Fleur Sauvage: Primo

Showing posts with label Primo. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

A Year without You

I awoke in the middle of the night to your loud cries. We were at my parents' house for my grandma's funeral. I found you in their living room (I couldn't coax you into my room that night) half-paralyzed and terrified after losing control of your bowels. It would be the third time in about two weeks I found you unable to get up from the prone position, and I knew. I knew you couldn't go on in this pain, humiliation, and fear. I knew that leaving you alone ever again would be out of the question. I got you up and tried to calm you. Just then Larry came through the door, also having heard your cries. He took you outside in the cool October air to help you stretch your legs and get you calmed down. I stayed inside to clean up the mess. My dad awoke and looked in shock at my mother's white carpet, now completely brown. I begged him to go back to bed, and he reluctantly went. I knew that her carpet would be the last thing she would worry about, as she is a dog lover, and also loved Primo. I cleaned it up anyway, and went outside.

You were laying down again, in a shallow puddle, Larry standing beside you, and I was afraid you had passed away. "Is he alive?" I tentatively whispered? "Yes," Larry said looking down at you in love. "He's just resting." "The water probably feels good," I said, reaching down to pet you. You had worked yourself into such a frenzy. Who wouldn't--not being able to get up. Of course that is terrifying. We stood there in the blackness for a long time as I listened for your breathing to slow down. I looked up and saw Orion's Belt, crystal clear and dazzling, and I knew what I had to do.

"He can't go on like this," I gulped. "I know." Larry said. He knew too.

I think I remember every second of that day. As your life passed around 3:30 pm, my life, at least as I knew it, stopped.

The truth is, it hasn't really started again and I feel as empty now as I did when I had to place a terrible phone call.

I've been to some nice places since you moved on, but you're always there with me. I go to Eagle Creek all the time--one of your favorites. Larry and I often visit the spot where you jumped from a cliff down to the shore of the reservoir, and that funny look on your face, as if you were saying, "Look what I did! You guys should try it!" When I'm with Larry, the memory will elicit a smile, but when I'm alone, a tear is more likely to present.

We've done a few camping trips. You loved hiking and getting to eat "camp food," but you didn't really love sleeping outdoors. You would look at me and seem to portray confusion as to why the hell we were sleeping outside on the ground when we had a perfectly good house to sleep in.

Before Larry came along, you and I sometimes camped together for hashing events, sharing my tiny tent and air mattress, and you seemed to love it. Funny thing when Larry came along--you were not willing to give up your rightful place on the air mattress.

The first month or so after you died was the worst. I hated waking up, going to sleep, coming home, or leaving. I broke the habit of looking in the window as I drove out, where once your beautiful head would sit on the window sill, breaking my heart with your "Why can't I go?" stare. Just the other night, I was making salmon croquettes, and as I was spooning out some the juice from the can into Abby's bowl, I remembered how salmon was your favorite food.

Abby misses you too. At first, she kept looking for you, meowing, looking me in the eye, as if to say, "Where's Big Fella?" I don't know if I should tell you this or not since you were always so jealous of her, but she has been a very good kitty since you left. I think she also feels lost without you and needs constant companionship to help her get through.

Remember the day I brought Abby home from the Humane Society? December 20, 2001. I let you sleep on the couch because you were pretty upset at having this new creature in your house. When I brought you home April 1, 2001, you met my first cat, Tabitha, and you did not seem bothered by her at all. Tabitha died that August. But Abby bothered you, probably because she loved you and kept trying to cuddle with you. You were so mad! You barked and growled at her. Soon she decided that if you were going to be mean to her then she was going to frighten you by staring at you.

I always knew when she was staring at you. If I were anywhere else in the house, you would come and tattle. You make me come and see what she was doing to you. Sometimes she'd attack you. She'd hang by your neck and bite you, and even though you did not like her, you never hurt her. You were always gentle with her. Sometimes you'd try to nibble on her back. Sometimes you'd take out your biting frustrations on the couch, bed spread, or Turkish rug. But you never hurt that poor mangy cat who was so sick she was nearly dead.

Over the next years, I would think of you both as my roommies, maybe even my kiddos. On cold nights, we'd all sleep in my bed. I really loved waking up wedged between the two of you. I felt like I had the best life because I had you two.

You and I had so many great times. Remember hours-long walks on the Monon Trail and canal tow-path? You were so popular that strangers knew your name and would call to you on sight.

I haven't yet been able to wipe your nose prints from my car windows, bedroom window, and sliding glass door. One of the smudges even has some of the yogurt you would like from otherwise empty containers.

I miss the way you always made me laugh. When I had hardwood floors installed, you followed the installers around and laid on their equipment. Abby of course followed you following them around because she was your little sister. They called to me, "Amy? We're really sorry, but would you mind moving your pets?" Then when I had the gas fireplace installed, you followed them around, keeping any eye on them or maybe hoping for a gentle chin rub. Then when I had the security system installed, you followed them around too. Once you decided that they were okay, you laid on their tools and gave them constant eye contact. When I had events in the Beat Lounge, you gently tried to herd everyone in to one room where you keep an eye. Your work done, you'd sit atop the steps, playing sentry. People who wanted to go downstairs would have to step over you. You didn't move a muscle.

Everyone loved you, even non-lovers-of-dogs.

Remember all of our road trips? Our first was to the Smokey's where you had your first raccoon encounter. Then we spent a week at Tybee Island, and you held court on the screened in front port, questioning all passers-by of their business. Later we spent some time on Appalachian Trail--far too little as far as you were concerned. Remember the light house tour and running on the beach at Van Buren State Park and the joys of licking the cup from our Sherman's ice cream? Remember our trip to Cleveland? I bought you a bone so you'd stay occupied while we were out exploring, and the bone drove you to insanity as you desperately tried to hide it. Remember our week at the beach house in Cape San Blas? One day, you just jumped the gate and took off on your own to the beach.

We used to walk about five-six miles a day together. People always wanted to stop and pet Lassie, but you were so funny. You sometimes hated particular kids. I always wondered why. You didn't like every single person you met. You were an excellent judge of character. Except for in the case of my neighbor, Roy. He is a really good guy. When you really like someone, you try to put your butt in his or her lap. When we went to Atlanta for my show, you loved Dave and Linda's youngest son. I think you noted that he was gentle, like you.

Remember eating all of Larry's Christmas cookies and pretending like you had no idea why he was mad? Remember the huge messes you would make with the trash, and Larry covering for you?

Remember our trips to Michigan, and my nieces and nephews you constantly petting you? You were so good to them.

Remember going to certain events, and kids would just flock to you? They'd lay on the ground with you and pet you, and you'd take it all in.

You were 3 when you adopted me, and you died at 16-1/2. I thought I'd have you for longer, I really did. That last Christmas, I thought you'd had a stroke, but it was just vertigo, and I really thought I'd lost you. I ran out and bought you a new bed that day. I'll never forget how excited you were to get a new bed. I'll also never forget how excited you'd be when Larry presented you with new toys--Buzzy Bee, Mr. Fishy, and Larry Bird.

We started planning vacations around you, picking dog-friendly places. We picked a place back in Cape San Blas, renting for two weeks instead of one. You died just a week or so before our departure. I saw all the places you liked to run and play on the beach. When we were planning a trip to Glacier or Acadia, we looked for houses that accepted dogs.

I don't walk nearly as much since you left. It took months for me just to get back out there, and I still feel lost sometimes not having those twice-daily walks to mark the start and end of each day. At night, you'd get restless if I waited too long to say, "Wanna go for a walk?" and you'd pace and grab one of my belongings in my mouth. You'd snort and prance.

You loved sleeping under the Honey Locust tree in the back yard. I still see you curled up at the base of the trunk. I still see you curled up in the corner of the living room. And beside my bed. And when we sit down to dinner, I see your head on my lap or peaking through Larry's bent arm, hoping to get just a bite.

It's been a year, and I am surprised how quickly the tears come if I spend more than a few minutes thinking about you. I think because of that, I haven't spent long periods of time thinking of you. I miss you so much, Primo.

You were there for me every second of those 13-1/2 years. You saw me through the divorce and the merciless depression that followed. During the divorce, I was told to find a home for you. I didn't. I kept you. During my depression, I wondered if you might be better off with a married couple than with a single woman. I even had a couple in mind, but thankfully, I couldn't do it. I needed you so much. You greeted me warmly when I'd return from a crazy trip around the world. You kept Dave company and cheered him up, and you were so great to him that he even got two dogs of his own. And you LOVED Kara and Mercy, especially Kara. Wasn't Dave good to us? Primo, I wish I hadn't gone on those trips sometimes. But knowing that you brought Dave such joy, maybe it was okay? I did miss you terribly while I was gone.

One time, I was catching a flight in the morning, so I dropped you and Abby with the Dave the previous night, and for the first time since leaving the Air Force, I came home to a come to an empty house. No one greeted me. I was still unstable at that point, and I fell to my knees realizing how much love you gave me.

I got you four months after Phoebe died. And now it's been a year since you've died, and although I've looked and I've visited other dogs, I haven't been able to do it. I keep thinking that no one will ever be as good as you are. I know I'm right. Someday I will adopt again. And someday, I'll lose him or her too.

And someday, I'll come to the Rainbow Bridge, and Phoebe, you, and maybe someone else will all be there to greet me with kisses.

Primo, you gave me 13-1/2 wonderful years. You gave me more years maybe than you actually wanted. In human years, you were well into your hundreds. You were deaf and blind, but allowing you to also be lame seemed cruel and selfish on my part. I often wonder if you can understand why I did what I did, and if you can forgive me?

One day, when I feel a bit stronger, I want to post all your pictures here. One day when I can look at them longer than five seconds without crying.

Today we're going to Eagle Creek to think about you. Then I'll sit beside the tree we planted for you. And I'm going to tell you how much I miss you.

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Brown Eyes

I try to be grateful for the life you gave me instead of grieving that you are gone, but recounting our days together only magnifies my loneliness without you. I keep wondering...where are you? Is your spirit alive somewhere? How can it just be gone?

This day four months ago, I woke up, and the tears were already there. I couldn't roll over and not see you lying there, waiting for me to get up. I couldn't roll over and not feel your nose nudging me, your tail wagging, tipping over items on the night stand.

It's been over twenty-one since I've been this long with a canine best friend. In recent weeks, I've practically memorized every profile of every adoptable dog within 100 miles. I've stopped many times at the Humane Society to see if I can meet a new friend. I've been so lonely without you, that I am beginning to wonder if it's time that I started searching more earnestly.

I can't find anyone like you. My search comes up empty, and I'm left so sad.

I feel your absence constantly. I still see you curled up in your favorite corners. I still remember that anytime I looked at you, you'd stir and come to my side. First your eyes would open, then your tail would thump against the floor. Toward the end, I would come to you because it was so hard for you to get up and down.

I recently read that dogs really dislike being hugged. I kind of knew that about you, but you did let me spoon you at least. You brought me such joy and comfort, just hanging out with you. You were always there, and I can't fathom or understand that you're just gone.

I haven't been able to take walks since you left me, and I know I need to get out there, back out in fresh air. I forced myself the past few days, and it is feeling less lonely now than it did immediately following your death, but it still feels strange walking alone, and I don't think I'll ever get used to it.

I want to think of you and smile, and to think that someday I'll see you again, and you'll be whole and well and happy, and we'll go for a long walk. Remember the summer of 2002, going to Eagle Creek and hiking for miles everyday? Two weeks before you died, we took you a rugged section of the park across the reservoir, and you were tired, but you rallied, your old spirit finding its way to leap over a couple of logs and scale a steep hill.

Sometimes when I eat in front the TV, I think of the times you stole pizza, tacos, and cookies when we left them unattended, and I laugh. And then the laughter inevitably turns to tears.

I'm not anxious for this pain to subside, the way I have been with other types of grief. Every tear is a crystal of a beautiful memory. I guess I wonder if I'll ever get over this, and if I'll ever feel the same again. I do miss that person. I wonder if I'll ever find another dog as good as you were, if I'll ever feel that much love and devotion again. I wonder if I'll ever be ready.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Letter to A Friend

I've been wanting to write about my grandma and Primo. Here is a letter I wrote to a friend.

My grandma died last week. She was 99. My mom was with her when she passed. Even though it’s what my grandma wanted, it came on the heels of my Aunt Gini’s unexpected demise, and I know this has been hard on my mom now that she’s the last one left in her family. Larry and I went up Friday-Monday. The memorial was Saturday, and it was the most beautiful service I’d ever attended. The pastor created a wonderful narrative of stories about Adallae weaved in with her favorite Bible passages and hymns. He kept calling her a spitfire. She would have loved it.

The church put on a really nice luncheon in the basement afterwards. They opened the game room for the kids so they could have fun while the adults talked. My mom created a beautiful table of photographs, letters, quilts, and memorabilia—even her wedding dress and veil.

For someone who outlived seven siblings and two husbands and most of her friends, she sure had a lot of loved ones and friends at the memorial. I looked around at all the faces and wondered if I have that many friends. The church offered so much comfort to all. Sometimes small towns get life just right. This was one of those times.

Sunday my brother invited Larry and I to go hiking through the dunes with his family, and my mom decided to join! She rallied and climbed steep sand dunes, so determined. I could see that she was relishing life and moments, and I was so proud of her. We kept telling her, “Mom, the dunes are going to get really steep,” but she was stubborn and came up anyway. Yes, she almost passed out from exertion, but she says it was totally worth the view.

I thought of how many times we’ve trekked those dunes, ever since the 60s, and my mom and dad probably hiked them in the 40s. In the winter, we would go sledding. As a teenager, I joined friends that meant the world to me on summer nights after work. As an adult, walking the dunes was therapy for me. Once I got past all the depression fallout, they became a source of inspiration. Sharing it with Larry, my mom, my brother and SIL, and my nieces and nephews surpassed all the other times I hiked there.

This next part is not good. Monday brought an unexpected tragedy. Primo passed away while we were in Michigan. He’s been struggling lately. His rear hips have been giving him trouble, and his mind was slipping. He has been refusing food for a while now, and the lack of nutrition caused a skin problem. The vet gave him a steroid shot and some meds. He rallied. I’ve been cooking fish and meats for him just to get some fat on him. The vet said that once he re-gained some weight, he’d get his strength back. Two weeks ago, he was climbing steep hills and jumping fallen trees at Eagle Creek, and it was a wonderful day.

I think the car trip to MI was too much on him. He’s had a couple of episodes in the car lately, and then his mind plays all kinds of trick on him. He wasn’t really right all weekend, but by Sunday, we were back to taking two walks per day, and I got him to eat an entire meal the day before. He even played with a neighbor dog briefly. But Sunday he wouldn’t eat. He also wouldn’t sit or lay down, and I’m pretty sure it’s because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get up. He was so exhausted. I finally got him to lay down Sunday night, and I really started to worry about him. I decided I would just have to work harder at finding foods he liked. I wouldn’t mind at all. I knew he didn’t have years left, and I wanted to give him whatever he wanted. But around 4 a.m., I heard him yelping. He couldn’t get up. He had gone BM and it was everywhere, from scrambling to try to get up. Larry and I had both seen him in this condition before, and at that moment, I knew that he could no longer be left alone.

Larry took him outside while I cleaned up inside. I went to check on him, and Primo was lying in a shallow mud puddle. Larry said he kind of collapsed there. He was sleeping deeply and looked peaceful. But I knew then that he was ready to go. He was exhausted. He was scared. I looked up in the sky and I saw Orion’s belt overhead, which I know means nothing, but it was so clear and beautiful. After a while, we decided to move him into the garage so he wouldn’t get cold. I got him to eat some roast beef, and he was walking around, and for a minute I thought that it was just an episode. We brought his bed out, and eventually he laid down. I got him some blankets, and he slept soundly. I could tell by the way he was laying that was ready to leave us. We found a vet who would come to the house so that his last moments wouldn’t be traumatic from having to be loaded into a car. I layed next to him for hours, and he stayed awake with me while I petted his head, and I knew I was doing the right thing.

He went very quickly, maybe 15 seconds. The vet assured us that he was ready. The vet and her assistant were competent and compassionate, just who you would want to trust in such a situation.

It’s been hard ever since. I didn’t want to have a breakdown at my parent’s house, just two days after my grandma’s funeral. I kept trying to hold it in. We drove home yesterday, and loading the car with Primo’s stuff but no Primo was heartbreaking. We entered the house, and the first thing we see is the biscuit he refused to eat before we all left for Michigan. Larry broke down and wept, and the night pretty much went like that.

When I picture us doing the things we loved—relaxing in the back yard, making his morning and nightly meals, walking through the neighborhood, playing with his toys, I start crying. When I remember how he looked in that mud puddle, I feel relief. But I miss him so much and just want to talk to him and ask him if he’s okay with my decision. Larry said that he was so loyal that he might have rallied several more months, but not having a lot of quality in his life.

Now we have our trip coming up in two weeks—a place we picked specifically because it is dog friendly and because we all had such a great time there two years ago—and Primo won’t be with us. I feel terrible about thinking this, but I’m afraid it will only make me sad. Larry says we should go and celebrate him and try to heal, and I agree.

He was 16, and I had him 13-1/2 years—I know I had him more years than I should have. I am so grateful. But 13-1/2 years is the longest relationship I’ve ever had.

I hope I can share this with you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy again, and I know how crappy that sounds, but it’s how I feel. I don’t care about anything anymore, I mean except Larry, family, and a few close friends.

Monday, December 29, 2014

2014: You Had To Be There

There's a saying, "You had to be there," which people use when they make inside jokes around people who obviously weren't there.

Well, 2014 was no joke, and it seemed I spent a good part of it sewed up inside myself.

Still, I was there. I was present for the good and bad, not always taking it in stride, but feeling it all and noticing everything.

Why take the time to write out the highlights, low points, and mundane passing of days of a year? It's tedious to recount, so I have no idea why you would actually read it. Wait, yes I do.

It's a year of your life. Good or bad, with life, you have to be there. If you skip out on the bad parts, you might not make it back in time for when it gets good again. It's an important appointment that you can't miss.

You have to be there.

2014: I was There (Pictures here.)

The first four months of 2014 were fantastic. I had a job interview the last day of 2013 and was offered a position on January 2. A blizzard hit the Midwest early in the month, which effectively shut down the city for over a week. I loaded up on food, books, movies, and hope, and nestled in and enjoyed the quiet beauty, not bothering to dig out until absolutely necessary. I had my pets, a book to write by January 20, and a new job to start January 21.

I had closed out a 2013 full of ups and downs and new discoveries, ending on an up. As I waited out the relentless days-long blizzard, I remember drifting off to sleep in my bed, imagining myself an artist or homesteader in the North Woods, expertly mustering all the fury that mother nature had to offer in my quiet and cozy cabin, as I spent the days doing...homestead-y things that could have involved...um, butter churning or hide tanning or darning socks or mending fishing fishing poles, and taking moonlit walks through the snowy wilds, then settling under wool quilts with my cats and dogs to keep my company while reading by candlelight. It was the first time I realized how powerful my imagination is, and that using it properly could bring me private peace and joy. It was like settling down to watch a movie, only the movie was playing in my head, and I was the star, and only wonderful things happened to me.

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I believe these imaginings were inspired by a documentary I saw one weekend afternoon on PBS when Primo was in a leg cast and I was awaiting my trip to Thailand. Until that point, I never liked winter very much, not since I was a kid when it meant sledding and snow days. I was flipping through the channels aimlessly (I've never had cable, and this was before all the .1 rerun channels, so I had maybe six.) Stunning scenery caught my eye, and I watched this show, riveted: Christmas in Yellowstone. No, it's not about Christmas. It's about animal survival in the coldest months. The photographer actually camps out in a tent to follow the animals. You can watch it here.

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I finished my book (yay!) and then started my new job and my new commute, determined not to complain about the drudgery of either. I would arrive in the parking lot and take a moment to take in the scenery of the season: ice giving way to tentative yet tender buds, buds giving way to blossoms, blossoms dropping off and making room for the full globes of green, green giving way to yellow, yellow to brown, and brown to bare. My life was following a similar pattern.

The Ice Months:

We spent the winter months taking in performance art: an upstart poetry slam at Indy Artist Colony. Larry's first exposure to the art form, and I was so happy--he "got" it; several performances at IRT "And Then They Came For..." a beautiful and heartrending story of the people who knew Anne Frank. "Who Am I This Time"...a play based on some short stories that Kurt Vonnegut chose to not publish--and for a reason. Neither of us enjoyed this play very much. "Other Desert Cities"...this one got rave reviews and was really well done, but it reminded me of a television show and also acted as a mirror--do I write like this? I cringed a little. It felt so familiar--the current story, and the undercurrent of a much bigger story between the lines. It made me a bit uncomfortable. Reading the liner notes, I learned that the playwright used to a writer for the mediocre television show "Brothers & Sisters," which I sometimes watch/listen when I'm doing dishes or cooking. The characters and situations on the show annoy me because I can predict them. Am I a predictable writer, or is it like when you meet someone you hate, and everyone tells you how much you're alike? Recently, I was painting my kitchen, listening to the show, and one of the episodes is nearly identical to the play. See, I would never do that. So, no, I'm not like this writer. The thing is, even when we don't really like the plays we see (which is rare at IRT), we just love going. We get dressed up. We have dinner afterwards and discuss. We walk the city streets. We love it! Other highlights included Dance Kaleidoscope "Kings and Queens of Country" with friends Jodee and Willard on St. Patrick's, and the audience being chock full of rowdy gay men dressed as leprechaun cowboys.

We had a beautiful winter hike in Turkey Run, the canyons frozen and quiet, and lots of winter walks with Primo, who was like a new dog after a rough couple of months.

The Bud Months

I was offered another book project in February, again given just weeks to write it. This one was on Lady Gaga. In addition to reading and watching everything about her I could get my hands on, I listened to all her music. I somehow did not know a single song by her, but did learn that her music is best listened to while running. I worked like a slave, and suffered through two terrible editors who insisted on changing the direction of the book (established by the series editors). I navigated through the challenges of standing my ground while being professional. I haven't seen the final copy, but online descriptions of the book (I assume written by the editors) are incorrect and contain false information about her. This was a very frustrating affair altogether, but at least for a little while I felt in touch with a younger generation, and I learned that Lady Gaga is pretty cool! I even streamed some of her concerts.

Larry gifted me a gas fireplace for Christmas, which was installed at this time. A simple twist of a knob, and I could light up my evening with a warm fire, complete with fuzzy slippers on feet, fuzzy cat in lap, book in hand, and glass of wine leading to fuzzy mind. I attempted to write a play I had been thinking about for months. It may or may not have had some really good parts. I decided to shelve it and resolved to write more fun and for personal reasons. I didn't really hold up on that end of the deal.

The Blossom Months

I went to Michigan for Easter and my birthday. My mom had a little birthday party for me--just my parents and Earl and Lori and kids. We had our first weenie roast of the season. It was a clear and beautiful night, a chorus of tree frogs in the ravine. I took the kids out for a day of fun--the newest Muppet Movie, visiting Grandma (their great-grandma), playing on the pier and the windy beach, getting lunch, then going to my mom's house to color Easter eggs. The next day we hid eggs and surprises for the kids.

Back home in Indy, Larry and I celebrated by attending the Stutz Artist Association open house, which was a yearly tradition for me for a handful of years. Larry had never attended. We got a little snazzy, and he was instantly hooked. We drank wine, listened to various singers and musicians, saw a little performance art, and five factory floors of visual arts.

The next day we packed up a beer/fruit/sandwich picnic and headed back to Turkey Run. The drive was gorgeous with purple and white and pink blossoms dotting the forests. This was our first visit to a state park on a weekend, and it was quite a different experience. First, some knucklehead evangelist had littered miles of trails with...those fucking hellfire comics. Second, all the fatasses who were there killing time before the restaurant buffet opened were clogging up the trail with their smoke, litter, cackling, and lollygagging. At this moment of realization (should be no smoking rules in our forests, for fuck's sake) that not everyone who comes to the woods respects the woods, I had a tiny epiphany: my brief unemployment during the -ber months of 2013 was not all bad.

The next day we went to the IMA, for a bike ride, then invited Ralf and Jim to the movies (Bears) and to dinner at Seasons 52.

*I remember 46 as being my favorite birthday ever.*

We extended the celebration to the following week for Dance Kaleidoscope "Picture This" at the IMA followed by an Arts party in the main gallery.

The next week Jodee rented the famous-in-Indy Chicken Limo (an old 70s mafia type Limo that looks like a giant chicken), and she and Larry planned a "Magical History Tour" around the city. I remember walking the golden sunlit sidewalks thinking everything in life was perfect. I remembered at that moment that the last time I had felt that way was that day I was walking the streets of San Francisco, and then getting laid off a week later. (The layoff, thankfully was recalled weeks later, and I managed to squeeze 2-1/2 more years out of that place.)

That night, I received a call from my brother: my cousin Adam had to take my Aunt Gini to the ER, where she was diagnosed with advanced stage cancer.

This was Mother's Day, and it's when the year took a sharp turn. I rushed to Michigan the next weekend, and we visited Gini and family. It was the last time we would all be together while she was coherent. She was given about six months to live and died six weeks later. When she died, she took a part of all of us with her.

The advanced stage of the cancer and her sudden death were due to not only negligence but greed, yes greed, on the part of her doctor. She had been sick for months, begging her doctor to see her, but being a medicare patient (over 65), the doctor chose to put her off. Gini complained of feeling a lump in her stomach in January, and her doctor made her an appointment for June, because the greedy doctor did not see Gini as someone who could provide her with income. Doctors have a minimum quota of medicare patients they are required to see, and anyone on medicare is pushed to the back of the line.

Sadness and anger swept over all of us, but mostly a great sense of loss and inability to fill the void. This is how it felt to me, so I can't imagine how it felt to my mom and to my cousins.

Not long after, I got new a neighbor, and things got worse, which I'll cover later.

The Green Months

I planted a garden for the first time in about nine or ten years. I had a wonderful time of it. My backyard started to be my favorite place in the world. Primo would investigate every inch of yard, and I'd sit in my lounge under my locust tree, the golden sun filtered by the green leaves.

I hired a landscaping crew to do some of the excavating to get rid of grass to make room for my native species prairie. It was with the best of intentions that I hired a not-for-profit group who employed at-risk youth. In the end, the work was unfortunately pretty shoddy, but at least it helped me complete phase 1. I spent the next few months planting, transplanting, seeding, and studying various species, which would attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.

I had every hope of launching my shabby-chic wine bottle art, but did not exactly deliver. My glass cutting tool did not really work, and work got hectic and overwhelming. I did manage to make my wine bottle borders, which turned out great.

Over the Fourth of July, I gardened, dug, planted, and transplanted three days in a row for about 10 hours each day. This resulted in a knee injury that put my running to a halt and which I still feel today.

We had another outing to Shades State Park, where we encountered fewer people.

My job began to take over much of my free time and weekends.

Things in the neighborhood became tense as it became evident that the new tenant was not the doting father and fiance he claimed to be but a dealer with bruiser employees, at least three busybody baby mamas, six vandalizing kids, a steady stream of customers, and a used junk car business. He added a dog he neglected to the mix, and around the end of July, I said goodbye to sleep. His dog barked all hours of the night most nights of the week. Things only got worse.

I hardly got to spend any time in Michigan as I was working so often. In early August, I finally broke away. I had a slumber party with my nieces on Friday then took my mom to dinner the next night. I had a few hours at the beach before the rains swept in.

IndyFringe, in which I have been a contributor for the past eight years arrived at the end of August. I shelved my own writing project but recruited Cincinnati spoken word artist Curtis D. Shepard to take my slot. I hosted him all ten days of the festival, and made a wonderful friend. His show was well reviewed, and I realized that I enjoy being a curator as much as being a creator. Nevertheless, I could feel something stirring in me that suggested I might be nearing the end of this road. Larry and I decided to treat the festival as if it would be our last, and we took in several shows each night, as well as volunteered to tend bar at the beer tent, and joined the closing night parties. I said a quiet goodbye, and I've yet to determine if I'll be back. I wanted to leave on a good note, and I did at least accomplish that.

Unfortunately, I was not able to attend my Aunt Gini's memorial as I had performances scheduled at that day. Sara told me it was a beautiful morning on Lake Michigan, and she played "Paradise" by Cold Play, just as Gini requested.

As the warm, dry, silent winds of September blew in, t, and I felt an explicable sense of dread creeping in. Between being overwhelmed at work, saddened by Gini's death, worried about Primo, whose condition was worsening, I felt the onset of a low-grade depression.

The situation with my neighbor became untenable. He encouraged his kids and baby mamas to vandalize my home and to harass me, his bruisers to block my driveway and deal in my yard, and one night he personally came after me. Terrified I barricaded my doors, called 911, and for the first time in years, took my personal firearm out of the safe. The next day I had a security system installed. After nearly two months of getting no sleep due to the barking dog next door, my work started suffering, and my boss noticed. I thought I was on thin ice, and I struggled daily to remain focused, but instead I was constantly fearful of my neighbor, worried about Primo, sad about Gini, and scared about my job.

The Yellow Months
I joined the neighborhood watch committee, attending meetings, and recruiting neighbors, and keeping in close touch with the police. I soon got word that the asshole was being evicted. I made some new friends, and lost someone I thought was a friend. The night the asshole and his friends beat down my door and surrounded my front yard, I called the guy across the street for help, and he basically ignored me. Later I found out that his skanky niece was engaged to this thug next door.

I was able to regain my footing at work. Thank goodness for the wake up call. On top of everything else, I did not need to lose a job. I simply began double and triple checking everything, and read articles about communications daily on LinkedIn. It also became apparent that my boss realized that he had held me accountable for some things over which I had no control, and he seemed apologetic.

At the end of September, my grandma died. My mom had revealed to me that during her last month, she refused to speak to or acknowledge my mom when she came to visit. My grandma was 99. She had wanted to die for a few years by the time it finally happened. Later my mom learned that this isn't uncommon and wondered if this is how people prepare their loved ones for life without them. I wonder if it's the loved one checking out as a form of resilience to face death.

Her memorial was actually very beautiful as we celebrated her life. Her pastor shared her stories and her favorite hymns and scriptures. Larry accompanied me for the funeral.

The next day, we went for a hike through Grand Mere--my brother and his family, Larry and I, and my mom. My mom rarely accompanies us, but perhaps she was having one of those moments of Live While You Can. It was a beautiful day.

I took the next day off work to help my mom with my grandma's belongings. It didn't go as planned. I woke up in the middle of the night to Primo howling and crying out in the living room. He couldn't get up and was spinning around in desperation, having soiled the carpet. This was the third time I had found him unable to get up himself, and a sinking feeling came over me that we wouldn't be able to be left alone again.

I actually don't want to write about this. This was Primo's last day on earth. I will write about it separately.

In October, we took a road trip to Cape San Blas,where we had rented a beach house for a couple of weeks. We had entertained the idea of Acadia National Park in Maine or Glacier National Park in Montana, but I didn't want to leave Primo for any length of time, and I didn't want him to travel very far by car. CSB is a one day trip, about 12 hours. I felt trepidation about going to a place we specifically chose for Primo--a dog friendly beach and hous. We had been there at the end of 2012, yet it seemed so many years ago. It was very difficult at first, but soon my spirits lifted. I decided to let myself be totally transported.

Everyday was filled with sunshine, blue sky, long walks, brisk runs, bike rides, key lime pie, fresh seafood, books, swimming, laughing, and playing. I read two really great books while I was there--better yet they were "found" books--books I found on the bookshelf of the home that I had never heard of.

Both books turned out to be treasures, especially the first:

The Light Between the Oceans

I have never been so transported by a book in my life.

The second was

Little Bee.

I started a third but didn't finish it.

CSB is a place I feel I belong. There are places I love (San Francisco), but belonging is completely different. Every night, I would cook a simple, healthy, delicious meal and we'd eat it at our tiny dining table, looking out over a sinking sun. We made a date every night to meet on our bedroom veranda for sunset, and then I'd make dinner. I'd stop by the fisherman's market and pick up a fresh catch, season it, and Larry would put it on the grill. He kept offering to take me to dinner, but I couldn't bear to leave our beautiful place. (We went out one night and had a pretty disappointing tourist type dinner.) We also went on a ghost walk one night in a centuries old graveyard in Apalachicola. I went to bed early every night, around 9:30, exhausted and happy after a day of fun exertion. I would crack open the door to the bedroom veranda and hear the rush of the tide rolling in, and the laughter of people and children at their nightly fire pits. On my daily walks, I got to know many people on the beach. On our last day there, the beach was deserted as most people had packed up. I took a walk and saw ghosts of Primo on the shore from our visit two years prior.

The trip was wonderful and terrible. I felt so relaxed and recharged that I couldn't imagine ever going anywhere else again.

The Brown Months

The leaves were dead and brown, yet precariously clinging to the branches. This is how I felt. When I returned from vacation, I made a few dinner dates with friends, and started some creative projects at home, namely, I started work on some quilts that I hope to give to my nieces some day. My grandma left me all her material from her decades long career of being an independent seamstress. Growing up, she always made us patchwork quilts from the leftover material. (Married during the Great Depression, she never wasted anything.) She made the quilts for us in the 70s, and the material really shows it. I like calling them Pantsuit Quilts. I made a couple of quilts more than a decade ago, and getting back into it felt nice and peaceful. I'd put something on Netflix, and start my cutting and measuring. I also took to drawing and Zentangle, and found myself relaxing and enjoying being creative again.

The Bare Month

December. No leaves no snow. Purgatory

I felt pretty desperate by December, and made a last ditch effort to not lose all the peace and beauty I gained while in CSB. I suggested we take in as many holiday shows as possible. At this point, I didn't feel like socializing but I knew I had to get out. Performances and events were the perfect antidote. First I went to see my friend Dave in the play "A Christmas Carol," which is one of my favorites. Dave, Tristan, and I had dinner afterwards.

Next we went to Dance Kaleidoscope Broadway Meets Motown. As usual, a total blast. We had dinner before at McCormick and Schmick.

Next, we accepted an invite from Ralf & Jim to attend the Butler University Holiday Concert Symphony Chorale. The performances were outstanding, making for a beautiful night. We had a lovely cheese and wine reception at R&J's afterwards. Next was Handel's Messiah with The Indianapolis Chamber Orchestra. I enjoyed it but don't need to do that again. Finally we went to Indiana Ballet Academy's Nutcracker. I'd never seen this (or any) ballet. I didn't love the ballet itself and later read that it is often criticized for being boring and having nothing to do with the actual (wonderful) story of The Nutcracker. Still, I was mesmerized watching the beautiful moves and thinking about how hard artists work. It definitely made me want to see more ballet.

The verdict was that my experiment worked. All of these activities took my mind off my sadness and made me remember the bigger world of which I am a part, and more importantly got me excited for a holiday with my family.

I suggested to my mom that we take in a Christmas Eve service at my Grandma's church, and it was really nice and kind of quaint, but I tell you the truth. I thought I would feel my grandma there, but I did not feel her at all. Perhaps this means that she is truly in a better place, and thinking of it that way, helped put me in a better place.

I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with mom and dad and Earl's family, and we had a really good time. I had to work the next day, at least log in remotely, so I left the day after Christmas, short and sweet.

I surprised myself upon my return. I finally got the motivation to start the projects in my kitchen I had thought about for so long. I wanted to start with staining my honey oak 90s cabinets, and figured it would take at least a week. It took me only a day and half, and I moved on to repainting the walls (ballet white) and the pantry door a deep red. Next I had a great time doing all this work. I worked slowly and diligently, enjoying every second rather than rushing through it. Next up, I'll tackle my countertop project.

We went to a really fun birthday for friend Jerry this week. He's one of my favorite friends in life, and we brought in his 50th with a wonderful "roast," which people complained was far too nice to be a roast, a giant human paddling machine, dancing, and love. I love my friends.

Just a couple days of left of 2014, and I'm ending on a positive note, because whether we feel like it or not, we have to be here. Let's be present while we're here.

2014: I was There.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Another World

My grandma died early last Monday, September 29. She was 99 years old. Her name was Adallae. She filled my life with love and laughter and meaning. Larry and I went up for her memorial service this past weekend. It was the most beautiful service I'd ever attended. Larry offered comfort and all the right words and gestures. We sent her out the way she asked--with a song of praise and stories of laughter.

My mom is the sole remainder of her family now. She had to do most of this alone, and what a beautiful tribute she made for my grandma.

When I am feeling stronger, I want to write about my wonderful grandma.

I took Monday off to spend time with my mom in Michigan. It didn't go as planned. Instead, I had to say goodbye to Primo. Primo was my best friend. He was sixteen. He adopted me when he was 3. I spent thirteen and half wonderful years with this generous and gentle soul.

Larry and I feel the crushing sorrow of his loss on a minute-by-minute basis.

When I feel stronger, I'm going to talk about my wonderful dog, Primo.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Reconsidering 2013

I guess this a letter to or about 2013, or my life in 2013.

It's December 30, and the snow is lightly falling on a grey day, and as is always the case, watching it relaxes me and puts me in a thoughtful frame of mind.

2012 was one of my best years for adventures and love and friends and for taking creative risks.

It seems I was in some sort of recovery mode for most of 2013.

Recovery is an important step in healing and getting stronger. It seems strange to think that I would need a year of recovery after having an excellent year of the aforementioned travel and creative adventures, but I guess it's like resting after running a marathon. You put your body through tremendous stress in the process of achieving and excelling, and you need to nurture yourself before you can run your next marathon

Part of that recovery included taking a year off writing so that I could rest, recharge, enjoy some freedom, and reconsider if writing and producing plays was something I wanted to pursue. Somewhere along the line in 2012, doubt crept in about my abilities as a playwright, and in 2013 cynicism about the local market and local acting community took root in my heart. I think was trying to figure out where I belonged and if I fit in. There were a few instances when I felt like I sometimes did as a high school-er, feeling insecure and sometimes wishing for inclusion with a group of people with whom I actually had no meaningful connection.

I think the whole point of the cynicism and time space from creating theater was to learn that I do not need to try to fit in or belong. I learned this by noting how many other adults in this community are so desperate to fit in--not just fit in but to be the most popular, to name drop, to climb the social ladders, and watching other adults scramble for popularity made me laugh. I saw in them what can only be described as desperation, and I know that's not what I want for myself.

I've come to the conclusion that I need to write for different reasons now; namely, that I have something to say. I don't need to scramble. I don't need to compete. I don't need my name on posters. I simply need to share anything worth saying, and that is the hard part. How will I know if what I have to say matters at all?

I'm giving it another shot in 2014. I've got at least one more thing to say. I've got at least one more marathon in me.

2013 was also a long recovery phase from an overextended social calendar, and the year was marked not by interactions with extended groups of friends, but of a voyage of self discovery, which necessary included running solo most of the time. Several years of constant socializing, engagements, and party hosting took its toll on me. I often wonder if the constant socializing of 2006-2012 were my attempt to overcompensate for all the years I was married and sitting home alone on weekends and holidays, wondering if something was wrong with me because I didn't have friendships like the ones I saw in movies, on TV, and read about in books. Again, here is a glimpse of my most insecure self--it seems to come down to popularity--or does it? Is it really about connection?

If so, then it makes sense that some of those friendships did not last. I remember in the early days so desperately trying to force those connections and ultimately losing part of myself along the way. I spent part of 2013 in recovery mode from the loss of friendships, and at least one second too long dwelling on people who did not care to see our relationship through some ups and downs. I am positive that at the end of 2012, I swore I would get over those hurts, but I did not recover completely, and that is because I kept peeking under the band aid and picking at the scabs. In 2014, I will really need to not just let go of those memories, but to do so with so gratitude and sweetness, however small the dosage.

When one door closes in your heart, another opens. I determined to spend the year getting to the essence, my essence, my life's essence in 2013, and I made tremendous progress. Family. Need I say more? It's the greatest source of connection I have and the most meaningful. It is at once the most difficult and easiest relationships, too. It's difficult because we're so different and have such different views of the world. It's easy because they understand the world that created who I am more than anyone else. Family is the first and last line of defense. Sometime in 2013 it really hit me just how important my nieces and nephews are to me, and I'm so grateful that it hit me. If I hadn't lost some other relationships, I seriously wonder if I would have fully explored the other relationships that were already awaiting me with open arms.

I've had other doors shut, open, and slam in my face this year, namely my career. I didn't see any of that coming, but I know that in time I will see that those slamming door led me to knock on others that would open up new worlds to me.

One of the worlds that opened to me was claiming stake, literally, and right where I was. I talk of Journey in Place, but this year I also learned how to Live in Place. When I was offered a new career in June, it suddenly occurred to me how tentatively I had been living my life and how unbeknownst to me it caused me constant low-grade anxiety. I approached my life here as temporary, not because I necessarily wanted to move somewhere else, but because I didn't really feel I had a place here that couldn't be taken away at a moment's notice. Although the job that offered me this opportunity to literally and metaphorically set down roots did not work out, the result was the same: I changed the way I see my life here, and I claimed this space.

My space, my Place, became very important to me in 2013, and I treat it now as constant work in progress. I absolutely love my house and what I've done with it--from hosting concerts to opening the artists hostel b&b to my new home gym to my home office to hosting dinner parties to transforming my back yard into a shabby chic urban prairie. Feeling home in my home is a very important step for me in my journey, and more than anywhere else, home is where I love to be. I love what I've created here and what I overcame to call it my own. I really hope, wish, pray, that 2014 will bring with it a new job that will let me continue to discover my home.

A few weeks before Christmas, Primo got really sick. I thought he had a series of strokes. He kept running into things, falling down, and vomiting. He had no appetite and became skin and bones in a matter of days. I spent two days wailing in pain at the thought of losing him. I felt a deep pain I haven't felt in many years, and was surprised that I could still feel such intense pain. I felt like I would never be happy again without Primo and that nothing mattered to me. I took him to the vet expecting the worst but instead found out that he had a common ailment that is rarely fatal and easily remedied. He had Idiopathic Vestibular Syndrome aka Old Dog Syndrome. It's basically severe vertigo. Their eyes constantly roll around because they are dizzy and are trying to get their bearings, and that causes nausea, which causes them to vomit, which causes them not to eat. Their head tilts constantly to the right or left, they walk in circles, and sometimes can't walk at all. Dr. Dave gave him a shot for the vomiting and prescribed the human drug Meclizine, which is used to treat vertigo. It took a couple of weeks, but he's back to normal weight and he's walking in straight lines and gets dizzy only after sleeping for hours. On Christmas Day, I had the joy of seeing him run around the clean white snow, and I felt so happy.

As for adventures, we had one major adventure and a few smaller ones: an impromptu camping trip to Clifty Falls, three weeks hiking, trekking, and cruising Washington, Alaska, and Canada; a week in Michigan over Independence Day; a staycation in Indy before I started my new job; and several day trips to state parks after I got laid off a second time.

It' hard to describe this exactly, but one of my favorite things in life are the unexpected moments or days or evenings of simple joy. I had one that summer night when I drank Mateus next to a stream in a wooded area of neighborhood while reciting Shakespeare, and I had another on Christmas night. Primo and I took a walk just before midnight, and the snow started to fall, straight down and heavy. The air was pure and invigorating and everything was silent and perfect. I didn't feel cold, even though we were getting covered in snow. I knew that I was having a moment, and it was the best Christmas gift I could receive.

As we do every New Year's Eve, my partner and I will be recounting our Top Three--the three best things of the year. I'll start with all the good things then attempt to narrow it down to only three.

Leaving the Port in Vancouver
Reconnecting with old friend, Erwin Dela Pena
Final Friday at IMA
Two plays at IRT--"Jackie & Me" and "The Whipping Man"
Being cast in "Extremities"
Being cast in "Something Wicked This Way Comes"
Sled dogs in Alaska
Olympic National Park
Camping Clifty Falls
Randy and Haylee's wedding
Going to the symphony and Eagle's Nest
My mom's birthday
Tibb's Drive-In
Fourth of July vacation in Michigan with Larry
Staycation in Indy
Shades State Park
Thanksgiving slumber party
Taking Grace to get her ears pierced
Working in my yard
Dottie and David's wedding
Getting two book deals with Cavendish Square, an imprint of Encyclopedia Britannica
(Yesterday at Larry's playing air hockey and going hiking in the snow at Ft. Ben was pretty fun, too!)

Alaska/Washington
Staycation
How I felt when I got the new job (even though it didn't work out, I'll never forget how I excited I was, so I've decided it was one of the best things of 2013)
Primo

I broke the rules. I added a fourth.