The Pepper Predicament: All Good Things Come to an End

My dog is dead.

OK, so that's a pretty heavy way to start this off, but it is nonetheless true. Sgt Pepper, my Little Man, has shuffled off this mortal coil.

He's been gone for 12 days now, but it hurts like it just happened yesterday. All those cliches, all those sad, sappy statements... they're all true. Our home feels too quiet and empty. My heart feels like it has a hole in it. I'd give just about anything to hold him one more time, to watch him run down the driveway, or even have him bark incessantly at me for no apparent reason. It was too soon. I need more time. I want him back.

And you know, if you read those statements, they all sound incredibly selfish. Our home. My heart. I need. I want. It seems that it's my pain I'm worried about, when maybe I should be focused on the fact that he's at peace now. No more heart murmur or heart disease. No more thyroid problems. No more arthritis. No more coughing. No more pain. No more medications. By Rainbow Bridge standards, he's young again, full of life (and hair!) and able to breathe. He's free.

As rational as that sounds, and as much as I'd love to say it makes me feel better, I just don't see it that way. Not now. Not yet. Maybe someday? I hope.

For now, I miss him. Even the stupid stuff. I miss hearing him bark bright and early in the morning (or sometimes in the middle of the night) for no reason, or because he was hungry and just couldn't (or wouldn't) wait. I miss playing "Poops or No Poops?" - when we woke up in the morning and headed into the kitchen, we always wondered... would there be a bunch of crap (literally) to pick up or would he have made it through the night? More often than not the answer was poops. But every once in awhile it would be a no poops kind of morning, a pleasant surprise indeed. I miss his excessive prancing at meal times, which sometimes reached the point of recklessness as he crashed into water dishes or trash cans.

Even the things I don't miss - like having to lock the trashcan in the bathroom overnight so he didn't get into it or making sure anything leather was out of reach, lest we lose another shoe or baseball mitt - I would put up with again just to have him around. He wasn't a terribly people-oriented dog. He wasn't cuddly (with us, anyway), he never gave kisses, and he mostly just didn't care if you were around or not. But we had some kind of connection. He would follow me around. He would sleep in my arms in the car. He'd let me hold him in the big bed sometimes.

He let me love him. More than anything, I'm grateful for that.

So here's hoping they have good internet at The Bridge and that you're reading this, Little Man. Because I need you to know that you were so, so loved, and I need to thank you for letting that happen. You let us love you as much as we possibly could, and you let us give you a whole year of being spoiled and doted on. You gave us so much, and I hope you appreciate what we were able to give you as well.

I love you, Little Man. Always.

Dear Mam-maw

Dear Mam-maw,

I told myself to write this letter before now, but I thought I had more time (or at least I tricked myself into believing that). And sometimes it's hard to find all the right words at the right time. I'm not making excuses, just explaining myself and hoping you understand.

When I was three, we came to visit you in Oregon at Dot's house. For years I would bring up playing an organ in Oregon, and to this day I remember playing with the adding machine. I just loved the way the buttons clicked and the sounds it made while it printed out nonsensical figures. That's my first memory with you, but thankfully not the last.

I remember visiting you in Sun Prairie. In Wausau. All over Wisconsin. No matter where you lived, you had a room for me, and I remember picking toys to keep at your place so I'd always have something to do. Among the things I kept at your place was "The Giving Tree" - a book I liked at the time, but wouldn't grow to appreciate until I was older.

You traveled with us to Mississippi to see my uncle and cousins, and then Grandpa Chuck. I remember my parents explaining that you two loved each other very much, but you just couldn't be married. I was six, and while it didn't make sense at the time, I accepted it. You were an independent woman, and always encouraged me to be the same.

You confided in me more than once that you were afraid you hadn't been a good mother. And I know I always told you that of course you were. My dad loves you with all his heart, and you did an amazing job raising him on your own. But what I might have forgotten to say is that you were also an incredible grandmother. Were you always around? No. You moved a lot, and sometimes it would be a few years before I'd see you again. But I always knew you were out there, and if I had needed you, you would've been there for me.

You were always my biggest advocate. When I dropped out of college at 20, you told me that college wasn't for everyone! You insisted that I'd find my own path, and that I'd do great things. When I decided to go back to school, you told me how proud you were and that I could do whatever I set forth to do. And both times, you meant it. You weren't just pandering to me, telling me what I wanted to hear. You truly believed in me. When it felt like everyone else was disappointed or skeptical, you supported me. I probably never said so, but that meant more to me than just about anything else.

I have so many memories of you, and stories are flooding my mind so quickly I'm almost drowning in them. In a good way, though. They're warm and loving and beautiful. They feel like your hugs; a little too tight, as if you're holding on for fear of losing me, except I'm the one holding too tightly now. I want to settle into them, to find the comfort and support I always got from you. And I will. Just not right now. Right now, the only comfort I can find is that you've found peace.

Mom says you can breathe again. I hope she's right and that you're never tethered down again. You're too strong, too independent, too incredible to let anything keep you down.

I love you so very much.

Love Always,
Erika Elizabeth

P.S. Tell whoever's in charge they need to stock up on ice cream for you. Butter pecan. Cones, too.

 

Morbid Memories

When I was maybe 5 or 6, my great grandpa died. He's the first relative I remember dying, and I wasn't all that sad. I'm ashamed to admit that I was afraid of him; my understanding is that he had Alzheimer's and spoke almost entirely in German, so I didn't understand a word he said, and he was in a wheelchair (which was completely new to me at the time). I didn't go to the funeral.

Maybe a year later (I don't know the timeline, since I was so young) my great grandma died (also my mom's family, but different side of that family). For her, I cried. My mom was so upset that she actually scolded me for crying because I hadn't cried when Great Grandpa had died. She doesn't even remember saying it, but I did stop crying. That was the first funeral I remember. We had to travel for it, and I don't remember much. It was an open casket, and I saw my great grandma one last time. Otherwise, me and my cousins were in the Curious George room at the funeral parlor, reading books and playing games. 

When my great granddaddy died (my dad's grandpa), I was a few years older. Middle school or even high school, I think. I was sad, but I hadn't known him very well since he lived in Mississippi. He was nice enough to me, though. He didn't talk much, but he let me play with a Mr. Potato Head when I visited, which I just thought was the coolest thing ever. When his wife eventually died, my parents forgot to tell me for months. They had found out while I had a sleepover, and they didn't want to upset me. I found out at dinner one night when they were talking about it in passing. She was a seriously sweet lady and I was really sad for my Grandpa since his mom and dad were both gone.

I'd been seriously lucky since then. My family was all relatively healthy and most were in the same state as me.

Fast forward. When I was 21, I was woken up one Saturday morning by my mom telling me that my Gramma (her mom) had died. I'd just visited her a week or so before, and even though she was on hospice, I was shocked. I called my best friend/pseudo-sister K and she came to pick me up and spent the day with me. I took two or three nights off of work so I could help in any way possible. I helped with the picture boards and kept my mom company. At the funeral, I bawled. The hardest part for me was when my cousin N lost it, but the most vivid memory I have is my cousin P's son asking where Great Gramma was and she told him to remember that we could only see her in pictures now.

6 years ago tomorrow, my cat died. He'd been my 13th birthday present, and though I've always been a dog person, I loved that damn cat more than anything. He was a bitch (blocked a few of my friends in the bathroom, hissed at people, bit some of them...), but he loved me. He was also a tubby tabby (22 pounds!), and probably died as a result (heart failure, maybe). Once again, I was woken up by my mom, this time to be told Zeus had died and to ask if I wanted them to do something with him or to cremate him and bring him home. I wanted him to come home. I tried to work that day, but I only made it a few hours in before I broke down and asked to go home. I had been dating Hubby for a few months at the time, and after work he drove all the way from Milwaukee to Madison to be there for me. He brought me potted flowers and if I hadn't already known he was a keeper, that sealed the deal.

Since then, I've been lucky enough to not lose any family. Friends? Yes. It's been a rough year or two for that, actually. But family was safe and sound.

Until yesterday, when my mom called to tell me that my uncle had died in a car accident. He's my uncle through marriage, but my uncle nonetheless, and I can't possibly imagine what my aunt is going through. We don't know details, nor when services will be or anything like that. Right now, it seems cold to even think about it. All I know is that our family lost someone that we hold dear, and just before Christmas at that. I know there's no good time to lose someone, but this is just shitty. 

I've experienced a decent amount of loss this year, and many others have suffered far more loss than I can possibly imagine. I can only hope that 2013 is a little kinder to those in my life. I hope it's kinder to us all.

Be thankful for your loved ones, and hold them close this time of year. Be grateful for the time you have with them and how they've touched your lives. It can be over far too quickly.

Unimaginable.

Imagine you were reading a book, or watching a movie (for those less book-inclined), starring a fairly standard family: Mom, Dad, two boys and a younger daughter.

Now imagine that when the kids get older (teens and early twenties), their father dies. Car accident. It's terrible, but the family has each other, not to mention friends and neighbors, to help them through it. 

Life goes on; never quite the same, but things get better. Then eight or nine years later, the younger of the sons is in a car accident. He dies. The grief is tangible and the news is heartbreaking to all. Still, life manages to go on and while it is tragic, it isn't beyond belief.

Not even a year later, there's a phone call. Something terrible has happened and now the eldest son is dead, leaving only the mother and the daughter. At this point in the book or movie, you'd probably be pretty upset. Oh come on! you might think. It wasn't enough to take away the father/husband and one of the sons, now you've killed off both? This is just unbelievable!

And that's the feeling you're left with. The story isn't over, but at this point, it's hard to believe that one family could endure so much loss and grief. Most books or movies wouldn't take it to this point. The irony of the middle child's death via car accident, so similar to his father's, would have been the most tragic part, and things would have gotten better in the end.

Unfortunately, this isn't a book. Or a movie. If you remember this post, then you already know that. 

It's unimaginable what this family has gone through (and seemingly continues to go through), and my heart breaks just thinking about it. Most tragedies never even take it this far, and yet, this couldn't be further from fiction.

So, once again, I urge you all to embrace the people in your lives and be thankful for them every day. Trite as it may be, you never know when they might be gone.     

RIP, neighbor.

Thanks For the Memories

I was really hoping that I wouldn't have to write another entry like this for a long time.  But here I am.

The first time (of many) I injured myself at school was in first grade.  I was running around the corner of the building - on blacktop, of course - and hit some gravel.  Down I went.  I think I only skinned one knee that time (many times it was both), and the friction tore right through my tights (white - what was my mother thinking?).  I looked at my knee, skinned with bits of gravel sticking to it, and started crying.  I don't remember who got the teacher on duty, but as soon as I had gotten myself to the door, she was on alert.

Standing next to her was a short girl with a cast on her arm.  "Erika," the teacher said, "this is Rachael.  She's going to take you to the nurse's office."  I sniffled and nodded, then looked at Rachael.  She beamed at me and opened the door.  

On our trip to the nurse (which was a bit of a hike for a six-year-old, since it was in the middle school half of our building), Rachael did the talking.  She told me how she already knew where the nurse's office was because she was in first grade last year, but she had to take it again.  She showed me her cast and kept smiling the whole way there.  I'm sure she told me other things, too.  I just remember that smile. 

By the time we got to the office, I think I had forgotten all about my knee (unless they poured alcohol on it - FCOL, that shit stings!).  Rachael waited for me while I got a band-aid and she walked me back to the first grade rooms.  With one more smile, she waved and turned into her classroom.  

Time went on, and I continued to run into Rachael (small school; it happens).  Though she got teased a lot (didn't we all?), she never quit smiling.  Sure, eventually you could piss her off (I think I only did that once; I'm a quick learner), but it was pretty rare.

I was never all that fantastic at making friends, since I'm terribly shy, but I hadn't had to think about it with Rachael.  She just became my friend. 

And we stayed friends for a long time.  It wasn't until after a party at the beginning of my sophomore year of high school that we really started to separate, and I haven't seen her since I graduated high school nearly 10 years ago.  

This week, she died.  When I heard about it, I could only think of two things: scraping my knee when I was six and that party when I was 15.  In a way, those were the beginning and ending points of our friendship.  (Though I saw her pretty often after the party, things weren't quite the same, and we weren't the friends we had been.)  After that, all I could think about was how I regret not trying harder to stay in touch.  

I will, however, always have some great memories of Rachael, and for that I'm thankful.  But now I'm starting to wonder who might be next...

RIP, Rachael.  Keep smiling.

Aching.

I think everyone should be entitled to one day off a year that doesn't count toward or against anything.  Not a sick day.  Not a vacation day.  No penalties.  No questions.  Just one day (unpaid for all I care) where you can call in and all is forgiven.

The reason shouldn't matter.  Could be that you stayed up way too late the night before and you're exhausted.  Could be a "mental health" day.  Could be that you're just in a funk.  Could be that you're in a fantastic mood and work shouldn't be allowed to bring you down.

And it shouldn't matter what you use that day for, either.  A huge sale at your favorite store.  An event you'd like to attend.  A TV or video game marathon.  A day to get all your errands done.  A day to do nothing.  A day to do whatever.

I think I would've taken that day on Tuesday.  For me, it would have been a day to reflect.  A day to remember.  Cry.  Laugh.  Grieve.  Ache.  I would have slept.  Or zoned out on the couch.  Or maybe gone outside with the dog.  Probably some combination thereof.

But I have no time off available (using it for Disney - definitely NOT complaining about that).  And I don't get "sick" days (all my time off is in one big lump).  So instead, I sat here and tried to work through the pain.  Then tears.  Then laughter.  Then numbness.  By mid-morning, I was emotionally drained.  I got some work done, sure, but staying focused wasn't going to happen.

I was 18 and in my first semester of college (which failed miserably, but that's not the point of this story).  My mental health and stability were so-so, and I didn't have many friends yet.  So, as has been my way of coping for a long time, I turned to the internet.

It was a Yahoo chatroom, I think.  Probably location based.  I'm not sure how it started, but we started talking.  We were both about the same age.  Both from Wisconsin.  Both bored.  So we kept talking.

When we met in person, my hair was red.  BRIGHT red.  Bozo red, you said.  I was easy to find, though.  We hung out, talked, enjoyed one another's company.  I think we knew dating would never happen (in fact, you had a girlfriend at the time, and I had a boyfriend, so it didn't matter anyway), but something made us want to be friends.

Maybe a few days later, we were talking about hair.  You liked long hair.  My hair was probably to my shoulders or a little longer, and you said I'd be prettier with longer hair, so I marched to the dorm bathroom with a pair of scissors and hacked at my hair.  You laughed and thought I was crazy.  I probably was.  Thankfully, it actually looked cute.  I've been cutting my own hair since.

You introduced me to web forums, and somehow made me feel like I belonged, even though I had nothing to do with the game it was associated with and didn't know any of the people there.  

You made me watch Fight Club, on the understanding that I'd have to watch it a second time to actually understand it.  

You took me to the bowling alley and we played pool.

We cruised East Wash together, listening to ICP.  

I was there when you got your first tattoo finished up.  You never did explain it to me; it never really mattered.

Best of all, you never judged me.  You always told me things the way they were, instead of telling me what I wanted to hear.  You listened, and even if you didn't care, you made me feel like you did.  I needed that.

It's been years since we talked.  Even longer since I've seen you.  A few months ago we exchanged brief messages on Facebook, the first time we'd spoken in forever.  It felt good.  

And now you're gone.  And I'm left with this ache because I don't understand.  I don't understand what happened.  I don't understand how it happened.  I don't even understand why it hurts me so much.  We haven't really been friends in a long time, but somehow, knowing you're gone and we'll never be friends again hurts so much worse than I ever would have imagined.

A lot of people will miss you.  People closer to you than I was, for sure.  But it doesn't make my pain any less real.  

RIP, DS.  

A Letter You'll Never Read

Dear Friend,

It's been awhile, I know.  I'm pretty sure the last conversation we had was just in passing.  Probably something like

"Hey, how's it going?"

"Good, you?"

"Pretty good!"

"Good, good."

The last "real" conversation we had was probably over 10 years ago.  Maybe even closer to 15.  I guess that at a certain point, living next door to someone doesn't necessarily keep a friendship going.  At some point, life gets in the way, what with hobbies and school activities and dates and...  You know.  All that stuff.

I remember being kids together, though.  

I remember spending hours running through the sprinkler and eating Popsicles at the yellow and orange plastic picnic table in my back yard (the same one we used as a platform to climb the tree, before we were tall enough to climb it on our own).  

I remember digging in our parents' gardens, looking for worms.  We'd put them in a bucket and at the end of the day, we'd put them back in the gardens.  We never had a purpose.  We never needed one!

I remember when I got chicken pox in Kindergarten.  You and your sister were younger than I was, and your mom wouldn't let you into my yard to play with me since I was probably contagious.  So instead you both blew bubbles from your yard into my yard so I could run around and try to pop them.

I remember putting two chairs together on my parents' porch, seat to seat, so we could lay down together.  We were playing house and we were married, and even though it was completely innocent (because we were too young for it to be anything else), my parents made us put the chairs back and promise not to do it again.

I remember coming over to your house to play with your sister, and then winding up in the basement playing video games with you for hours.  We were always closer in age anyway, I just think we figured at that age that boys went to play with boys and girls went to play with girls.  

I remember the time you made up a song about your "thing" and pulled down your pants.  Yep.  Bet you wish I forgot about that one, huh?  

I remember hours of SPUD in the street, playing until the street light came on.  But not the electric hum.  "The light's not on yet!" we'd always argue.  It was only minutes until the light flickered to life, but those extra minutes were precious.

I remember losing my first tooth at your house.  I was showing your sister how loose it was and it just plopped into my hand.  I'm not even sure you were there for that.

I remember when I realized you had gotten really cute, and that's probably about when we stopped hanging out.  I just didn't know how to act anymore, and I knew (thought, anyway) we were getting too old for worm hunting and blowing bubbles at each other.

I remember seeing you at school sometimes.  You were always younger, so we never ran in the same circles, but we at least had the good mind to smile and nod in acknowledgment.

I remember seeing you walking past our house, heading to the park to shoot hoops (because you couldn't use ours anymore; the smiles and nods had mostly stopped).  You'd dribble past the house - sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend - and my parents would wave to you.  You were always so polite about it, greeting them in return.  That was nice.

I remember when your dad died.  A car accident.  I remember being away at college when my parents called to tell me.  I came home for the weekend so I could at least go to the visitation.  Dad and I were never great at handling grief, and we quietly cracked morbid jokes to one another to ease the pain.  We'd never see him as Uncle Sam at the annual 4th of July bike parade again.  He'd never stop by to watch the Packers again.  The concept was unreal.

I'll admit that I haven't given you a whole lot of thought since then.  I heard you went to college, and I'm sure you did great.  You were always popular, so I'm sure you had friends and girlfriends galore.  Our parents still live next door to each other, but we may as well have been on different planets.

I would see you occasionally, out mowing the lawn or heading to the park with a basketball, but as adults, our polite salutations were just something we did.  You could've been any other adult in the neighborhood.  So could I.

Hey.  It happens.

And then yesterday, the memories came flooding back as clearly as if it all happened yesterday.  Funny how that happens, right?  You don't realize what you remember until it just hits you.

Last night, I called my parents to ask if they had heard.  My dad said, "I know we've always told you that life's not fair, but this is pushing it."  My mom and I agreed.  We didn't have adequate words, but we knew it didn't feel fair.

We can't imagine what your brother and sister are going through, but most of all, we cannot fathom what kind of Hell your mom is experiencing.  She already lost her husband to a car accident.  Now, she had lost her son the same way.  Dad said, "If she didn't have two other children, I might have done her a favor and brought her a handgun, because I don't know how you get up the next day, and the day after..."

Your mom is a strong woman.  I won't lie; sometimes, I wasn't a big fan of her.  I'm sure you felt that way about my mom sometimes, too.  It's just the way things go.  But I do know she's strong, because she's been through Hell.  But I can't imagine the strength it will take to get through this.  I hope you help her, because she's going to need it.  Your siblings can only do so much.  Watch out for her, OK?

Well, I just wanted you to know that I'll miss you.  It doesn't matter that we barely spoke anymore, or that it has been years since we were really friends.  I'll miss you anyway.  You gave me some great childhood memories that I will cherish as long as I can.  I hope you recall them as fondly as I do.

Lots of other people will miss you, too, so I'll let them have their turn to tell you.  Take care up there.

With love,

Erika

P.S. Tell your dad I said hi.