Saying Goodbye to Bear

It has taken me two weeks to get the courage to try and pull words from my heart about Bear. No matter what I write, I feel I won’t do him justice, nor will I be able to express how special he was, or the relationship that I had with him, and that my husband Shea had with him. But, I will try my very best, it’s all I can do.

~~

Bear came into my life by chance, on a whim, just by sheer luck. One day I saw him and made a decision to adopt him. It made no sense at that moment for me to adopt a puppy—my life was honestly a mess. But something in my heart and my gut wouldn’t let me walk away from him. I signed the papers, and he was mine. I found out right after signing that I had just saved his life. If he hadn’t been adopted that day, he would have been put down. He was 12 weeks old. He had an hour and a half left. I had gotten there just in time.

That day, as I got into my car and looked at that sweet, beautiful puppy staring at me in the passenger seat, I thought for a moment, what have I done? I go back to that moment in my mind a lot. I think to myself—you don’t know how lucky you are right now. You just made the best decision. Be so grateful, be so thankful.

What that little being didn’t know was that the person looking back at him was struggling. My whole life had cracked wide open months before, and the pieces were shattered around me. Everything was wrong and broken. I was just starting to deal with issues from my childhood that were deeply affecting my life. Then, I found out that the man I had been seeing (long distance), whom I had known for years, and was just about to move cross country to live with, had betrayed me. All the time we had been seeing each other, he was in fact, living with someone else.

Everything hit me at once. I was lost and adrift, and in that weakened part of rock bottom that you hopefully only hit once in your life. I was deeply depressed, and I knew that everyone around me, everyone in my life that was worried about me, was going to think that adopting this puppy wasn’t a good decision. Maybe it wasn’t. But that drumbeat of hope inside me just kept telling me it was the right thing to do.

I was nervous to call my friend Debby, who is my second mother, afraid she would be so worried that she wouldn’t see what I saw in the new puppy. But I needn’t have worried. She immediately told me to bring him over and she fell in love with him on the spot. She and her husband Joe helped me go through a list of names I was thinking about, until Joe let me know in no uncertain terms that his name was Bear.

He was so right.

He always was Bear.

Bear worked his magic from day one. If you have ever battled depression, or know someone who has, you know that the hardest thing is getting out of bed or off the couch and getting OUT. It is a battle in itself, and before Bear, it was a battle I lost all the time. My friends would try and I would make excuses. I had taken leave from work, so I had nowhere to be.

But Bear had to be walked, he had to be taken outside. He needed me constantly. I couldn’t stay in bed or under the covers. He was constantly chewing on things, getting into things—he was keeping me busy.

I took him on walks and met neighbors I had never talked to in two years of living in my neighborhood. We went to dog parks, and I met new people who expected to see me and Bear daily. My life began to change. My outlook began to change.

I didn’t know what breed Bear was when I adopted him. I knew he was a mix of something, and that he was incredibly cute. Otherwise, I had no idea. He was extremely stubborn and independent. House training him was so frustrating and at times, seemed to be impossible.

We went to puppy training classes three separate times, and each time he was just too wild to participate. The last time I tried, the trainer was talking and Bear excitedly jumped on other dogs and then on the trainer, splitting open her fanny pack full of treats, spilling them everywhere. The treats rolled all over the floor and Bear and the other puppies were gobbling them up. The trainer looked at me with a mix of expressions—frustration, but also holding back laughter. I knew that mix well, I had been wearing it for many weeks myself.

I finally figured out what breed of dog Bear was when seeing a random blog post one day about a great pyrenees. Bear was almost certainly a great pyr, though I never knew what he was mixed with. But once I looked up all of the traits of the breed, it all made sense. Great pyrs are bred to be guardians for livestock. They need to be independent to handle themselves on a farm and be alone for long periods of time, but they also need to be sweet and gentle enough not to harm the animals they care for. All of these things added up to Bear: independent, strong-willed, stubborn, but sweet, loving, and with a huge heart.

He was wild and at times, and yes, frustrating, but he was also sweet. And gorgeous. He also smiled all the time. When I walked him in my neighborhood, people would literally stop their cars to ask me what kind of dog he was, or where I got such a beautiful pup. He always seemed to know how gorgeous he was. He never hesitated to walk right up to anyone and demand to be petted. He loved belly rubs the best.

I always got a kick out of watching Bear enter the dog park. He had so much confidence. He swaggered in like a rock star, waiting for the other dogs to run up and admire him, which they did. He would then saunter over and let all the humans pet him and give him compliments. Then he would run and play. Everyone knew me as Bear’s mom, and I loved every minute of it. We went to the dog park daily, and I learned how to laugh again, standing on the sidelines, watching him run like the wind, while I was talking to strangers who became friends—all who loved and cared about me and Bear.

One thing he did always amazed me. On days when I still felt a little blue, somehow, he would sense it. I could never figure out how he knew. I would be standing with other people at the dog park, chatting away in my usual spot near the picnic table, watching him from a distance. Then, suddenly, our eyes would meet from across the park where he was playing. For a moment, he would hold my gaze, and then, he would start running. He wouldn’t take his eyes off of me the whole time. I would tear up watching him coming towards me, his little ears blown back, a big smile on his face, running to me as fast as he could. I would kneel down and he would run into my arms and shower me with kisses and then sit back and smile and let me hug him and thank him for sensing that I needed him, just at that moment.

He always knew.

Bear pulled me out of the worst part of my life and led me into the next. His unconditional love let me open my heart again, something I couldn’t imagine doing at the time, and before Bear was a year old, I had met the man I would marry. Shea has admitted that seeing Bear’s pictures on Facebook had left him as excited to meet Bear as he was to see me. (I can’t say I blamed him).

The first time Shea and Bear met, there was an instant connection. Bear was always protective of me, and didn’t let anyone come into the house easily, but he let Shea right in, and he loved him from the moment he met him. As we continued dating, Bear grew to absolutely adore Shea, and would become distressed when Shea would leave, so much so that we had to figure out ways for Shea to sneak out.

Once we were married, Shea and Bear were inseparable, and Bear became Shea’s shadow. If Shea sneezed, Bear would jolt violently and run to his side to check on him. If Shea sniffled, Bear had to quickly check on him. Bear slept in the bed with us, and every noise Shea made at night, Bear had to make sure he was ok. Bear would literally lose sleep worrying about Shea.

Some of the funniest moments were when I would sneeze, and Bear would still check on Shea. Or when Shea was in the shower and would sneeze and Bear would burst into the bathroom and have to check on Shea, shower or not.

I loved watching Shea and Bear together, and it always warmed my heart how much they loved each other. They had a special bond, all their own, from day one.

I have always made a big deal over Bear’s birthday, baking him a doggie cake and giving him cheeseburgers with his birthday number on them, taking pictures and videos. Christmas was a huge deal, with Santa coming to visit and leaving a ridiculous amount of toys and treats.

It all might seem silly, but I am so thankful for every picture and video now.

Everything changed on April 7, when I left for several days for a work conference in San Francisco, just about an hour from our house. Bear had seemed a little tired, but nothing that either Shea or I was really worried terribly about. I always overthink things, so I had it in my head to ask Shea about him while I was gone. And I did. Every day.

Shea let me know that Bear was running and playing, eating everything he could get, which was normal, and being his usual self.

When I got home on Thursday night, Bear was so happy to see me, even moreso than usual, he jumped on me, and snuggled up next to me, and gave me kisses. That night, we gave him so many treats, and were laughing as he barked for more, no matter how many he got. He seemed a little sluggish to me, and I made an appointment to take him to the vet the next day. I really thought he had stomach issues or something minor.

The next day was a whole different story. Bear was not himself, and around mid-morning, I saw him struggle to get up. My worry shifted into high gear. I rushed him to our vet, and after some blood work and xrays, they sent us to the emergency vet for an ultrasound.

Bear had hopped right into the car and otherwise seemed ok, so I was trying to soothe myself, talking out loud to myself and him in the car, everything’s going to be ok, everything’s going to be ok.

We got the emergency vet and being his usual friendly self, Bear greeted everyone in the waiting room, wagging his tail, waiting to be petted, and soaking up the compliments. I was shaking at the other end of his leash, trying to talk to the woman behind the reception desk. Still saying things to myself, willing him to be ok.

He had to be sedated for the ultrasound, and I paced around the waiting room, made all kinds of deals with the universe, and texted and called my husband and best friend…and waited.

The doctor finally called me in.

She cried as she told me that Bear had cancer, and that it had spread everywhere.

I blinked back at her in disbelief. This had never entered my realm of possibility. I wasn’t even thinking about cancer.

There was nothing I could have done, she had reassured me, but there was also nothing that could be done.

It was an awful moment. I sobbed as I asked what we needed to do for Bear. I was astonished to learn that we had so little time. He was going to start deteriorating so fast. Within hours. I could take him home for one more night, but he was not well, and any time after that would be difficult.

She let me know that he wasn’t in pain, just that he probably felt sick, like he had the flu. I asked if they could give him some medicine to make him comfortable. They gave him some anti-nausea meds.

I waited out in the waiting room for Bear to be brought to me. And when they did, there, in front of everyone, I fell to my knees and sobbed. I buried my head in his neck and told him I was so sorry and how much I loved him. I leaned back, and sweet Bear licked away my tears.

We made our way home. I had kept Shea updated, and I knew he was in shock. We were both sobbing as Bear made his way into the house for the last time. We couldn’t believe how fast he had deteriorated. We had both dreamed of giving Bear one last amazing day of everything he had ever wanted—endless cheeseburgers, a walk on the beach, all his favorite treats—but it was clear that none of that was going to happen. He laid on the couch and we told him over and over that we loved him, and we just loved on him as he rested. When we went to bed, he came into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed, and slept between us, one last time.

Taking him to the vet to let him go was absolutely hardest thing I have ever had to do. However, the one thing that gave me and Shea any peace about it was that it was clearly time. Bear had deteriorated so fast, it was unbelievable. He was able to walk into the vet, I was thankful for that. He would have hated to be carried. And he was still aware, and knew we were there. But, he was not well. We would not let him get to the point of suffering.

Those last moments are ours—in our three hearts, shared just between us. But I will tell you that Bear wagged his tail and loved us until the end, and that we held him as he took his last breath. He left this earth with words of love and gratefulness for how wonderful he made our lives.

~~

In the days since we lost him, I have been lost. I should keep a list of the places I have fallen apart in public. I wish I knew the names of the people who have comforted me, once they knew the reason, crying with me in the aisles of Safeway, Target, and Sam’s.

Bear was not just a dog. As my therapist recently said, Bear was a being of such importance in my life—animal or human—that this is a huge loss. Because for me, Bear was never a pet. He was the heart I tied my hope to, a life preserver, a confidante that led me back to the living. As dramatic as it sounds, I can tell you without an ounce of hesitation that there is a very good chance that I would not be here without Bear. In the months leading up to the day I adopted Bear, I was losing my battle with depression. So many things kept happening, one after the other. It was more than any one person should take. More than I could take. Everyone around me saw it, too. They were worried.

The tide changed with Bear.

How do you repay that debt?

Yes, I saved his life the day I adopted him. But he went on to save mine, and then fill my life and Shea’s life with so much joy.

I still think I see him coming around the corner in the kitchen when I am cooking, or beside me when I roll over in bed. I swear I have heard his little sigh when he would lay down when the house is quiet.

I have felt that I have failed him, that I should have caught his illness sooner. It is all part of grief, I guess.

I know that Bear had a good life, and all the birthdays, and holidays, and all the days at the beach, all added up to a really spoiled dog by anyone’s standards. I am so grateful for all of that. Every silly thing I did, every over-the-top thing.

In my heart I know I did the best I could to love him, and give him everything.

Every day as I try to get through this grief, when I am struggling because I miss him so much, I close my eyes and imagine our eyes meeting from afar. I see him recognizing how much I need him—and he is running to me, as fast as he can. He doesn’t take his eyes off of me for a second, and he is smiling the whole time.

I love you, Bear.

Ten years just wasn’t long enough.

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One Less Heartbeat: Losing Lilly

I don’t know why the thought came to me, four nights ago, the night we lost Lilly. I was getting ready for bed, hardly able to think straight, and the thought ran through my mind: There is one less heartbeat in our house tonight. I felt a pain in my own heart knowing that was true. I burst into tears, as I had so many times during that day, in public, in my car, in the ophthalmologist surgeon’s office as I went in to get my right eye checked—after having a cataract removed just the day before. I had to let Lilly go, watch her fall asleep for the last time as my husband and I held her and wept and whispered our goodbyes, then somehow get myself to the appointment. I did. I sobbed the entire drive home.

After getting home from the appointment, I sat in my car in the driveway, not wanting to enter the house where she wasn’t any longer. Lilly had become a tentative, quiet presence in our house for some years; so different from her younger days. She was a wild spitfire from the moment I brought her tiny little self home.

But almost unlike any cat I have seen with as much fire and attitude, Lilly was one of the most affectionate cats I have ever encountered. She loved to sleep curled up with Lucy--her sister from the same litter--or with me or Shea. She would head butt your hand, or burrow for a head scratch, or sweetly touch her head to your forehead to ask for love. Her motor was loud and deep, and I am so thankful that my husband managed to capture it on video so I can hear it again and again.

In 2001, on the day I set out to adopt a kitten, I planned on getting two so they would have company when I traveled for work. I had gone to a local rescue on a Saturday when they had adoptable kittens at the pet store. I found Lucy first, but none of the other kittens made a connection. The rescue employee told me there was one more from the same litter- a solid white kitten just recovering from a respiratory infection. She handed me a carrier and I looked inside, and no lie, I said, “Hello my Lilly.” I hadn’t picked out the name before, she just was my Lilly.

Lilly was hilariously naughty. She would hiss at me if I said “No” or gave her a cross word. She hid outside the litter box when Lucy was inside and waited for her to come out to pounce on her and scare her. If Lilly was scolded, she took it out on Lucy, or knocked something off a shelf, and looked at me as if she had most certainly had the last word.

I constantly had no idea what page I was on in any book I was reading, as Lilly adored bookmarks, and slipped them out from between the pages and eventually destroyed them.

The absolute best stories were always hard for people to believe until they witnessed them. A veterinarian once wanted to put her on a prescription diet—as she was having urinary tract infections and had only one working kidney. For whatever reason, Lilly did not like the food. After my first few attempts of feeding it to her, she would take one sniff and knock the bowl and the food across the kitchen floor. She didn’t eat for 4 days. I called the vet and he told me should would eat if she got hungry. Another few days went by and there was no change and he asked me to bring in Lilly, the dish, and the food. He clearly didn’t believe what I was telling him.

We went to his office, food, dish, and white feline, furry stubbornness, and I set all of it on the high counter as he came in to check her out. I put the food in the dish, she took a sniff, and smacked the dish and the food so hard that it flew off the exam table and hit the floor, food going everywhere. The vet laughed, a big, huge belly laugh, and made me set it up again for some of the vet techs to see. We all laughed, while Lilly stared at us as if she had had enough. He tried a few other foods out until one seemed to meet her standards. He reminded me to prepare myself. Lilly only had one working kidney, she would be lucky to live to be ten years old.

From the time I brought Lilly home, we moved over 10 times. Two of those moves were cross country. She was my constant companion as a single person, and comforted me over job layoffs, broken hearts, and unfortunately, a battle with depression that has been with me most of my adult life. There were few things over the years that could help me through my darkest times more than sweet Lilly’s motor running next to my heart.

She was always a challenge. I had to baby-proof my kitchen cabinets to keep her from scaling to the top cabinets, and knocking whatever dishes were in her way to the floor. She hated having her nails clipped, and somehow stole the little clippers I had for the job, over and over. Once, when I moved, I found four pairs of the clippers under the couch, deep in the back, her little stash of control.

Lilly is the only cat I have ever known who truly loved a good belly rub.

She is also the only animal I know that has wiggled her way into my mother’s heart. My mom is not an animal person, or a pet person, and is absolutely baffled how I live outnumbered by them. But my mother adored Lilly, and has called me crying several times over the last few days.

When my husband and I started dating in 2009, he was entering a relationship with three cats, one dog, and me—who needed anyone I was going to be with to love all of us. We were lucky. All the animals love Shea, and I say that once he came along, he was number one to all of them. Lilly was no different. She adored him and snuggled up whenever she got the chance. At this point, her wild days were behind her, so Shea had a hard time believing my tales of her naughty adventures.

We lost Lucy in December of 2014, and while we were devastated, we worried about Lilly so much. She had spent every day of her life with her sister and most days and nights, I would find them intertwined together, sleeping, and motors running. The first week after Lucy died, at night, Lilly would roam the halls and cry, looking for her, and Shea and I took turns sleeping in the den with her to give her one-on-one attention.

Since that time, Lilly was glued to Shea almost 24/7. It has given me great comfort that during some of my craziest work hours and not being home as much at that time, Shea was with her constantly. We didn’t know how little time we had left. I am thankful that I left my terribly stressful job earlier this year, and was so fortunate to find one where I can work from home. I was able to be with her more, and spend time with her, and get her little heart against my heart, her motor running all the while.

I have left the most beautiful Lilly story for last.

Many times over the years, after countless hours of therapy, different medications, more medications, and just, well, life, I found myself feeling so hopeless. I have shared openly that I have contemplated and attempted suicide multiple times, and it is some kind of miracle that I am here writing these words tonight. I didn’t really get the right help and get well until I was 39, so there were many, many years of battle.

 

One of my lowest points was when I was living in Washington DC in 2003, and personally and professionally, everything seemed to take a dive at once. I had been at this low point so many times before, but this time felt so different. Many nights, I would sit in the floor, holding Lilly, sobbing, staring at bottles of pills, and finally calling for help. This one night, I just didn’t have it in me anymore.

This night, I wrote letters. I called the pet sitter and asked her to come the next day, giving no indication that this was different than any other business trip. I called and asked for the apartment janitor to come early and fix something the next day, but left him a note on the door in an envelope to call the police instead. I had left a notes for the pet sitter, and anyone else who might read them to please make sure my cats were taken care of. I had people in mind who I thought would take them. I worried and fretted over them the most.

I was sobbing, trying to think of a way out, trying to convince myself differently. I swallowed pills and more pills, until I lost count, but knew it was enough. I laid in the bed, sobbing, and Lilly jumped up next to me, pushing herself against me, loving me with all her might. I apologized to her and to Lucy, and in a few moments, I was out.

Although Lilly had always been a firecracker, she was scared of a few things: a loud phone ringing, my hairdryer, and anyone knocking at the door or ringing the doorbell. Any of those noises sent her flying under the bed.

But on this day, at this particular time, there were noises louder than that. Policemen were breaking down the door. It took me so long to realize and half-stumble to the door and open it. One of the policemen leaned on the door frame in relief, seeing me alive. I, still, in a daze, crawled back to bed. And there, where she had been for all those hours, that whole time, was Lilly. Hammers hitting the door, the doorbell ringing incessantly, nothing had made her move. She stayed by my side. Her motor next to my heart, doing all she could to help me. To love me. To be there for me, no matter what.

The policemen had called an ambulance, I asked one of them to please call my pet sitter, he said he would make sure Lilly and Lucy would be ok while I was gone. He did. I was checked into a hospital into ICU that day.

That whole experience has been on my mind so much.

On the morning of August 17, Shea and I were leaving the house for my cataract surgery, and I looked at Lilly in the kitchen and knew something wasn’t right. We made sure she would eat and drink water, and gave her treats, and then we left. I worried the whole time. Shea and I both were really concerned, and once we got home, we went back and forth, hoping she was perking up one moment, then realizing the next that she wasn’t. My sweet husband was up with her a great deal during the night, and I will always be so thankful to him for that.

By the next morning, we knew. Even though she had beaten the odds and lived 15 years, she was fading. I laid in front of her and looked at her, and for one second she gave me this look, just a knowing, lost look, and then she seemed to look through me. She tried to walk and wobbled. Shea and I were both crying, and bundled her up in a blanket and headed to the vet.

Once the vet came in, it didn’t take long for everyone to realize. Lilly had gone blind overnight, she was in obvious discomfort. We would not let her suffer. Shea and I waited for them to bring her to us in a special room so we could hold her as we let her go from this life.

We both whispered in her ear how much we loved her and that she was safe, and how much we would miss her. She purred, loudly, until her very last breath, which gave me comfort. In her last moments, I told her I never forgot that dark night and how she stayed by my side.

I am so thankful that in her last moments, she knew I loved her enough to be there for her, too.

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How I Wish I Could Have Met You

I try to encourage my husband Shea to write more often, because he is a gifted writer, especially involving matters of the heart.

When we first started dating, one of the things I loved most about Shea was the compassion and love that was so apparent when he talked about his grandmother, and how he repeatedly said he wished she could have met me.

He also repeatedly talked about the pain and regret he had over not being able to speak at her funeral, for reasons he and I and few others know. But even though it hurts me knowing he didn't get to give the eulogy in person--because he wanted to so badly--here it is now. His love for her shines through. I know I would have loved her, too. 

You can see the post on his blog here, or read it in its entirety below:

Dear Grandmother

I have been honored to deliver eulogies at the funerals for several close relatives, including my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandmother.  My dad's father passed away several years before I was born, and for reasons I won't get into, I did not speak at my Grandmother Canupp's funeral. 

I have regretted it ever since.  I am sorry these words are eight years late.

Dear Grandmother,

I miss you so much every day, but I miss you most at Christmas time.  Especially Christmas Eve.  Christmas Eve was always our day.  Our entire family gathered at your house for our annual celebration.  But luckily I grew up within walking distance of your house, so I was always the first to arrive (and the last to leave.)  I just loved every part of that day with you and granddaddy, and I wanted it to last as long as possible.

I loved helping granddaddy bring in wood for the fire we would build, or serving as your unofficial food taster, or as I got older, driving to the store for last minute purchases.  I treasure the memories of the planning of those days as much as the actual parties.

There was one unplanned tradition that dominated my childhood.  I would get so excited about Christmas and food and presents, that I would literally throw up at some point during our Christmas Eve party.  This happened every year.  Until I was 11 or 12 (In an effort to stop the embarrassment, I finally decided to avoid food for 24 hours before the party.  I wound up passing out and falling down a flight of stairs.  But, next play, as they say.  Keep pounding.)

The rest of the family would always make sure I was OK and then (rightfully) enjoy a few laughs at my expense.  But grandmother, you always knew the right thing to say to make me feel better: "Santa Claus is coming. I don't know why everybody isn't throwing up."

Christmas was and remains my favorite time of year, but the truth is, every day was special with you grandmother.  I was lucky that I got to see you almost every day growing up.  I don't know how I was able to stay so skinny as a child, because a lot of days I had two dinners- at our house and yours.

In fact, everyone who knew you grandmother, will remember just hard it was to leave your house without eating or at the very least taking a plate for the road. It was next to impossible, whether you were hungry or not.  It almost became like a battle of wills.  But grandmother, you were going to win. Actually, everybody won.

Everybody thinks their grandmother is the best cook in the world.  But they are wrong.  Because you were, grandmother.  From the dressing at Thanksgiving and Christmas, to the biscuits that were made from scratch virtually every day and so much more.  And it was all delicious.  (I have to admit that fried squash was not my favorite, but yours was better than any other I've ever had.)

And grandmother, you were responsible for the single best meal I ever had: country fried steak after my high school graduation.  I can still remember being in your kitchen that night, thinking this was as good as it gets.

But grandmother, any time spent with you was automatically more special.  Our family vacations at the beach were always fun, but were off the charts when and you and granddaddy were there.  My favorite little league games were when I saw you in the crowd.  And I am so, so thankful that you and "Ma" Griffin were both able to be in Boone when I received my college diploma.

Everybody who knew you knew how much you loved the Lord.  It was powerful, and it was genuine.  And I have never known a better example of what a true Christian should be than you and granddaddy.

My favorite days in church were when I sat beside you and granddaddy.  (Actually, my very favorite days were when I sat beside you while granddaddy delivered a sermon.)  I remember you always had the little peppermint hard candies in your purse.  We would try to unwrap them as quietly as possible, then try not to laugh when we would inadvertently make too much noise.

I worked for nearly 20 years as a sports broadcaster and, whether you realize it or not, you and granddaddy had a profound influence on my career path.  Granddaddy was the biggest baseball fan I ever knew and I loved to watch games with him.  I spent nearly every Monday night of the summer at your house watching "Monday Night Baseball" (back when baseball on TV was a true event).  I also read the sports page at your house nearly every day, and you gave me my first subscription to "Sports Illustrated".

I'm sure you thought that, if anything, I could possibly write about sports some day.  I am certain that the thought of that quiet, shy kid talking about sports for a living never entered your mind.  But I loved seeing the videos of you "watching" me on the radio.  I always knew that you were proud of me.  I hope you know how much you inspired me.

There are so many more memories that spring to mind when I think of you, grandmother.  All good.  All special.  Just like you.

But you gave me my most special Christmas memory of all time, at your last Christmas on this Earth in 2007.  Alzheimer's had ravaged your memory, and I wasn't sure if you had recognized me for quite some time.  But when I walked into the nursing home to see you that day, you lit up and said "Shea Boy", the name you called me as a child.  It's a moment that still give me chills.

This Christmas Eve, as has been the case for the last few years, finds Kim and me 3,000 miles away from most of our friends and family.  I really wish you could have known Kim, grandmother.  I think the two of you would have been thick as thieves.  She had this photo of you and granddaddy printed on a canvas and framed and gave it to me for Christmas several years ago.

I just hope you knew how much I truly loved you. And still love you. Always. Merry Christmas.

Actually, Merry Christmas Eve.


by Shea Griffin 12/24/2015 

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