Doggie Dynamics

Houseboy brought the maniac dog to me yesterday. Sorry to be ridiculous but I wept. Perhaps the reason I am so crazy about the maniac is she has been my bright spot. I didn't realize how much until the last few days.

My current oldies (although they are not very old) have been kind enough to let me live with them, mooch off them, etc. I run around rearranging their furniture, interrupting their well-oiled routine, making coffee at 5:00am, etc. The dog has always been an issue with female oldie. She's slightly afeared of big dogs (bad episode in her childhood) but she's also aware that the Gabster can be a tornado, i.e. "Hope you didn't like all that glass stuff on the table because I just wiped it out with my tail."

Here's a couple of other reasons I wept:

I was reminded, repeatedly, that there are still people who value something other than material possessions.
I stood in awe as my oldies said, "We would never ask you to go without your dog. We'll figure it out."

They have two little dogs -- a sweetie and a biter (although she's growing on me.) The biter thinks she is the alpha dog; Gabby has no desire to be the alpha dog but she freaks them out. We're all getting acclimated. Gabby slept with me last night and she keeps looking at me like, "You never told me this was an option."

I don't think the little dogs are having a barking good time but who knows? Sometimes it's good to have your world shaken a bit. Trust me. I know.

Sensitive

My entire life has been filled with people trying to toughen me up. When kids on the school bus threatened to hit me and I told my mother about it, she told me to hit them back HARD or she would hit me. For the record, she didn't hit me but her point was well taken.

I'm tougher than I used to be -- it's only taken 45 years. But, I'm still a weenie. Music makes me cry. Commercials can make me weepy. I can burst into tears with an old note or photo.

Yesterday, my goddaughter had her wisdom teeth removed. When I talked to her, the conversation ended with her saying, "I wuv ooh." I remember when the baby had his wisdom teeth removed. I kept talking to him (as he came out of the anesthesia) and I was mean. I was doing little impressions of him. He kept saying, "Op it, Op it."

I have also been through this surgery. My dad and my fiance took me. When I woke up in the recovery room, they would only allow one person to come back and they asked me who to send back.

"I want my Dad!"

I may be a weenie but I'm not stupid.

Airports

Forget about the hassles, the lines through security and the over-priced food. There are several things I love about airports:

People watching. There are some weird ducks out there.

Seeing someone embrace. Maybe it's a father returning from a business trip or a person serving our country returning home.

The anticipation of getting on a plane and going somewhere fun.

Picking up someone you love.

In less than two hours, I am going to the airport. I'm going to pick up someone I love who I have not seen in a year and a half -- just wrong! I am certain I will burst into tears the moment I see her.

My parents do not spontaneously combust every time something touches them emotionally. I have no idea where I got this gene. It does kind of freak people out.

In some undefinable way, the airport allows us to explore all kinds of feelings and emotions. It may be:

Relief: Bye Bye
Sadness: Bye Bye
Fear: Did I leave the coffee pot on?
Love: Welcome home
Jealousy: No one's here to greet me.
Envy: I want that luggage.
Gossip: She's wearing that on a plane?
Stubbornness: I will take my seat and half of yours.

The airport is a sociology experiment brought to life every day.

Walking Into a Memory

On Saturday, the husband and I went to a friend's home for dinner. He and his girlfriend prepared a fabulous meal and could not have been more gracious. It was a roller coaster of laughs, food, music ... and tears.

My friend, Patsy, was his wife. The last time I stepped in this house, I was visiting her after surgery. I knew he had remodeled/recedorated and I was anxious to see it. I was also just plain anxious. I used to be able to drive to this place in my sleep. We have had girlfriend sleepovers and SuperBowl parties there. We sat in the kitchen and solved the problems of the world.

Crossing the threshold was like walking through foam. I expected her to walk up to me, cup my face with her little hands and kiss me in greeting. (Then she would tell me what was wrong with my life.)

I didn't exactly boo-hoo; I just couldn't escape the memories. I really like the girlfriend but I'm sure she wanted to slap me: Just stop it!

Although she was Jewish, Patsy's final days were spent in a Catholic hospital. Crucifixes everywhere. My super-funny husband would walk into the room and say, "Love your decorations." She was in a coma but her machines would go crazy.

The house has changed and although it was beautiful before, it better suits her husband now. Plus, his girlfriend must appreciate the changes.

One thing he kept was a large frame filled with friends and family. She inspired me to do this myself and it's a tedious yet worthwhile project. People get enthralled with the search. Am I in there? The husband couldn't find himself. I pointed out: she didn't like you.

The truth is she did like him but she enjoyed the dance of poking and prodding, as does he. They disagreed on so many things that it made my head spin. I learned many years ago to get out of the way.

So, I went to Patsy's house. I loved it. Patsy wanted nothing more for her husband and children than to be happy and I felt nothing but love in the house. Could anyone ask for a better legacy?

It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

I love Lesley Gore. Her songs are simple ballads and get this, you can actually understand the lyrics. It's mostly teenage angst but when you listen to them in middle age, the same feelings are there. They're just focused in a new direction.

My aunt introduced me to her and I learned every word to every song. (Her greatest hits are on my iPod.) Decades after my aunt gave me the gift of her music, Lesley Gore performed a concert here and my aunt and I danced and sang in the aisles. It's one of my favorite memories.

Another aunt thinks it's healthy that I can cry and laugh easily. My emotions are not contained. I didn't know our bodies held this much salty water. I can cry until I laugh and I can laugh until I cry.

Hangdog called last night. After our conversation, I cried.
The husband did something extra nice for me last night. I cried.
Someone sent me a funny email. I laughed until I cried.

In a few days I'm headed off for a quickie vacation. I'm afraid the girlfriends involved may lock me in a closet until I stop crying. Even if it's a happy cry.

Officer Unfriendly

Last week, the husband and I barely stopped to breathe. Decisions, notifications, endless phone calls, funeral arrangements, travel arrangements, etc.

I was trained as a journalist and my current writing work always involves deadlines. I understand deadlines and in fact, I work a little faster and a little better with my feet held to the fire.

We wanted the Belle's obit to appear in several papers. The husband instructed me to get it to the funeral home (with the photo) by noon -- so I had 20 minutes.

An aside -- I had just finished editing it for the umpteenth time and I was very emotional. The husband and I had gone through photos before he left for work and I was weepy with memories. But I threw on some clothes and headed off with tears in my eyes.

I was speeding (not much) through a school zone. This is not the kind of school zone where children walk to school. This is a gated community school -- the kind where your biggest risk is a 16-year old child runs into you with his Jaguar. But, it is a school zone.

I got pulled over for speeding. I was crying uncontrollably. I had the obit and the photo sitting on my passenger seat. I gave Officer Unfriendly my driver's licence and attempted to explain the circumstances.

Officer Unfriendly gave me a speeding ticket.

No More Tears

I'm not talking about baby shampoo; I'm talking about me.

You would think the human body could only hold so many tears. In my case, that is not true. I've got the super duper tear-producing machinery. I cannot seem to dry up.

The mother-in-law is being moved to Hospice today. Her vitals are screwy and her toxicity levels are escalating at an alarming rate. She may have hours; she may have days. The doctors recommend (and we agree) that we have reached the point of no return. We're not trying to get her back. She just needs to be comfortable.

Hangdog only knows a portion of this. He knows she's in the hospital. He knows she is not doing well. Tomorrow morning, we will pick him up at the Home and drive him to the Hospice for their final visit. (Well, their final one here.) Our friend and family doctor is going with us because frankly, we're terrified he may stroke out.

One of the brothers is probably on his way here. He only lives about four hours away. I don't know if he's bringing his wife or five children. We've spent countless hours on the phone and it's just a little past noon.

So, I'm changing sheets, washing towels and crying.

I keep going in the dungeon and then forgetting why I'm in there. Then it came to me. I must figure out what she would want to be buried in. I sat on the floor and cried. Then, as I always do, I called my parents. "What outfit did you think she looked the prettiest in?"

The husband is holding up. His tear ducts are working quite well also. But, he's better when he's busy and there is lots to do.

Do you know the laws and regulations that accompany shipping a body? Neither do I. But, I'm learning. Especially difficult if you have to cross several state lines. Their family plot is in southern Mississippi and there is not an airport. So we've sort of moved into planes, trains and automobile territory. (I'm reminded of that scene in National Lampoon's Vacation, where they strapped Aunt Edna on top of the car.) So I laugh for a minute and then I sob and hiccup like a baby with colic.

I'm tempted to go buy some of that baby shampoo that promises "No More Tears." Instead, I will probably crawl on the dog pillow.

Being Strong

Some people are strong physically. Some are strong mentally. (Some are psycho, but that will be a different post.)

When the husband and I sit around the piano, occasionally we turn to old favorites. One of them is, "I'm Going to Be Strong" by Gene Pitney. I'm not good at harmonizing but if he goes first, I can stumble through it. This is a heart-stabbing song about lost love. The core message is, Tough it out!

I'm small in stature but I think I'm pretty strong. I haul things and I occasionally move furniture. Mentally, I have enough brain cells clicking that I can keep up with most conversations and form a semi-intelligent discussion point.

I am not emotionally strong. I am raw. Crying is my normal reaction: happy, sad, scared or humored. I would blame this on menopause or the oldies but I've been this way my entire life.

Sometimes I freak people out, especially the oldies. "Is something wrong?" I feel stupid explaining that there was a cute puppy on a commercial and it made me cry.

If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I'm your girl. I'm also pretty good at moving furniture around.