his actions.

Last night, however, when I stopped and let myself feel the pain of losing her, imagining my life without Reef in it, Kyan saw that, too. He stopped and he stared at me and I saw the questions in his eyes; I saw the intelligent rendering of understanding. Then he said, "Mama, are you crying?"
"Yes," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
"Well," I began, sighing deeply, knowing that in this moment I might be able to make up for the damage I had caused in his young mind, "I don't think Reef will be with us much longer and that makes me very sad."
Again, the look of startled understanding and searching eyes.
"You know what, when I kicked Reef earlier, I kind of felt sad, too," he returned. I sighed. Another reminder that I had taught him to be cruel and heartless, though he doesn't really "kick" her, he pushes her away from him with his foot when she comes to the table looking for food, and I have NEVER kicked her or hit her in any way.

I called him to me and he came with eyes brimming to sit in my lap. I gave him a kiss on the head and asked if he had any questions. "Yes," he said, "will we recycle her?"
I laughed a little, remembering a conversation we had had a couple of weeks ago about death and his suggestion that people should be recycled.
"No," I said, but then, "Well, I guess in a way we will. Her body will be empty, not alive anymore, so we will bury it in the earth and it will become a part of that earth and she will be a part of everything that grows up from the dirt, part of the trees, the flowers, the grass..."
"So, she'll be a flower?" he interrupted.
"Not really, but EVERY flower in that dirt will come from some part of her, will grow stronger in the dirt that she is mixed with. Does that make sense?" He nodded his head in awe and began to cry a little while glancing down at her with a sideways look as if he didn't know how to express these new feelings toward her.
"Mama, I didn't want to be mean to her, it's just that I didn't really know her that well," he said in a pleading voice.
"Kyan, it's okay. None of us gave Reef as much love as she deserved. It happens. We were all busy and our house is kind of crazy. You know what we can do to make up for it?" He shook his head miserably. "We can give her more love than she will ever need for as long as she is with us, does that sound good?"
He started to sob softly and shook his head yes. I put my arms around him and held him close and kissed him over and over until he jerked away, sobbing, and said, "NO! Love her, Mama, give her kisses." I began to sob softly, too, and we both leaned over her and kissed her head and stroked her ears.

Eventually, I had to get up to tend to the twins' bedtime, but Kyan stayed on her bed, awkwardly petting her and gazing with sadness at me every now and then. Finally, he picked her head up, looked into her eyes and then began a shuddering sob. He ran to me on the couch and buried his head in my chest while I lifted him to my lap. I held him and he sobbed and sobbed. I felt sad, but I also felt so very proud of him. So proud of the change he had just undergone, and the strength and compassion with which he was now carrying himself. I felt like he had matured so much in just a few minutes. I held him until he stopped sobbing and he sat with me gazing solemnly at his brothers while I read them their bed time stories.

Finally, he couldn't stand the air of normalcy and he begged, "Mama, tell Ronan. Tell Ronan." I tried to explain that the twins were too young to really understand, but he kept insisting, so I said, "Ronan, Reef is going to die. Probably soon." Ronan just looked at me and said, "Ok." I looked at Kyan and he turned to Ronan and pleadingly began to explain, "Ronan, that's NOT good. We won't see Reef anymore, Ronan. It is NOT good. Do you understand?" Ronan just smiled nervously. I hugged Kyan tighter and my heart felt full and sad.

While we were putting the twins to bed Kyan went into his room and got his favorite fleece sheet with sheep and moons and clouds and he brought it out and covered her up and lay down next to her under the sheet. Ben and I found him that way and we kissed his head and let him lay there until he was ready for a story and bed.

Today Reef ate breakfast and she seems alright, but I know, I know it won't be much longer. I've waited for that knowing, and now that it is here it hurts more than I expected. Her death will be hard for us all, but she has lived a long full life. She has traveled the country, welcomed three babies, and swum in many waters. She had a good life, even if the latter years weren't her best. Kyan will mourn her and somehow that warms my heart. He will remember this for the rest of his life and I think it will affect him in some unexpected ways. I marvel at his capacity for compassion and remorse and I am awed by his ability to change. I learned a lesson, too, just one more gift that Reef brought to my life.

Living in the Present

My present is as glorious as it is mundane. It is pleasing everyone and pleasing no one. It is poop on the floors, on the patio, on the rug, on the bed, on the tiny little feet padding into the room to say, "Mommy, I poop."

It is moments where patience escapes me entirely and I raise my voice to an uncharacteristic pitch only to be met with three little boy voices in stereo mimicking my tone and teaching me a lesson all in one tiny phrase flowing from the mouth of a two year old: "you bad, Mommy, you bad."

It is cooking dinner with a glass of wine, chatting with a friend at the kitchen table, running out in to the yard to rescue the hose swinging like a lasso and spraying everyone in sight, and then stepping in the poop on the patio and hearing the dreaded phrase, "I poop, Mommy, I poop."

It is wandering the aisles of the supermarket staring at labels, looking at ingredients, calculating the nutrients, agonizing over protein content, separating the toddlers pulling each other's hair in the car cart that barely navigates the corners, and losing the five year old to the display of fruit.

It is waiting like a clock watching fool for the front door to open, relief to come, smiles to gleam, boys to run to someone else and grab his legs, extra hands to change the diaper or clean up the poop that fell out of it.

It is a moment to wash dishes alone that feels like heaven even as I rush to finish before little feet come padding naked from the bath and soon three sets run races around the table laughing and screaming, their towels streaming behind them like capes.

It is reading book after book before ecstatically laying the sweet, sweaty boys into their beds and drowning them with kisses and then breathing deeply as the door snaps shut.

It is stories of antics and successes flying over the mouth of beer bottles and drowning in the glasses of wine, so exhausted that we fight to stay awake an hour longer than the children and then give up the fight and collapse into bed praying that we will stay there all night.

It is an alarm clock that yells, "Mommy!" at 5 am and continues with a cry from the other crib and then is met with a loud, "Hello!" from the other room...it is up and moving and running and dressed and eating by 6 am and wondering how to keep them entertained until the first place opens at 9 am.

It is occasional nights away circling with women who make me feel like I am not alone in the world, having dinner and drinks with my husband and remembering what being alone feels like. It is sneaking away every now and then after a quick and messy dinner, leaving behind naked bottoms that need to be diapered and dishes that need to be washed, so that I can stretch my body in yoga or expand my mind while writing in another circle of women, of acceptance, of creative flow and leaving there exhausted but full of love and hope and pages in a journal.

It is morning play dates with other tired mamas, coffee in hand ,jumping up and down to tend to the children and never missing a beat in the conversation about our next big challenge or the most annoying thing or the way our children have turned us into crazy people.

It is, above all, about love.
Exhausting, fulfilling, overwhelming, magical, unconditional, painful, messy, loud, chaotic, silly, desperate, unending love for each and every person who makes the days pass by on the calendar like water through a funnel and brings me eventually to a tomorrow where I will look back and long for the joy of today.