Four Years with Bear

I could have gone somewhere else that day. In the hours before I arrived, Bear could have been chosen and adopted by someone else. He had been in front of the pet store, along with a few other dogs from a local shelter, for hours that day. Who knows if he had been through the process in the weeks before.? I don’t know how anyone could have walked by and not scooped up that adorable 12-week-old fur ball.

Whatever you want to call it- coincidence, fate, destiny—whatever it was, four years ago today, Bear became mine and I became his.

I look back on many decisions and cross roads in my life with doubt and curiosity. What if I had taken this job instead of that one? What if I had made this choice and not the other? Some of those decisions haunt me, because I believe there might have been a better outcome if I had made a different one. I can’t ever know that, and I can’t truly regret the decision since I don’t know, but in quiet, private moments, I wonder.

The snap decision to make Bear mine is one I look back on with absolute certainty. It was the worst time for me to have brought a dog into my life- if you looked at the situation logically. It turned out to be the best timing for my life, my heart, and the very soul of me. It sounds melodramatic to say these things, to say and believe that a little furry being of 12 weeks could save someone, in every sense of the word. But he did. Only after I had signed the adoption papers did I find out that I saved Bear—really saved him. The day I adopted Bear was his last chance. He was due to be put down if he didn’t find a forever home that day.

It is hard to believe he has been with me four years. In that time frame, my life changed completely. Beautiful things happened, beginning with Bear. He was the first piece, then came all the steps that have led to today. The time has flown by. In the last six months or so, it has worried me—just the speed of it all—how fast time is going with him. How fast and how short of a time I know we will have with Bear in the scheme of things. It seems macabre and foolish to think and worry now. Bear is only four, we have many years left with him. But I truly cannot imagine my life, our lives, without our Bear. 

When my husband and I started dating in November of 2009. Bear hadn’t yet been with me a year. From the moment Shea came into my life, he and Bear were instantly in love with each other. The bond that Shea and Bear have sometimes takes my breath away.  There is such a fated connection between them, that I cannot help but believe that all of this was meant to be. Me, Shea, and Bear—all the moments, all the choices--all planned somehow. Bear has been such a huge part of our lives, there with us every moment, and any time away from him not the same for us. Not as rich, not as complete.

My husband is definitely the love of my life. But Bear is the other love of my life. I call him the furry love of my life. The joy he has brought to my life, the comfort he has brought to me in times of pain and loss, is so hard for me to explain. When a person gives you comfort, you can share the words they said, you can explain their acts of selflessness. But how do you explain how an animal knows things he shouldn’t know? How his expression reveals so much? How he shows up at your side before you know you need him? He can’t tell you these things he knows, he just “is”. How can you explain how you have watched him pull your husband out of dark moments when nothing and no one else could? How do you explain that to someone else?

Other dog lovers know. If you are one, you are probably nodding now in recognition of those moments.

Bear has a good life. He is spoiled by anyone’s standards, and is loved beyond measure. He always has a full belly, although he would lead you to believe otherwise. He can be incredibly stubborn, imaginatively sneaky, and so unbelievably smart that it takes Shea and I a few moments to catch up and believe he has understood something we have said, or referred to. He can be frustrating, demanding, and incredibly naughty.  He is insanely jealous of the three cats that also live with us, and alternatively is extremely possessive of Shea and anyone, including me, who takes too much of his time or attention.

We truly treasure all those moments. We know we can’t have Bear forever, or nearly as long as we would like. Right now, he is healthy, happy, and sleeping nearby--probably dreaming of endless slices of cheese, or a romp at the dog park. He is the main reason we laugh every single day—true, deep, instantaneous belly laughs—every single day. We are so thankful for that.  So thankful for Bear.

We always celebrate this day, January 17, as his birthday. This was the day he became Bear, and we both started the next best chapters in our lives. Today Bear will get a special meal, some toys and treats, and a trip to the dog park and an unbelievable amount of hugs and kisses. Due to being spoiled, Bear might think this is a day like any other day. To me and to Shea, it is so much more. It’s Bear’s day, but we have truly received the most incredible gift: Four years with Bear.

To see the previous posts in this series, click below:

Three Years with Bear

Two Years with Bear

Rescued

*January 17th is Bear's official adoption day, but due to a bout of horrible migraines the last few days, the post was delayed. 

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Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays from my house to yours! I hope everyone has a beautiful holiday full of love and joy.

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Before and After: The Tragedy in Newtown

I don’t have anything new to add to this conversation. I don’t have any wise words about why a young man chose to kill his mother, then 26 innocent people at an elementary school, then take his own life. I have assumptions regarding mental illness, pain, being at an age when serious mental illness often takes its strongest grip, and access to guns that should only exist in the military or on the movie screen. But those are assumptions. They help me reason through moments when I want so badly to understand, but in the end, they are just guesses.

Nothing in recent memory has upset me as much as the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut. I have cried when watching television coverage, I have wept when reading articles detailing events that no kindergartner or first grader should ever experience. Most troubling, out of nowhere over the past week, I have shed tears when simply thinking about all that happened. How will the parents that lost children ever get those images out of their heads? How do they somehow find peace after losing a child so senselessly? How will the surviving children ever again see school as anything but a war zone- a temple of fear- a place of loss and terror? How will the community ever lift this cloud of grief? How do you contemplate, plan, and attend countless funerals in such a tiny town- all leading up to the Christmas holiday?

One thing that struck me from the beginning, on that Friday when the news was just breaking, was what school was for me at that age. It was a safe haven. I absolutely adored kindergarten especially, but all through my elementary years, school was my safe place, my favorite place. I knew what to expect, there were no unplanned shifts in tension or trouble as there were at home. I still had my own anxieties, but they had nothing to do with not feeling safe or worrying gunmen might come into the building and harm us. It’s bad enough for the children that have been exposed to the news about Newtown, and then must return to their school building and hallways, trying to readjust to the new normal the world has created. But how in the world will the children that survived this massacre in Newtown, who actually witnesses their teachers and friends murdered in front of their eyes, ever wall the hallways of any school now or later in life, without flashbacks and fear, looking over their shoulder on the way to the library for lurking dangers?

This breaks my heart. Their innocence is gone. Children are thankfully resilient and mighty, and have an ability to face the sadness life gives them and make it part of their new being in a magical way. But, I fear this is almost too much to ask, even of the most resilient child.

What I am thankful for in all of this madness is that we, as a country, are finally talking about gun control. To be clear, as I always try to be, I am not in favor of taking away all guns from everyone. I only want automatic assault weapons that have no business in anyone’s hands off the market. Illegal. Nearly impossible to get. Will it solve all the problems? No. Will we never again have another tragic shooting in a school or workplace? Sadly, I doubt that will be the outcome. But, I believe strongly that it will lessen the numbers and instances. One other thing I have learned is that if you are on the other side of the gun argument, I cannot change what you think, and you cannot change my view. I am not going to try here. At least we are all talking. At least I am seeing a shift in Washington, and I believe newer laws and restrictions will come out of this tragedy to make a difference.

This tragedy changed things because so many of the victims were so young, so innocent, so defenseless. But honestly, in the face of an automatic weapon, we are all defenseless. I couldn’t help but think about the parents of victims of other school shootings such as Columbine, other parents who have fought for gun control after the loss of their child in such a senseless manner. I am sure these parents are happy to finally see gun control discussed, but I wonder if they aren’t thinking—“why wasn’t my child’s death important enough to make this happen?” It’s a fair question. Maybe we wouldn’t be in such pain right now, maybe we wouldn’t have lost 20 six year olds if this had been addressed earlier.

After Columbine, I remember there was a lot of anger and hatred for the gunmen. Everyone was lashing out at their parents, assuming they were somehow responsible, that they knew everything their children were planning, or that they were so neglectful that this tragedy left blood on their hands. I was part of that group that could not believe the parents had no idea what was about to happen—the weapons, the planning, the anger. For a long time, I kept that opinion. Then, I read Susan Klebold’s heart-wrenching essay. Later, I read the book Columbine by Dave Cullen, and I realized that the truth is far murkier.

After the tragedy in Newtown, I didn’t see the same public reaction of absolute hatred for the gunman. I saw the reaction more towards the true cause of any tragedy like this—mental illness and gun control. This is where the concerns should be. Until we figure out what is breaking people, what is bringing them to their knees and to the point of making a decision to kill innocent people in large numbers, we won’t be able to prevent future tragedies.

I wish I knew an answer. I wish I could turn back time and bring these tiny children back to their families and make the community whole. I wish I didn’t think about what their last moments were like- how confusing and terrifying everything must have been. How, I am sure, they wanted their mommies and daddies in such scary circumstances. I wish their parents didn’t have to have those same thoughts, which must torture them in ways that are unimaginable.

All I can do now is hope for their healing. Hope for some peace in a tiny town that couldn’t have seen evil approaching in such a horrible, final way. Hope that whatever change we bring about as a country helps guide some lost souls to a place of healing instead of lashing out at the world in such deadly actions.

Truly, all that is left to do is hope.

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All that Brought us Here

We are now the sum of all that brought us here-

            the long, lonely road that somehow kept us both single,

                        waiting for each other.

Every step, every triumph, every loss, every disappointing detour-

            became a piece of our souls that would one day

                        only better connect us.

If only we could have known then that we each were out there-

            waiting for one another-- it would have been

                        so much easier.

If only our paths had crossed sooner--so many more days together-

            but then, it wouldn’t be what it is now,

                        and now is all I ever wanted.

Here with you-the paths diverged, lives intertwined, hearts together-

            all that brought us here-- it’s who we are now.

                        The sum, the beginning, and everything in between…us.

Happy 2nd Anniversary to my husband, best friend, soulmate, and partner in crime, Shea. I love you.

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My Walk

Walking down this street
In a city I thought was my past
So distant but not forgotten
A part of my soul-
left here with regret wrapped up in goodbye.

And here I am
Only better this time around
Not alone, not lonely
All the pieces slowly
found their way back- connecting in some random, dreamed-up destiny.

All the ‘I nevers’ rescued
The ‘if onlys’ forgiven
The best parts of me survived the fire
Ashes scattered behind me-
lost in the wind- coloring the breezes of another sky.

Walking down this street
In a city that is now my home
Hope gleaming from the corners and rooftops…
I take it all in, savoring this short walk

that was years in the making, just waiting for me…to take the next step.

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Finally Found You, Part 2

From the moment her information appeared in front of me, glowing on my computer screen, I knew that I would call her. I knew I would hear her voice, and learn things, whether she answered my questions or not. My mother’s best friend and my aunt were both shocked that I was prepared to be so brazen; concerned about who this woman was, and what I would learn. There was no choice for me. I had to contact her.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. My hands shook and I paced in my tiny apartment for almost a half hour before I got to courage to sit on my bed, pull the phone from my nightstand, and dial the numbers. My heart was pounding. I didn’t know what to expect, but I had to know something.

Someone once told me that it’s the unknown things that tear you apart. You can deal with what you know- good, bad, horrible- you can find a way to make it through. The unknown leaves you no path, no light at the end of the tunnel. That made sense. The need to know. The need to fill in the missing pieces of my father’s life, the mysteries of his anger and dependence on alcohol. Dialing those numbers felt like I was turning the dial on a safe, getting ready to pull open a heavy door that would help me understand.

What I didn’t know was that I was opening a door to 30 some-odd years of existing on secrets, lies, and facades. I didn’t know that opening the door to the truth could shatter my foundation instead of strengthening it. I had no idea.

I was ready for her to answer the phone. His mistress. One of many, I suspected, but the only one I knew of for sure. The only one that was real to me. The phone rang three times and the voice on the other end was not at all what I was suspecting. A small child sang the word hello to me, dragging out the multiple syllables while rustling the receiver. I froze. I asked if his mommy was named her name. He answered yes, and told me she was in the next room. Should he get her? Yes, I answered, listening to his clomping footsteps carry the phone to her. In that moment, I was counting the years back to Atlanta and the years in between, trying to see if the age was right. Trying to reconcile the fact that I might have been speaking to a half brother. Still digesting that, I heard her voice.

“Hello?”

Very southern. The unmistakable drawl of well-bred, old money Atlanta. Now in Florida.

“This is (I said his name)’s daughter.”

Her response was all I needed. It told me everything.

In a panicked voice she asked, “Is he alright?!? Is he OK??”

Not the response I expected. But what had I wanted, really?

Did I want her to say Who? Whose daughter? Who is this? Who is he?

Did I want to then wonder if she was just a good liar? Or did I really not want it all to be true? In theory, that would be great, but then, what would that mean to everything I thought I knew? All the hunches, suspicions… and all the fallout of living with a father who had chosen someone else and something else instead of being with his family. Really with his family.

No one asks if someone is alright like that unless they care, unless they are involved.

I assured her he was just fine. So was his wife.

She was momentarily stunned, which didn’t seem to be a far distance for her to travel. Not speaking out of ill will, just the facts, she was not the sharpest tool in the shed. I remember picturing a younger Rose Nyland from the Golden Girls in my head as I talked to her. Only maybe not so innocent. Or maybe she was.

I clarified a few things for her. He had another daughter (she only knew about me). He was not single, he was still married. He was not the age she thought he was, he was about 10 years older than that. That seemed to be the thing that concerned her most of all, but none of it seemed to really be getting through. It just seemed like new information, nothing damning to her, nothing that really changed anything.

The damning things came from her direction.

How he spoiled her. How he drove to her house to pick her up and wouldn’t ever let her walk to the car, he had to carry her. How gentlemanly he was, opening doors for her, taking her places. I had to lay down. I was nauseous. This man she was describing, at great length, was a man I had never met. And my mother for damn sure had never met him. Never once, ever in my life would I describe any of his actions toward my mother as spoiling her. This was a man for whom I had to buy my mother’s birthday and Christmas gifts, handing the greeting cards to him for his signature. This was a man that never, ever, thought of my mother first, or celebrated anniversaries or special occasions unless friends prompted and arranged everything. I was seething and sick at the same time. She continued to blather on, Rose-Nylund style, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was giving details to the daughter of a married man she was sleeping with, details she shouldn't be sharing. Details that were turning my insides and breaking my heart.

“STOP!” I said, louder than I meant to.

She did. Sensing I was now upset, she began backpedaling, saying it was over now, and had been for some time. I told her I found that a little hard to believe since my father was now moving to Florida, her state of residence. She stumbled and made explanations, assured me I was wrong.  When I asked when it had ended, she couldn’t answer, laughing nervously and changing the subject. She wasn’t quick enough to answer my accusations. She didn’t need to be.

I ended the call, hung up the receiver and stumbled to the bathroom to throw up.

My mother’s face kept flashing before me. I should have told her years ago, back in Atlanta. It had gone on forever. I never imagined he was having relationships with these women, real relationships. I didn’t know he was capable of it. Only, he was. Just not with his wife. Not with his family.

Not with us. Not with me.

My mother’s best friend reassured me about my decision not to tell my mom years ago. She knew why I had made the decision back in Atlanta. Even though others didn’t know for sure about my father’s infidelities, there had been suspicions. My mother was always so fragile and innocent, so dependent on my father. I had tried in the past to ask her about their relationship, even broached the subject of him cheating. She would not discuss it. Not in an angry way, she just changed the subject and slipped into the comfort of denial. It was maddening. No matter how you pushed, she blankly stared back, refusing to acknowledge any words she didn’t want to hear.

I had a new decision to make now.

It was one thing to live in denial, to make choices based on turning a blind eye, but it was another to be pulled from everyone and everything you know and be taken somewhere strange and new for someone else’s selfish reasons. I imagined her withering away, being abandoned even worse than before. I had to tell her. I had to make her listen to these words, to what was happening. Jolting my mother into reality wasn’t going to be easy. Or without pain.

I took a few personal days from work and made the seven hour drive home, practicing my speech along the way. My father was going to be out of town working, and she and I would be alone. No plans, just a visit, I told her. She was thrilled that I was coming to see her, to spend time with her. She always was. It broke my heart.

I was struggling with everything, but at the same time, I felt so strong. I thought that maybe, for that for the first time in my life, I might be able to change the family dynamic- extract some of of the dysfunction somehow.

I imagined my mom on her own, finding strength she never knew she had, surrounded by friends who would support her and love her and help her build a life she could count on. I saw her living in the present instead of in denial…nothing to hide or be ashamed of, no secrets or betrayals.

But, I knew her, I knew how emotionally frail she was. I knew how devastating it would be to hear this from her daughter. I knew how private she was and how this would feel so invasive.

Usually, the seven hour drive home seemed endless. This time, it was too short. I was pulling into the driveway before I knew it. Sitting in my car, hesitating to go inside.

How do you begin the conversation that will change your mother’s life?


For Part 1 in this series of posts, click here.

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