Death, Grief, & Come What May

Come what may.

It's easy to say when things are easy. It's difficult to live out when every day is a struggle for composure, for normalcy in light of sudden tragedies.

In recent weeks, my husband has declared that it hurts tremendously to shed the skin of who you once were. Shedding this skin not only includes making peace with your childhood self or college self or even the self who occupied the entirety of last year; it also includes internalizing and moving past the deaths of loved ones.

Within the last year I have learned an excruciating amount about myself through such experiences.

As many of you know, I grew up with dogs - never cats. My dad was not terribly fond of them, so we stuck to canines. When I got married, however, I knowingly married a cat person, and without much effort he convinced me I’d enjoy the company of cats if we got them as kittens. So we did. A month after we married, we decided to enlarge our family with two furbabies, Sophie and Emmerich, both barely 8 weeks old as rescues.

They stole my heart from the very first moment these skittish balls of love came to rest on me of their own volition. I had no idea I had such a capacity to love cats so much, and I’m so happy Sophie and Emmerich were the ones who showed me. They made me a catmom for the first time in my life.

Then, a year later, we had to say goodbye to Sophie because her kidneys were failing. It turns out lily poisoning is fatal if not caught early enough. On August 28, 2018 I was reminded for the first time in ten years how much it hurts to lose someone you love.

About a year later, I was due for a painful reminder again.

Friday morning July 19, 2019 I cuddled with Emmerich on the couch while I drank my coffee, a ritual we’d established over recent months. I noticed he was breathing heavily but otherwise totally lovey and normal. Later that morning, Joseph took him in to get checked out. We thought it might be asthma or something similarly minor. Five hours later, we were taking him home in a box, taped closed.

Feline leukemia is a tricky little virus that manifests without much warning and with a smorgasbord of potential symptoms. Emmerich had been carrying the virus in his bone marrow and it chose to present itself and start shutting his body down. There was nothing we could have done and nothing we could do except hold him and tell him how much we loved being part of his life while the vet put him to sleep.

The suddenness and utter surprise of his death are what gutted me the worst; I realized with painful clarity over the following week that looking into the face of an old, well-lived pet is very, very different from having to unexpectedly put down an otherwise healthy two-year-old catbaby. You look at the latter and wistfully imagine a long life with them; you look at the former and experience a twinge of reality that says the possibility of them dying of old age increases each day. How could I look at Emmerich like that? His death due to any reason seemed so far off as to be intangible. I can and have looked at my 12-year-old dog, Maxx, like that though, ever since I moved out.

I try to visit my parents where Maxx lives once a month or so. I live two hours and twenty minutes away now - that’s not close but it’s also not far. But in the last year, the fruits of my maturity have come to light in how I’ve regarded Maxx every time I show up and he’s still there, howling his greeting and bounding up to give me kisses: I look at him very deliberately and think “this could be the last time I see him.” It is a bit painful and uncomfortable, staring the inevitability of death right in the eyes, but it provides a sturdy jumping off point for our subsequent interactions. They feel so much more meaningful to me and I practice a present mindfulness, appreciating the silkiness of his coat as I pet him, the sound of his baying as he launches out the front door after a crow. This could be the last time, I think, smiling a bit sadly while Maxx prances around the yard, sniffing for deer poop. So let me be here with him while I can.

The second chapter of my grief opened with the death of young Emmerich and continued in the last couple of weeks as a lesson on the many shapes and sizes grief comes in. It can come on suddenly and without fanfare much like a tsunami, and it can also arrive somewhat slow and steadily, but still end in a jolt.

Death, even when totally expected, still manages to strike deep and quick into the humanity of those left behind.

Chapter three of my grief opened suddenly barely two weeks after Emmerich’s death. My dog Maxx died on Sunday, August 4th of 2019.

Loss, of this rapid-fire nature, certainly makes it hard to breathe.

I remember taking Maxx out for an evening potty break when he was about a year old. My family were in the final stages of readying to uproot our lives and move to Peru, but we were uncertain whether Maxx could accompany us. On that walk, I kneeled in the leaves next to him and took him into my arms, crying into his silky coat. I wanted so badly for him to come with us; imagining this next chapter without him felt hollow and dull, so much so that the image alone brought me to tears next to this clueless, happily wagging animal in the trees behind our house in Virginia.

Thankfully his goofy butt was able to fly over with us and my life during that period of isolation and soul searching was the slightest bit sweeter because of his presence.

It’s amazing how meaningful these animals are, even though they can’t talk to you and don’t see the world like you do and can’t even begin to comprehend their own mortality. Maxx was alive for exactly half my lifetime. That’s plenty long enough to leave a lasting, profound, stinky paw print on my heart. He was my buddy, great for cuddling and singing but not so great for fetching. I will miss him dearly, but I rest in knowing he lived a full, well-traveled life with a loving family, and now he’s enjoying a vast field full of crows to chase, popcorn to munch on, and all the butter wrappers to lick clean whenever he wants. No pain. No tears. No strangers. Just love.

It’s easy to feel sad for myself in the wake of these deaths. One terribly young, the other approaching old; one like a child, the other more of a little brother; both unexpected in their own ways but woven of different hurts. And I have every right to fall to pieces at seeing a photo or talking about them while the wounds are still freshly glistening. But you know what is also true at the exact same time? I can, and should, keep moving forward. If I’m truly living out the Come What May permanently inked on my body for all to see, I can certainly dig deep into this grief - but that doesn’t excuse me from my habits and goals. I still need to take care of and stay true to myself and my family. Both grief and unrelated meaningful pursuits can happen simultaneously. And they will.

Some days it hurts to keep going, but each day I’m able to manage the weight a little better. For the first week after Emmerich’s death, coming home from work sent me into hysterics because of how he used to greet me after a long day. Now I can pat the arm of the couch where he would perch and await scratches and smile fondly at the memory, thankful I even have the capacity to remember such things. And it will be the same with Maxx. If I don’t keep moving forward, the grief will turn into quicksand and consume me. I have to keep getting up at 6. I can cry while I drink my coffee because the weight of how much I miss them hits me - that’s acceptable. But when I dry my eyes, it’s time to hit the gym and throw around some weight. Then I hoist up that backpack of grief and go to work. So far I haven’t missed a single day. Gotta keep moving. Then I come home and work on my book or clean the house or make dinner. Do my nighttime routine, go to bed, and do it all again tomorrow. The backpack won’t be quite as heavy then.

Death sucks. Grief hurts. Understanding our own mortality and the mortality of others sets us apart from other creatures. It is a heavy burden to bear, and it will happen to all of us. Come What May, you gotta keep moving. It’s the only way to stay alive.

That doesn’t mean I won’t miss these precious babies of mine like hell.

In memory of:

Sophie (1yo) ~ August 28, 2018

Emmerich (2yo) ~ July 19, 2019

Maxx (12yo) ~ August 4, 2019

Wisdom Teeth

It was getting to be wisdom teeth pulling season for me and my brother. While in Peru, my mom did a little research and found it was much more affordable to get them yanked in the Spanish country as opposed to the US, which was no surprise and definitely good news to their wallets. I didn’t really care where I got them sucked out of my face, so I went along with it. We found some lovely ladies to do the work for us very quickly. Soon, the work had begun.

Aaron was the first to go in and get started. The way they do it in Peru is by side – i.e. left side top and bottom first, then right side top and bottom. So you had at least one side of your mouth to chew, among other things.

What really made things interesting was the fact that they didn’t put us under with sedation; they used local anesthetic, which meant sticking a needle of numbing solution in the gum just above or below the area they were working on. This also meant being awake for the entire operation.

So they whipped out their tools (some of them oddly reminded me of things I would find in my dad’s toolbox) and got to work. A lot of grinding, scraping, and yanking ensued until I was two teeth less. The operation itself didn’t bother me, as everything went perfectly fine. It was the medicine we were “prescribed” that got me.

In the states, generally you get two bottles of pills: one being of a hard painkiller like Vicodin, and the other being an anti-inflammatory drug. Simple, right? Don’t suck anything through a straw, stick to eating mashed potatoes, pudding, and jello for a few days, don’t do anything extremely hot and you’ll be good.

In Peru it was much different. We were to get two butt shots, one in the morning and the other in the evening, for 3-4 days. That’s right: needles in butts. It had an anti-pain, anti-inflammatory, and another helpful anti-something, but they had lost me at butt shots.

What I expected of these shots did not match up with what they really were, and I mean this in a terrible way. Every morning and night for a couple days I zipped into Chilca with my mom to the local pharmacy where they took me behind the counter and administered the shots as ordered. The needle was longer than your average shot needle, which gave me a bad feeling from the start. The woman giving me the shot would pull down my jeans at the back just a few centimeters, cleanse the area, and jab the thing in like it wasn’t a giant needle. It didn’t just sting – it pricked and burned and felt like barbed wire was being fed through my skin. The other thing that bothered me was that it was a fairly slow shot, the insertion and withdrawal of this needle, so it made everything agonizing.

The first few of these shots left me with a sore lower back, but it no doubt helped the healing process of the new holes in my face so I was trying not to complain. However, one morning when I was going to the pharmacy to get my shot, it wasn’t right. The lady brought me behind the counter with her usual mildly sour expression and cleansed the marked area to be stuck.                                                           

And when she pushed the needle in this time, everything about it was wrong. It didn't just sink in slowly and painfully zap the nerves like normal; it hurt. Every square inch of my skin cried out in discomfort and utter pain, sending an unwelcome, eerie shudder ringing through my body.

She removed the lengthy needle and told me in flat Spanish I could leave. With the first step I took, my head spun and practically lifted from my neck. A lump sat in my stomach before starting to churn.

I told myself I'd be okay, that it's just a temporary side effect because of the shot. My mom pulled out some soles and paid the lady behind the counter, glancing over at me with a curiously concerned look.

"You okay?" she asked, collecting her things and guiding me out of the pharmacy. I nodded and took some silent deep breaths. You'll be okay. Just a side effect.

A weird side effect that's never happened before in the other 6 butt shots I've gotten.
While waiting for a combi, my stomach violently knotted and spun like a washing machine. I couldn't stand up straight. My head got lighter and lighter. White stars floated around in my vision.

"You sure you're okay?" mom asked again, more urgently as she led me to the back of the combi to sit.

"No," I repelled flatly, grinding my teeth and attempting to surmount the pain, attempting to shove it away. It didn't work.

"We'll be back to Hannah's home soon, just hold on. You look white as a sheet of paper," she commented with surprised anxiousness. She placed a hand on my back, which was hunched over with my head between my knees and fists clenched. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her bow her head and close her eyes, as if in prayer. I assumed that's what she was doing.

Just a few more minutes, I told myself while the pain increased, seeming to read my thoughts. But then what happens when I get home? The pain won’t go away just by walking through the front door...

Finally the combi stopped at the end of la segunda and my mom helped me out of the van. We walked as hurriedly as we could down the road. My stomach didn't let up and continued knotting and stabbing with pain. White desired to overcome my vision. Mom tried to help me walk as best she could, but there wasn't anything else she could do; her frustration with this was obvious.

The front door came in to view and I muscled past the discomfort, willing myself to go faster. Once through, I raced to the bathroom like a wounded animal. Thankfully using the facilites made the pain subside just a little. As soon as I walked back out, I asked (demanded, really) for some Motrin or the closest pain reliever. Downing it without thought, I retired to my room, put a movie on on my laptop and tried to stop thinking about the knives stabbing my stomach and rear end.

The pain didn't end within the next day or so, though, emotionally or physically. The next evening came and we jumped in the combi to go to Lima and get the stitches out of Aaron's last side. In my head, it didn't make any sense for me to have to get another butt shot, so I was fairly content. No more pain. At least not for a little while, anyway.

I was so achingly wrong.

Sitting out in the modest waiting room with my parents, reading over some of my stories via my phone and otherwise biding my time while Aaron got the stitches removed, I was pretty calm. No worries. But when one of the ladies working on Aaron came out to report to my mom what the deal was with my brother, she glanced over at me and said something in Spanish about needing another shot.

My brother was fine after the removal of the stitches, but I wasn’t.

Fear launched through my entire body without warrant and I started to shake. Just the mention of another butt shot made me want to throw up and sob my heart out simultaneously. Anything, anything was better than that shot.

A fish tank adorned the far wall diagonally from me and I trained my eyes on all the fishies swimming around happily in it, focusing on something other than my overwhelming fear while at the same time attempting so hard not to let it show.

Dad wasn’t fooled one bit.

He asked me what was wrong, if I was okay. In the second I took my eyes off the fish tank and remembered why I was acting strangely, I started to cry. It poured out of me like a waterfall, without my consent or judgment. Dad got into the chair next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders as I plastered my hands to my face in shame, frustration, and mental pain. The hiccups shuddered through me and I soaked the sleeves of my shirt through within minutes.

So stupid.

My fear had such a fantastic hold on me – I couldn’t shake the thoughts, even, and that was all it took to trigger my panic attack.

No. Not another butt shot. I’d rather die.

And it was the honest truth.

When the lady came out into the waiting room with the needle and cleaning wipe, she turned sympathetic, consoling old eyes on me. There was no accusation or vexation in her chocolate irises. It made me sob harder, partially in thanks and partially in annoyance with the fragility of my ability to fight fear.

Dad tried to make me feel better and gave me a mini pep-talk about how it would be just a couple seconds and this last shot, this gloriously final shot would be over for good. Done. No más.

Too bad the mental repercussions would echo through me for months.

Even still, being the good little girl I am, I nodded, sniffled and followed the woman into the bathroom to have a bit of privacy. She told me a few comforting, empowering words in Spanish, essentially reciting what my father had told me, only in a different language. I nodded again, just to relay that I had understood her – not necessarily that I believed her.

Drawing down the waistband of my jeans just above the leftmost belt loop on the back, she stabbed the needle in as gently as she could manage; I tensed up so hard I could have crushed bricks into dust with my little fingers. More tears squeezed out from under my clamped eyelids. I didn’t think I had any juice left to do such a thing, but that was just another thing I hadn’t expected.

The lady, patient and loving as ever, finished up her duties and smiled at me with finality. Even though I was feeling far from it, I gave her a weak, wobbly smile in return. Grateful.

This all took place shortly before my family and I moved back to the states from our couple year stay in Peru – somewhere in March or April of 2011 my new, gripping fear was born. I can honestly say it was one of the worst days of my life. To be brought down to such a low mental place where merely thinking about it triggered a crippling panic attack. I’d never experienced anything quite like it and I do not wish to in the future ever again.

Gradually the effects of the worst day wore off, but that was only because I didn’t need shots of any kind for a while – lucky me. Then came physical time and getting ready for college, which required some updated immunizations. Joy.

I was nervous. Okay, I was terrified the day I had to get a shot again. I kept telling myself it wasn’t in the butt; it was going to be in the shoulder. These ones never hurt near as much as those butt ones did and I’ve gotten ones like these when I was a lot younger, so I couldn’t wus out. However, my mind was not having any of that. I still tensed up even while the nurse told me to relax. Granted I didn’t go into a full fit of hysterics, but it was a difficult leap over my fear. Thankfully, I made it across.

To this day, the spots above my rear will randomly sting like a needle jabbing me, just to remind me of the traumatizing experience – and believe me, there’s no way I can forget it.

---------

Ahhh, the true stories of my adventures in Peru. This one is the least loveliest of them all and unfortunately I say that with confidence and pure honesty. That's life, I suppose. It is what it is. I'm just glad the fear has been vanquished in my head. 

Hopefully I'll be posting more, but then again who knows. I feel I've said that before and nothing new changes or happens. Oh well. At least I haven't abandoned the blog completely. 

Ta!

~V

Death by Butterscotch

I walked into psychology class past only a handful of other students, plenty early, and sat dead center in the front row at my usual perch. Withdrawing my laptop and a notecard from my bag, I realized I still had some butterscotch hard candies leftover and decided to grab one so as to occupy my mouth. Unwrapping it and popping it between my teeth, I went about my business and unknowingly inhaled strongly.
The candy launched back and lodged itself in my throat. I sputtered and gasped, acutely aware of what had happened and panicking thoroughly. My heart hammered, stuttering in my chest and my body grew warm as adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. So fast.
I swallowed, alarmed, and found it was very difficult to do so. The candy remained in place.
I sat there, clutching the edge of the desk harder than meaning to, wondering if this was the end. If today was the day my clock ran out. What would my classmates think if I suddenly quit breathing and slumped over on top of my computer? How long would it take for anyone to realize what was going on?
Forcibly I had to calm my pinging nerves and tell myself to breathe, that my windpipe was clear and I could still breathe. I snatched my canteen from the ground and attempted to gulp down some water to move the candy along, but the clog was too great. All the liquid came back up through my nose, having no other exit.
I coughed and gagged numerous times while trying to control myself, my breathing, and my swirling thoughts. Did anyone in the room know the heimleich maneuver? Would they even try to help if I made it known I was in desperate need of it?
Desperately, I swallowed hard several times in rapid succession, resolute on getting the stupid piece of sugar down. It seemed to help, if only a minuscule amount.
Dissolve faster, I thought. Dissolve, dissolve, dissolve.
Gradually it lowered and lowered until I could feel it beside my spine like a swallowed wad of gum. It felt as though, if I dug hard enough, I could pull it out right from under my skin. Pain radiated in soft waves from it, but I was just relieved it had left my throat and proceeded to my esophagus.
The panic slowly left me and the alarm bells going off in my head died away. I heaved a sigh and prepared myself for today's lecture just as my professor walked in. She greeted everyone and asked how we were. I replied, "Good" and it was only after I'd said it that I agreed it was true.
I was glad that dumb piece of butterscotch hadn't been the death of me.

-----

True story. This was the highlight (and by that I mean something I wish to never experience again) of my afternoon. I literally thought today was the day I was meant to die.
Didn't happen, though, so I guess its not quite my time yet.
Moral of the story? Don't swallow an entire piece of butterscotch hard candy unless you desire to be scared out of your wits.

Until next time,

V

Do You Dare Dream a Dream of Me?

She stands tall, elegant and graceful in her black leotard at the very center of the floor. Music begins to play and she leaps and tumbles to the violent tempo, the notes seemingly tossing her about, as if in control. The audience in the bleachers doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, it doesn’t make even a sound. Perhaps that’s because they're lifeless dolls, mannequins that only begged to be freed from their inescapably plastic existences.

No one notices as red water slowly fills the room, coming up the girl’s ankles as she splashes through it, uncaring, or perhaps just utterly oblivious. 

The desperate cry of a baby booms like thunder through the place and the babe writhes on the lap of a still mannequin. There is no one there to calm it, or shush it, so it continues to wail for the relief that will never come.

The girl pays no mind and flips high into the air before landing on her knees. Her small body falls backwards into the water, now up to her waist, and she lies still for a breath or two. The music fades out like a dream when you awake and she stands, tall and elegant before the motionless audience. The baby continues to scream and fuss. 

No one notices.

The girl walks neatly off the blue performance floor and into the bathroom. She stops in front of the giant mirror and leans her elbows onto a counter made of liquid fire. Her skin blisters, cracks, and peels under the heat’s intensity, but she doesn’t cry out in pain even as the fire boils and sloughs the skin and muscle off her, leaving only bone. The water, up to her shoulders now, gives no mollification, no healing.

She sees that her face is crowded with innumerable white heads as she scrutinizes herself in the mirror. She poises two sharp nails by one, pinching it until it pops, revealing the shiny, pearl head of a pinning needle. Undistressed, she pulls the two inch needle from her face and examines it like a foreign object. Blood begins to drip down from the hole it left. Again and again, she pops the needles from her head and lets them fall down into the flaming liquid until not a trace of them remains. She’s weeping blood now.

The water is way beyond her head, but all the same, she walks back out to the performance floor and finds the bleachers empty, all but for the skeleton of a small infant. 

Where have they gone, she wonders, as her gaze pulls down to her chest to reveal a gaping crater of missing muscle and skin. Five left ribs are snapped off, leaving splintered edges, and a number of unattached arteries hang down like bloody threads over her stomach. 

And where, she wonders, is my heart?