Much can be said about those who demonstrate compassion and kindness

Tonight, I resolve to write and write and write until I become so tired that I am unable to type another key. My hope is that time spent writing will be more constructive than randomly contemplating all of the many thoughts, ideas, and emotions bouncing around in my mind.

I am slowly becoming accustomed to the oh-so-quiet walk to the bus stop to fetch Eamon after school. Malachy always enjoyed the trek down the cul-de-sac to await Eamon's return. I delighted in telling Malachy to look for the bus at which point he would turn his head toward the corner where the bus would turn onto the street toward our stop. As Eamon exited the bus, Malachy would begin to excitedly wag his tail and pull ahead toward Eamon. I noticed that Mal would always seem to have a bit more pep in his step as we returned to the house. After all, one more member of his pack had returned home. :)

I have attempted to *groom* Madeline to be my new "walk to the bus stop" partner. This will take some time. Actually, a considerable amount of time, is a more accurate assessment. No worries that Madeline is not up for the challenge. We have discovered that Madeline is usually up for any and all challenges. However, Madeline tends to be easily distracted even on the short journey to the corner. Actually, Madeline is easily distracted. Period. She desires to stop, drop, and roll around in the street, attaching every scent and substance to her body. I desire to walk. She desires to roll. Once she regains her composure, she invariably determines that the excitement brought on by rolling in the cul-de-sac requires her to jettison unwanted waste. Of course, she only does this on the occasion that I forget to grab the oh-so handy plastic clean up bag. After resuming our walk, Madeline intends to revisit her street rolling ways. I have determined that I need to leave five minutes (or more) earlier when with Madeline due to her apparent attention deficit issues. I won't even go into detail about her incessant barking at Scoutie, the collie, before we reached the corner. This was all in our short trip to the corner. Repeat all of the above, minus barking at the collie, on the walk back home.

The nights have become unsettlingly quiet. The kids are snuggled and sleeping soundly in bed. Bernard is on the couch working at his computer, fervently catching up on all of the programming he was unable to do while in meetings all day. Or, he has fallen asleep on the couch after fervently attempting to catch up on all of the code he had intended to write after spending the days in meetings. Madeline and I enjoy some good quality snuggle time but she invariably determines that it is time for her "late evening nap" to be followed by her "early night nap," (of course). It is at this point that I find myself looking for Malachy in the corner or under the old wooden dining room table. Those are, I should say *were,* his favorite nap spots and I still *expect* to see him there. It is not really an actual expectation but rather a conditioned response, reinforced for seven years. I realize he is no longer in his favorite spot and this reminder triggers the rising tide of anxiety and pain deep within my chest. It is as if a large rock is somehow embedded, almost stuck, deep within. I realize this discomfort is the anxiety of grief. It is natural response. It may even be an expected reaction. I understand the physiological and biopsychological implications of processing grief. Yet, my theoretical understanding does not mitigate these moments of intensity...the moments of profound sadness.

This afternoon, a representative of the U of M veterinary clinic called. The woman immediately asked how to pronounce my name, As I was responding to this initial question, she informed me that there was a balance due on Malachy's account. We had just received the bill a few days ago and informed her that I was aware of the balance due. In fact, I had written the check out at 1:00 am this morning.. I decided I would pay the bill when I went to retrieve Malachy's remains which, I was told, would be available this week. The woman informed me that Malachy's remains were indeed available but that I would not be able to retrieve them until I paid the balance in full. I assured her that this would not be an issue, in the least, and that I would be glad to pay the bill tomorrow when I was at the clinic to *retrieve* him. She reminded me again of the balance and informed me that the remains were locked within the accounts receivable office. Again, she told me that I would not be able to claim him, only and until I paid the bill in full. I reassured her that I had already prepared the payment and would be happy to pay it tomorrow as Malachy's remains are now available. She interjected that she needed to "let me (sic: you) go" but that I must submit payment by mail immediately. Was I unclear? I told her again that I would be at the clinic tomorrow and would indeed pay up, no need to mail the bill if I intend to deliver it in person tomorrow. Why would I delay retrieving Malachy by making the payment by mail when I could simply pay in person tomorrow? S he repeated her speech for the umpteenth time before ending the call, almost admonishing me for not paying the bill the very day I received it. Her last words reiterated that I would not have access to Malachy's remains and they were locked up in the payment office.

Okay. I get it..pay up or you are not getting your dead dog, lady.

Okay, I know I should have quit while I was ahead. I got caught off guard. I was surprised and incredulous at her lack of compassion...her lack of kindness...her lack of respect. Perhaps, she did not have a sense that I understood that the bill must be paid. Or, perhaps, she worried that I had no intention to pay. Perhaps, she hears excuses from people as to why they might not be able to pay or that they have already sent payment and it is "in the mail." Perhaps, she simply lacked the ability to be respectful.

This person does not know me. She does not realize or care that I have never made it a practice to ditch out on my bills. Maybe I sounded as if I lacked intelligence and so she felt the need to talk loudly, slowly, and repeat her message numerous times. Apparently, at the end of a workday it is acceptable to be a bit rude...a bit condescending...a bit disrespectful. Maybe she has found that reminding grieving dog and cat owners that they will not be able to receive their pet's remains unless they cough up the cash is an effective collection method.

Okay. I go back to the fact that I should have cut her off at the pass. I knew the conversation was circular and foolish. All I could think about was that Malachy was cremated. He was locked up in a file cabinet in the accounts receivable office. He is no longer my my sweet and happy pup. He is now collateral.

I have accepted that he is gone. Yet, I felt like I was reminded of this newfound reality by having a bag of bricks dropped on my head. Maybe I just need to suck it up. Toughen up. Be less sensitive. Maybe it all feels so raw right now.

I think much can be said about those who demonstrate compassion and kindness. Much can also be said about those who lack these qualities.

The Rainbow Bridge

Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown...

Questions and Answers

After Malachy passed, I contacted Dr. K., his primary veterinarian to inform that Malachy had suddenly fallen so ill which, in turn, forced us to make that most difficult of decisions. I informed Dr. K. that the U of M emergency room veterinarian had hypothesized that Malachy had either Lymphoma or Blastomycosis. I discussed with Dr. K. the ER vet's diagnostic possibilities which brought to mind a recent patient of his who succumbed to Blasto. This particular dog (a collie) had been exposed to mulch that was used in a yard improvement project. The collie inhaled the Blasto fungal spores unknowingly embedded deep within the mulch. The deadly spores invariably took up residence within the collie's lungs causing irreparable damage. Dr. K. suggested an autopsy/necropsy for Malachy in consideration of the fact that Bernard and I recently placed large quantities of mulch around our house.

I immediately contacted the U of M Center for Veterinary Medicine, hoping that Malachy's body was still at the hospital. I requested a necropsy, somewhat (okay, significantly more than "somewhat") panicked that there was a possibility that all of the mulch we installed caused Malachy's death. Worse yet, could the mulch be a health hazard to Eamon and Emma, Bernard and me, Malachy's sister, Madeline, the neighbors? Were we inhaling these Blasto spores every time we walked out into the yard??? We were all at risk of serious health concerns? I was so fearful of my children's safety.

I researched everything I could about Blastomycosis. I learned that the odds were low that Malachy had succumbed to this fungal disease but began planning to remove all ten yards of the mulch. Did we unknowingly cause our sweet boy to become ill? Was Madeline going to succumb to this disease as well? The potential for serious illness in considerably less serious in humans but I began to look for signs that Eamon and Emma might become ill. The fact that they developed coughs that progressed in severity (oddly enough) shortly after Malachy passed caused me additional concern and worry. Their coughs required a visit to the pediatrician's office. The nurse practitioner quickly diagnosed them, not with Blasto, but with easily treatable type of walking pneumonia. (Antibiotics quickly resolved their coughing issue and they were back to good form in a day, very thankfully). After a conversation from Dr. F, the U of M internal medicine veterinarian, I realized all we could now was to wait for the results of the necropsy. Dr. F. strongly suspected that the final verdict would come down as Lymphoma but a definitive diagnosis could not be made until the pathologist had thoroughly examined Malachy's body. So, we could only continue in our grieving process while anxiously awaiting the pathologist's findings.

Today, Dr. F. called to inform of the preliminary autopsy report. Malachy did not have Blastomycosis, which brings much relief that our newly installed mulch did not cause his illness. He did not have a brain tumor, nor mennigitis, nor Lymphoma, all very grounded hypotheses based on his symtomology. Instead, he had cancer of the blood vessels, more formally known as Hemangiosarcoma. This type of cancer is particularly aggressive, highly malignant, and cruelly insidious. Dr. F. informed that Hemangiosarcoma does not generally respond to chemotherapy, spreads quickly, and is generally fatal. Dr. F. said that dogs do not feel the actual cancer cells' growth, but instead, the indirect consequences such as the eventual damage to organ systems. She reiterated her surprise that he had no clinical symptoms during exam only two days before he passed away. During her exam, she noted that he was active, happy, engaged, and did not appear to be in any pain at all... in other words, he was clinically doing well. She did not anticipate that he would become so ill so soon after his visit. None of us did. There was nothing we could have done to save him. The cancer would have continued mercilessly regardless of any medications and treatments.

I feel conflicting emotions about these results. I am relieved beyond measure that Malachy did not have Blasto and thus, our family is not at risk. I feel a sense of calm with these results in hand, as it allows a chapter in my so called "book of grieving" to be written. There are so many components to this *book* and this new chapter allows a measure of peace.

I am grateful that we did not inadvertently cause Malachy to become so sick. I am grateful that he did not suffer throughout the progression of the disease process until the very, very last hours of his life. I am grateful that we had 24 more days to love him after the beginning of this journey as we initially did not know if he would live through that weekend. I am grateful that the Prednisone reduced the swelling caused by the cancer, allowing Malachy to temporarily return to his usual self. I am grateful that we were able to give him extra kisses, extra hugs, extra snuggling, extra playtime, and extra treats. We were given the opportunity to show him that he was truly loved and adored by us all. Most of all, I am grateful that our family had the opportunity to hang out with one truly cool puppy dog for seven years. It is not the quantity of the years but the quality of those years that only really matter after all is said and done.

Dr. F. told me upon our first visit that veterinarians often refer to golden retrievers as the "heartbreakers." They have wonderful personalities...so gentle, so happy, so sweet. The aspect of goldens that breaks one's heart is their high rate of heritable predispositions. They tend to become ill. They die. They break your heart.

I miss my Shortround terribly. I feel the deep heartache. Yet, I do not regret this intense "affliction" of dog love that I have been so fortunate to experience. Isn't it better to feel the intense joys of life with all of the inherent risks than to not have ventured into the possible wonder that awaits?

The Business of Grieving

Still the pain of missing you endures as does my journey of bitter grief. It is so quiet, so empty, so disquieting since you have gone. I will continue to process through this as I know I need to move through it, as painful as it is. My grief feels at times, all consuming, as it stands to reason that my chronic depression exacerbates this raw wound.

Pain is real. Love is real. Bonds are real. What to do when the one you love is no longer?

You were more than a *dog* to me. You were a friend. You were the one I could hold so tight, in the quiet of the night, as the anxiety and fear slowly drained from my body. You were the one I could snuggle in those deeply dark moments in the hopelessness and despair of my depression. You propped me up. You gave me unconditional love. You could not realize how much your *being* made all of the difference in the world to me...to all of us.

I can only hope that I, too, brought you joy and happiness. I hope you knew you were deeply loved, beyond measure. Your smile was infectous. You were smart, intuitive, loving, and gentle. You were the answer to my prayers. I could not have dreamed of a better pup.

I know you are at peace, Malachy. I envision you in Heaven, running with Macintosh and Daisy in lush fields, sun overhead, and beauty all around. I know you are again joyful in your freedom from this disease that came upon you so quickly...so mercilessly.

I will continue to cry and cry and cry until the tears run dry. I will again smile and laugh when I think of you. I know that day will come but for now, I must commit to the business of grieving.

My Dear Shortround

Lend Me A Pup

I will lend to you for awhile
a puppy, God said
For you to love him while he lives
and to mourn for him when he is gone.

Maybe for twelve or fourteen years,
or maybe for two or three
But will you, till I call him back
take care of him for me?

He'll bring his charms to gladden you
and (should his stay be brief)
you'll always have his memories
as solace for your grief.

I cannot promise that he will stay,
since all from earth return,
But there are lessons taught below
I want this pup to learn.

I've looked the whole world over
in search of teachers true
And from the folk that crowd life's land
I have chosen you.

Now will you give him all your love
Nor think the labour vain
Nor hate me when I come to take my pup back again.

I fancied that I heard them say
"Dear Lord Thy Will Be Done,"
For all the joys this pup will bring,
the risk of grief you'll run.
Will you shelter him with tenderness
Will you love him while you may
And for the happiness you'll know forever grateful stay.

But should I call him back
much sooner than you've planned
Please brave the bitter grief that comes
and try to understand.
If, by your love, you've managed
my wishes to achieve,
In memory of him that you've loved
cherish every moment with your faithful bundle,
and know he loved you too.

Author Unknown

My Sweet Malachy

In Our Heart

We thought of you with love today, but that is nothing new.
We thought about you yesterday, and days before that too.
We think of you in silence. We often speak your name.
Now all we have is memories, and your picture in a frame.
Your memory is our keepsake, with which we’ll never part.
God has you in his keeping.
We have you in our heart.

In Loving Memory of Malachy
09 July 2002 - 04 October 2009

Good-bye my sweet Malachy. We will love and cherish you always. I miss you so.

The School Daze

It is February and it appears that I am on the verge of already compromising one of my 2009 resolutions: writing.  I cannot honestly say to myself that my random musings are meaningful or important in any way.  Yet,  I feel this intensity to sit down and explore my thoughts, feelings, beliefs, values, desire, hopes, dreams, sorrows, regrets, fears...I want to use this journal to explore, but also to assist in the processing of all of these ideas bouncing around in my frontal lobe.  I want so much to learn to write in a constructive, meaningful manner.

One of the aspects of life with which I am currently preoccupied is my undergraduate tenure.  I met with my College of Liberal Arts advisor last week and we discussed graduation.  He talked about the importance of celebrating this milestone and suggested that many people might have forsaken the notion of finishing after so many years.  I was unable to accept his compliment as it felt almost uncomfortable.  After all, I began attending the University of Minnesota in September of 1988!  

I hit the ground running...a strong start in my academic career.  I remember walking across campus in front of Ford Hall on a beautiful autumn day.  The campus was absolutely gorgeous, as the fall leaves were carpeting the manicured lawns of the mall.

The Bond That Never Was (Part One)

As children, Matt and I rarely saw the world in a similar vein.   We shared many things in life, our parents and younger brother, Tim, being primary, of course. We both attended grade school at Holy Trinity and high school at Aquinas.  We hung out with many of the same neighborhood kids, although rarely together.  We would spend hours and hours, creating our Lego masterpieces as well as collecting Match Box cars. As we got older, we developed a renewed interest in music, developing a passion for the post modern sounds of Morrissey and The Smiths, Depeche Mode, and Joy Division.  Our worlds were in so many ways the same.  Yet, fundamentally, our worlds could not have been more different.

I regret that Matt and I really never truly bonded with each other.  As a child, this conclusion was not readily apparent to me.  After all, siblings are presumed to love and adore each other. It is unrealistic to imagine siblings who always appreciate the quirks and idiosyncrasies of one another.  Without question, there are times when brothers and sisters fight, be it over a toy or the TV watching schedule.  And, there are those times of jealousy and resentment over the distribution of parental time and affection.  Despite it all, siblings usually regroup and move on from these childhood transgressions.  The bond between siblings is protective. We forgive and hopefully, forget.  We move on because that is what siblings do.  Or, so I thought.  Or, so I hoped.  Or, so I desperately wanted.

Very honestly, our relationship did not flourish for lack of trying.  I remember lying on the brown carpeting of our dining room floor, my hands propping up my face, a sea of Matchbox cars in front of me.  Matt, would lie in similar position, although I remember that it was very difficult for him to stay in one position for any length of time as he always appeared as if he had "ants in his pants."  We would create an inventory of our respective car stock, sometimes trading a race car for an ambulance.  We would line our cars in our "parking lot," manipulating them in the manner we wanted them displayed.  We would "chase" each others' vehicle though imaginary terrain and unanticipated hazards.  These brief moments of enjoyment were fleeting, as invariably, Matt wanted the cars to smash into one another.  He would fling cars throughout the room.  Wheels would fall off, windows would break, and a few cars invariably, destroyed. Matt reveled in these violent displays of car crashes, especially those in which the car occupants would suffer horrendous fates.  I did not really understand this need for intensity and wanted less violence.  I bristled at the thoughts that cars would smash and explode.  In retrospective, without much surprise, very few of our infrequent play sessions ended well.  The resulting frustration and anger lingered into the next foray until no more attempts were made to play with our cars together.  It became that we no longer played together at all as we so seldom saw eye to eye.

Why were Tim and I able to bond when Matt I couldn't?  I have always felt such an intense connection with Tim, yet only superficiality with Matt.  Why were we unable to develop  a minimal affinity with one another during our early childhood years?  This realization is the mourning of an unfulfilled dream.  Matt is my brother, yet I share no emotional connection with him.  This is not how sibling relationships are *supposed* to be.

Amidst a bond that never solidified is a regret that only deepens.  

Twenty Years

Twenty years ago, I first wandered the halls of Pioneer Hall.  I had met Nancy, a fellow student and Pioneer Hall resident, in an algebra class, during my first quarter.  She invited me to meet her roommate and House 6 neighbors, as I had moved into the dorm a few weeks into the quarter and had not yet met many people.   Nancy introduced me to Beth, who lived directly across the hall.  Beth was gregarious and friendly, asking me early this initial meeting, "What's wrong with being stranded?"  I was initially confused by this question and curious why someone would ask this.  Shortly thereafter, I was to learn  that "Strand" is Beth's surname.  I was intrigued and amused by Beth's quick wit and razor sharp observations.

Beth and I became friends throughout our Freshman year.  We would chat for hours and hours (and hours) in her dorm room, surrounded by the black and white, post modern posters of New Order, Joy Division, and Depeche Mode.  We often discussed our future academic and career aspirations.  Beth had "officially" declared her major as pre-med while I was "officially" undecided, learning toward a Psychology major, or possibly French, while also considering Political Science.  (What can I say, the world was our oyster and full of endless possibilities!) 

Not particularly surprising, we were irreverent and silly, enjoying the "off the wall." We delighted in Delilah, a creation of a discarded witch pinata head, crumpled up newspaper, and Beth's gold lame pantsuit, a high school 4H entry.  With Delilah in the background, propped up in Beth's desk chair with a Donald Duck pipe in "her" mouth, Beth and I spent hours discussing our new found Pioneer Hall friends, upcoming social gatherings, and occasionally our current course load, among other things (We were in college to learn, after all).  ;)    One bitterly cold winter afternoon, we walked across campus to two drug stores seeking out boxes of the same red hair color (the first drug store had only one box), wondering to each other  if "anyone would notice" our new hair dye experiment. We designated  "Pastel Day" (a day in which we would only wear pastel, as compared to our usual much darker tones...I made it through mid afternoon and then changed clothes.) We laughed when dorm resident, Pietro, would shout across the Pioneer courtyard, "I am not wearing any pants" on a weekly basis.  (We were 18 years old and thus, easily amused, it would seem).

The Pioneer Hall days are long behind us and Beth and I have since settled into our "adult" lives (whatever than means). Hopefully, we have moved beyond matching hair color, pastel attire, and sophomoric comments (admittedly, the last assertion is a stretch but one can always hope). We have forged ahead in our schooling and careers (Beth more so than me at this juncture, it would seem) . We have become Mamas to children whom we love, adore, and hug more than they would like, at times. We have experienced the joyous "peaks" and painful "valleys" of romantic and platonic relationships.  We have held several jobs and lived in different locales.  We have also experienced unimaginable loss in the deaths of our parents and grandparents. Through success and failure, happiness and sorrow, Beth and I have remained friends during these twenty years.  

On Friday evening, I drove to Beth's home while our children were spending some quality time with their dads.  It was a very, very rare circumstance, indeed.  No kids.  No dogs. No work.  No tasks.  Just two old friends hanging out.

We kicked back, checked out the local bar and grill, and toured the town.  We enjoyed Beth's Christmas tree and fireplace while we talked throughout the evening.  We listened to the alternative music channel and chatted about the past, the present, and our futures.  We could let our hair down. No worries.  No pretense.  As Beth suggested, "we can be ourselves with each other and neither one of us judges."  

In this season of resolutions and promises, goals and hopes are often lost in the shuffle as the year progresses.  I have resolved to take more stock in the many blessings that I have in my life. One of these many blessings is my friendship with Beth.  I am grateful for all that she does and most importantly, all that she is.  

General silliness

Today, Eamon, Emma, and I were getting ready to attend a birthday party.  Eamon, fresh from a trip to Kids Hair, made a simple request I could not possibly refuse, "Mom, can I bring my new hair cut to the party?"