Wedding Dresses, Puppies, and April Rain

Good things. Spring is about suddenly noticing all the green that’s around and tulips- colorful and optimistic, alongside azalea bushes- with their ephemeral pink blossoms. It’s about listening carefully for singing birds that have returned. It’s about enjoying the sound of fresh April rain pattering on a Sunday morning while a playful, curious, happy puppy bites his toys, misbehaving occasionally to chew the shoes someone left out or the bottom of the furniture. Winter is a distant memory, its colorless, acrimonious resolve carried away.

Lindsay was released from the hospital on Tuesday, all 88 pounds of her. She had lost 6 pounds. When I brought her home, it reaffirmed my decision to get my puppy, Sonny, who greeted her excitedly, as she entered the house. It’s still melancholy coming home without Coco loyally awaiting our return; but that sadness is diminished with our golden boy jumping into your arms and licking your face with puppy kisses (not to mention the fact that he blends in perfectly with the color of our couch). I know the antibiotics cured Lindsay in the hospital, but the spring sunshine and fragrant air and Sonny are helping to restore her health more at home. She is trying to introduce food back into her system, gradually, to put her weight back on, so that her wedding dress doesn’t fall off of her.

Yesterday, the three of us, Kim, Lindsay and I, went to the bridal shop to see Lindsay’s wedding dress for the first time. Of course, we had seen her in the dress, before, but this was her dress- the one that was ordered to fit her petite little body. We were supposed to do this last Thursday, but pancreatitis stole that moment from us. We stood outside the door as the salesgirl helped Lindsay get dressed. This is one of those moments in life, when you want to stop time, just to take in each and every precious detail. The anticipation of seeing your girl in her dress for the first time…and then the door opens and there she is. My heart, breaking just a week ago from seeing Lindsay curled up in a hospital bed, is rejuvenated from this delicate and beautiful sight. It takes my breath away.

It is Sunday morning. Everyone is sleeping, except for me. I am enjoying the green outside my window, the rain quietly beating on the lawn and thinking about my girl in her wedding dress.

Amylase- 526, Lipase-2000

4/17-18/10

I didn’t know about amylase or lipase until now, nor did I need to know. I expected this journey was going to be about learning and using the vocabulary of wedding planning- such as “crumb catcher” neckline, names for exotic flowers and even new names for colors- like purple haze. I feel as if I am in a haze right now…my insides feel raw and exposed, my shoulders are heavy with the weight of anxiety. My little bride lies in a bed 10 minutes away in a hospital I passed quite often that gave me no reason to enter before now. She is in pain- a pain I wish to grasp and set into my own body. But nature only gives us the ability to feel the pain while we are birthing them and then we are helpless after that.

I never imagined being bombarded by all this medical jargon and have to know it and understand it. But who plans on being in so many hospitals in one year? Beginning with me and my heart valves, I know more about the parts of the body, how they function and various diagnostic terms than my little middle aged brain can handle. And that’s even with being a fan of Grey’s Anatomy, Private Practice and House. Lindsay’s lipase levels are at 2000 (down from 6000). They should be at anywhere between 150 and 286. Her amylase levels are at 526. Normal range for those levels is between 50 and 115. I am sitting by her hospital bed looking at the pink blossoms on the tree outside the window reminding me spring is here. The hum of nurses outside the door reminds me we are here. In the hospital. Again.

It began with a stomachache, with the typical symptoms…nausea, vomiting, etc., etc. Three weeks. Doctor visits. Sonograms, MRIs, CAT scans, blood tests. Gall bladder? Maybe. Her bile duct (the tube that leads from her gall bladder to aid in the digestion process) was dilated (enlarged) to 11 millimeters when it should be 5 millimeters. This means there is a blockage- gallstones one would think. But the sonograms, MRIs, CAT scans reveal no gallstones. Doctor is stumped, sends Lindsay to a gastroenterologist, who is also stumped, sends her to a specialist, Dr. Stark, who is my hero. He gets the Hallmark card now. Dr. Stark does a procedure called ERCP. ERCP? Definition: endoscopic retrograde cholangio pancreatography. This is a technique in which an endoscope, with a camera on its end, is passed down the esophagus, through the stomach, and into the duodenum. The entrance of the common bile duct into the duodenum can be viewed through the endoscope. Next, the surgeon can pass a special instrument on the end of the endoscope into the common bile duct as it enters the duodenum. Did I lose you? Welcome to my world of gastroenterology. In simpler terms, I have beautiful pictures of my daughter from her engagement photos and lovely pictures of her bile duct, gall bladder, liver and pancreas, not to mention the rest of her digestive system. Included in those photos are two stents, which the doctor inserted so that he could fix her “plumbing”. She also had a sphincterotomy, which means “cutting of the sphincter or muscle that lies at the juncture of the intestine with both the bile and pancreatic ducts”. In other words, Dr. Stark fixed that, as well. He calls himself a “plumber for the stomach”. I call him my champion. The real root of the cause- a genetic anomaly- her pancreatic duct crossed over her bile duct. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, after a very patient Dr. Stark, explained it to me about nine times.

This was supposed to be a morning procedure, in and out- in by 8am, out by 12pm. Recovery was supposed to be easy. Lindsay even made an appointment to try on her wedding dress that night, which had just come in last week. Plans. Plans. Plans. What did John Lennon say? Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans. Smart man, John Lennon.

Recovery was not easy. Poor Lindsay was in too much pain. “What could it be?” I asked. “Pancreatitis,” Mary, the attending nurse said, hesitantly. “What is that?” I asked, my head hurting from too much information at this point. “Inflammation of the pancreas,” Mary, replied. Mary is also on my “Heroes” list. Mary was very funny. She kept on telling Scott that this is good practice for the next 60 years. When Lindsay asked him to throw away her used tissue, Mary said, “Get used to it. One day, she’ll be asking you to put her teeth in a jar.” Anyway, at 1pm we knew, she wasn’t getting any better. She had to be admitted into this hospital, that I had passed so many times, without a second thought.

And now she has been in the hospital for four days. Pancreatitis. Lipase- 2000; Amylase- 526. Lipase and amylase- these are the digestive enzymes made by the pancreas. Now I know this and so do you. Pancreatitis- another “itis”. Add that to the list of the maladies my 27-year old daughter has faced in her lifetime- appendicitis, viral meningitis, three surgeries and a broken wrist. My heart breaks. My sister and brother-in-law came and brought my mom to the hospital yesterday. She sat down next to Lindsay, reached for and held her hand. She didn’t say a word. But in those few minutes, her actions spoke all the emotions I am feeling. I am broken. I want to cry out to G-d, if he is there, if he will listen. “Why?” “Why now?” All of this- me, my dog, my daughter- why? And I hear nothing but the lyrics to John Lennon’s song-

Out on the ocean sailing away,

I can hardly wait,

To see you to come of age,

But I guess we'll both,

Just have to be patient,

Yes it's a long way to go,

But in the meantime,

Before you cross the street,

Take my hand,

Life is just what happens to you,

While you’re busy making other plans..

It is Sunday, now. Spring is what’s happening while my daughter is in the hospital, still. The birds are singing outside my kitchen window; the trees are turning from white and pink blossoms to green. It is quiet as the sun slowly rises, casting light against the lawn and touching my shoulder. My little puppy, Sonny, sleeps sweetly and quietly in his crate; Kim and Mark are sleeping, too. The only ones awake right now are me, worry and concern. I am anxious to call the hospital to find out how my girl is doing. My poor girl, who through all this, I realize is quite lucky. Her love, her fiancé, her hero (and mine, too, as well), Scott, has stayed by her bedside- slept in the hospital with her, through it all. “He really loves you,” Dr. Stark told her. “While you were in pain, it looked like he was feeling the pain with you.”

In sickness and in health…

Lucky girl.

What more could a mother ask?

For her lipase to go down to 150 and her amylase to go down to 50. Please.

Sonny Days

Lately, I have noticed the ubiquity of rain boots, the shiny somewhat hideous ones that come in a range of colors and patterns, from plaid to polka dots, from black and white to all different hues of the rainbow. At first I saw them in just about every store, most often, the discount stores where they were lined up at the window, the newest fashion statement; the answer to looking “smart” during a rainy miserable day. Initially, I did not purchase those rain boots because, although I am prone to tag along with any new fashion trend, I believed that once I bought a pair, there would be no rain to wear them in. Ha! Then I started seeing those boots on many, many ladies, young, old, middle-aged, on any given rainy day, which have become many rainy days. It was as if the boots in the windows had willed this interminable rain, snow, sleet, etcetera. While my feet were either dodging puddles or getting soaked by the inability to avoid them, I began to feel envious of those smarter women and I gave in. I became the proud owner of a very stylish pair of rain boots, my Chanukah gift, from my two daughters and future son-in-law. Not only am I now prepared for all this relentless rain, I march through it, my feet, socks and the bottom of my pants dry and unaffected. I have found a way to make the most of this deluge that keeps returning.

And so, on a rainy Monday, almost a week ago, I was overcome by another moment of surrendering to circumstances “beyond my control”. Lindsay, Kim and I were returning from an appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Handsome and charming with a sense of humor. It’s always a good thing when your doctor can brighten your day and give you a clean bill of health. It was still early, though, and still quite miserable outside, the clouds and precipitation had won their crusade against the sun yet again. Lindsay said, “Let’s go to the pet store, pleeeaaseee…” with her most endearing brown pleading eyes, reminding me of the five year old she once was. It was a month and two days since Coco’s death. I had reached the “acceptance” stage of grief; however, I still had bouts of anguish from time to time. It would well up right from my heart and then release itself in a sorrowful sigh. I would be jealous of people I would see walking their dogs. I felt cheated, empty. There was a void I needed to fill.

I had started to look into rescuing a dog from a shelter. We even visited a couple of shelters, in person and online. I played with some dogs, cute adorable puppies. No connection was made, though. And it’s not as easy rescuing a dog as one would think. There was a scrutinizing process I was not aware of; e.g., how big is your yard? Is it completely fenced? What kind of fence is it? How tall? How many hours per day will the dog be left alone? How do you plan to take care of the dog when someone is not there for 11 hours? We had a dog. We took very good care of it. She had a loving, wonderful home. Yet, we had to prove we were worthy of rescuing a dog. We also needed to make that connection, too- that connection that I felt 9 years ago, when Coco melted my heart as I held her in my arms. I knew that once I found the dog and I passed the qualification process, I would fill that emptiness that pervaded my soul. We had every intention of rescuing a dog, too. But all dogs need homes, don’t they?

So, it’s a rainy Monday afternoon and in my fragile, saddened, frustrated state, when my daughter looks at me with her imploring brown eyes, luring me to the pet store, I say, “Okay.” Blame it on the rain. It’s like those rain boots staring at you from the storefronts on almost every other block in Manhattan. “Don’t you want boots?” I hear in my head as I see them in their colorful row against the windows. Puppies are much more convincing than boots, though. We entered the pet store. I had no intention of buying a puppy, I promise you. I would never get a puppy without Mark, either. My guard was up, or so I thought. But as we came into the room filled with screeching, yapping and squeaking and an assortment of colors and patterns of puppies, one little golden buff colored pup came immediately up the glass to greet us. It resembled a baby Golden Retriever; it was too cute to be real, looking like a stuffed animal come to life. This dog could have been the picture in an add for “Don’t Ya Wanna Buy a Puppy” “What is that?” I inquired. “A Cockapoo,” the young worker replied. “Ohhhh, that’s what Scott and I want!” Lindsay said, immediately. A Cockapoo is a mixed breed- a Poodle and Cocker Spaniel- really a mutt, but nowadays, the new term is “designer dog”. “What is it- boy or girl?” I asked. One of the workers there, a young man, did a quick check, as he put his hand beneath to lift it, “Boy”. “Your father wants a girl.” I said to Lindsay. We went through to see the other dogs- very cute. No connection. We went back to see our buff colored greeter. “Can we take him out to play with him?” Lindsay asked. Big mistake. So the young man, Jordan was his name, put us in one of the interaction rooms. We sat on the floor. Jordan gave us the pup. He came right to me and climbed up on my lap and fell asleep. Uh oh. There it was- the connection. My heart, the aching one, suddenly felt a small tug. Uh oh. Then it was the battle of the wills. I was not in the position to buy a puppy; Mark wasn’t there, either. The situation was, though, that the position of the puppy was making this process very difficult. He would not leave my lap.

After three and a half hours, yes, three and a half hours of being in the interaction room, I had to make a decision. I started to think of names…George, no, Charlie, maybe, then it came to me- Sunny! What could cure the gloom of a rainy day?- Sun-ny! What could ease the melancholy of my heartache over the loss of Coco- Sunny! And he had a little bit of a golden tint to him, as well. And then something really strange happened. Lindsay saw the guy she dated from J-Date (right before Scott), whose name was Scott also, come into the pet store. She gasped, then, made sure to flash her diamond engagement ring as he noticed her. Jordan came over to see if we made a decision. “What was that guy looking for?” she asked Jordan. “He’s looking for a Cockapoo.” I gasped, then. It was at that moment that I knew that if I left the dog there, someone else would take it home, quite possibly, that other Scott. I felt the same as if I would feel if I were to leave my infant in a hospital after I gave birth to it and another family would take it home. We called Mark at work. Of course he was fuming. “No. We were going to rescue a dog.” No. I don’t want a small dog.” “No. I don’t want a male.” “No. I can’t believe you’re doing this without me. We were supposed to go together!” He was right, but what could I do? I was in love. “Do what you want.” Mark said, bitterly, and hung up.

I was in a pickle. I remembered the stories my mother used to tell about my grandfather, Morris, who used to bring home stray dogs from the neighborhood. “He followed me into the car,” he used to tell my grandma, Fannie. “I couldn’t get him out. So I brought him home.” Grandma Fannie would just shake her head, sigh, and let the dog stay. One time, my Uncle Jack, not a dog lover, had been away on a music gig and returned to his own home in the middle of the night only to get attacked by the latest mongrel my grandfather had brought home. I had never met my grandpa but I could certainly sympathize with his dilemma of debating over whether to keep a dog that he had bonded with, even though the circumstances were different. To me I had two choices: 1. Bring the dog home and deal with Mark, or 2. Stay in the pet store, forever. One way or another, Sunny and I were meant to be.

It took me a year and a half to buy a pair of trendy rain boots. It took me four hours to buy a designer dog. But boots don’t have brown puppy dog eyes, a cute little black nose and Cocker Spaniel ears. They are practical and serve a purpose by keeping your feet dry, but they don’t sneak into your heart and fill it with sunshine on a rainy day. A friend of mine, Liz, said, “He saved your soul, didn’t he? Isn’t it amazing how they know when we need them?”

We left the store with a furry bundle, who seemed to know all along he belonged to us. It was still raining. As I was pulling out of the spot in the parking lot, the girls started to yell, “Look ma, look at the license plate of the car next to us!” I looked; it said “SUNNY 00”. It was meant to be, I guess.

Of course Mark was quite upset when he got home. He marched into our bedroom and shut the door, leaving the dog very bewildered at this new person who didn’t want to hold him and shower him with kisses. Then about fifteen minutes later, Mark emerged, still angry, but went over to the crate and took the dog out. They both fell asleep on the couch for an hour, snuggled up together. “This is our son, Mark,” I told him, when he woke up. “It’s going to be ‘Sonny with an “o””, he said. “Whatever you want.” I replied.

Now, every day is a Sonny day with my new boy. Mark has about 27 photos and five videos of Sonny on his Blackberry that he proudly shows off to everyone. I hope this is the dog we take into our retirement years. My friend, Roselee, says his name already sounds like an old Jewish man’s- Sonny Feldman. Mark still wants to rescue a dog- a larger female, with black hair; he wants to name it Cher.

LIFE…

goes on. The wedding planning continues. Less than six months away. My daughter’s eyes sparkle every time she unveils the new countdown. “One hundred seventy days!” she exclaimed the other night, “Honey, we’re getting MARRIED!!” She giggles in a high-pitched voice, reaching out for Scott.

It’s the first day of spring today, leaving behind one of the most stonyhearted winters of my life. The weather has been perfect the last several days in the aftermath of damage from storm after storm. The sun seemed to have disappeared during those dark weather days; not today, though, as I sit in my kitchen and feel its brilliance settle on me, reassuringly.

Life goes on.

We have endured ups and downs, elation and disappointment, relief and worry. We can also say it in reverse- downs and ups, disappointment and elation, worry and relief. I have always felt a bit hesitant to fully experience happiness, since I was a child. I never knew why, possibly because I’m an old soul who realizes the impermanence of things. There’s a Taoist story that I’ve come across a couple of times and that other authors have referred to that illustrates this concept. It’s titled “Maybe” and it goes like this…

An old farmer had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. When his neighbors heard the news, they came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Maybe,” the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing three other wild horses. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man. The following day, his son tried to ride on one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.

Many “maybes” have come and gone these past few months. The deal on the house that Lindsay and Scott are buying almost fell through a number of times. They had to renegotiate. Right now, things are looking better. I still hold my breath until they have the key in their hands, until they sign the last of the countless number of signatures they will write at the closing.

Two nights ago we met the florist, Christina, at the hall to preview the flower arrangements for the wedding. My daughter amazes me sometimes in her attention to the very last detail of everything she wants. I have to pause, in awe of her, as she describes each facet of the table centerpieces, the cake, the bouquets, using her tiny delicate hands to articulate the significance of the colors, shapes, and sizes and of course, sparkle effect of each element. Vicky, the caterer, was there, as sparkly, herself, as ever. She was working with another couple but had to come out to express her approval of the centerpieces with her usual enthusiasm and humor. Vicky was born to do this- plan weddings. She always lifts my spirits. She even commented on my new red hair color. And she continues to refer to Lindsay and Scott as the “Lobster Couple.”

The lobster couple, despite their intense attention to detail and elegance, still have that cute little simple side to them. They could get just as excited over lobster as Taco Bell, which is what we all had for dinner last night. This is what I love about them- their fervor in everything they do. I hope they never lose that beautiful spirit, that zest for life. And then, it could be just their youth. Have I somehow lost that in my middle-aged frame of mind? And if I have, can it be reborn, somehow?

A cluster of colorful exotic flowers, from the sample centerpiece Christina created for us, sits in a vase as I enter my house now. I used to always buy fresh flowers every time I did my food shopping. Kimberly once asked me about this and then kept my response as a quote on her Facebook page: “Flowers are important. They remind us we’re alive.”

Recently, I stopped buying flowers even though I swore I never would. I switched to a plant with a flower blossom, in its place. Then, I’m even embarrassed to say, I supplanted that with wooden roses- faux flowers- shameful. It was because I was weary from constantly throwing out the dead or dying flowers. I should have respected their short lifespan, instead of avoiding their inevitable demise. So today, as a tribute to the first day of spring, I bought bright, yellow, fragrant daffodils in Trader Joes. Two bunches, $1.49 each.

Thank goodness for spring. If I were to link the seasons to life, spring- you would be birth. Summer would be youth, autumn would be age and winter would be death. The life cycle. Simple and profound all at once. I think that makes sense.

Anyway, I am so ready for spring.

Life goes on.

Life begins. Again.

Coming Home…

has been very difficult this week, very. Leaving home has been easier, though. It’s a new response to the comings and goings in our house, without our sweet, faithful, furry Coco there to greet us as we return or keep vigil when we left. It was her home more than anyone’s, actually, because she was always in it. A constant. A predictable certainty in our lives.

We set up a shrine for her- all her favorite toys, her blanket from my bed, photos of her as a puppy and through all the nine years we had her, her treat container and her collar, silent now- but reminiscent of the jingling it made when she was alive. I could almost hear it, growing more distant as each day goes by. Her fur still remains, not only in the bag they gave us when she died, but also all over the house. She used to bark angrily at me whenever I used any of those sweepers to remove her hair from the couch or the cushion of her window seat. It would make me yell and laugh at her at the same time. I can’t bring myself to do that now. I feel it would affront her absence. Lindsay found a piece of her fur on her pants while she was at work. She meticulously took it off and put it inside her sweater, close to her heart. All we have now is remnants of her fur, this shrine and our memories, which we share frequently- memories that make us a family

My Internet surfing has changed from diagnosing the symptoms of Coco’s illness to chat rooms where people, who recently lost their pets, congregate. That lasted about five minutes; chat rooms are definitely not for me- they’re frenetic and confusing. Then I found a website about grieving and pet loss, written by a veterinarian. The five stages of grief, as applied to mourning the death of your pet-

Denial- my denial appears in the automatic reactions I have when I drop a tissue to quickly pick it up so Coco doesn’t get to it and eat it. She loved to eat tissues. Quickly, I realize I don’t have to do that anymore and the shock grabs at my heart.

Anger (or lashing out)- Yes, definitely did that- to the poor young guy at the counter of CVS photo department. I indignantly blamed his equipment for cutting off one of my pictures of Coco I had printed, only to find out when I came home that the picture was cut off to begin with. I have gone back to the photo department, with my “tale between my legs”, so to speak, to reprint these photos. I think the poor guy is afraid of me- I thought I noticed his hands trembling when I came to the counter. Oh well, it’s not me; it’s the stages of grief- you were, unfortunately, at the receiving end, poor young guy.

Bargaining- I did the bargaining when we found out Coco was terminal. I made a deal with G-d that if s/he made her well I would be the one to take her out first thing every morning. When she died, I constantly went over in my mind the things I could have done differently to prevent this whole thing; for example, did I hit her on the head to scold her when she was naughty and give her the brain tumor? Jewish guilt, a hereditary flaw. My Aunt Dorothy suffers from that, as well. To this day, she thinks she gave my Uncle Fintz a brain tumor from throwing a can of peaches or something at his head when they were children.

Depression- Enough said. Looking at every empty spot she used to lay in depresses me.

Acceptance- We’re getting there. The compassion of others is helping. Our family and friends have been wonderful during this time- sending cards, messages on Facebook, calling to “check” on us. We have even heard from friends I haven’t spoken to in a long time. All this has been an immense source of comfort. Even from strangers. A kind woman and her husband sent me a message on Facebook after she read my blog. They told me they have a Coco, too- a Lab Golden mix. At the end of their note, they said that my Coco is “now closer to the almighty and lending assistance with good deeds for you and your family.” Coincidently, on the day she sent me this message, Lindsay and Scott heard good news- their mortgage was approved on the house they are in contract with. Hooray!!! I looked at the message again that this woman had sent to figure out how she would know me and my blog- and found out we are connected by a mutual friend- Sheri- Scott and Lindsay’s real estate agent. Another coincidence? Or perhaps, not. This mere, yet meaningful event has led me to the “acceptance” stage.

Bad things happen and good things happen, too- the Yin and Yang of life. There is death; there is life. There is sadness; there is happiness. The day after Coco’s death, a week ago, that night at dinner, my mom was with us. She had a glass of wine and before she drank, made a toast “Only good things from now on.” I looked at her and said, “We’d like to have only good things, but bad things do happen and without them, we wouldn’t have the good things, really.” We needed this good thing, now.

And now, Lindsay and Scott have a house. A place to make memories, a place for their love and their lives to grow. A backyard for children to laugh and play and for dogs to run. A place for coming home.

Coco…A Happy Story With a Sad Ending

2/27/10

When I think back on the February of 2010, I will always remember the icy indifference of winter, the precarious beauty of white snow and saying goodbye to our beloved dog, Coco.

I had not wanted a dog, nine years ago. I had never had a dog, even though I always had a natural inclination to love animals, especially canines. However, I didn’t want the responsibility, the commitment and the burden of worrying about another “child”. But a friend of Mark’s at work had a Golden Labrador retriever that was due to have puppies and Mark and Lindsay and Kim’s plans were very different from mine. Coco was born January 7, 2001, the runt of a litter of six pups, the only chocolate one. These two facts already abated my resistance, because I have a weakness for chocolate and one of my favorite characters in a book is Wilbur, the runt of the litter in Charlotte’s Web. We went to meet her. I took my mom with us. She will always talk about that day when she held Coco in the palm of her hand. I was still unsure, though. The three musketeers, my husband and children, begged. I said, “No”. They said, “C’mon, we’ll name her “Truffle”. “Truffle?” I said. “That’s a stupid name. Her name should be…Coco.” Mark’s eyes lit up. “Does that mean we could have her?"“No,” I said, “whoever takes her, tell them her name is Coco.” They begged some more. I said, “No.” And then they bamboozled me and brought her home, anyway. All three pounds of her. Three pounds of chocolate fur, with jade green eyes, wrapped up in the girls ABC baby quilt that I had saved.

One thing I learned- puppies are like infants. All night she cried. When she stopped, I couldn’t find her. She was in Lindsay’s arms, in bed, trembling. All she did was cry and crap, cry and crap and cry. I couldn’t take it. I said, “No. Why don’t you all believe me?” My house was a mess. I started having a tantrum. I made phone calls to anyone who would take a dog. They were all crying, then, Lindsay, Kimberly, Mark and Coco. Coco started to tremble. I picked her up; three pounds of trembling puppy. I held her tight in my arms. She buried her tiny head with the flappy ears inside my elbow. The trembling slowed and then stopped and there I was, holding three pounds of chocolate that melted in my heart. The phone rang. It was a friend I had called. “My boss will take the dog,” she said. “What dog?” I answered. Lindsay hung up the phone. They all looked at me, defeated, by this lovable canine. Then I said, “I can’t believe I have a dog.”

And so it began, our life with Coco, who quickly became a member of our family, and the "child" I spoiled the most. She was such a rambunctious little thing, getting into trouble, constantly, true to her puppy nature. At times, I thought I should have named her “Coocoo”. But, in spite of my initial protests and all the trouble she caused- eating my kitchen wallpaper, chewing our socks, and even once, ripping up twenty-five dollars I had left on the dining room table- I loved her more than words could say. Three pounds turned into 68 pounds of affectionate, boundless energy. She was such a pretty dog, too. I remember once walking her and a van stopped as it turned onto the street. A woman ran out and came over to us. “I just had to come over and meet this beautiful dog!" she exclaimed.

As beautiful as she was, that’s how energetic and happy she was. When people she loved came over, she would jump all over them and eventually wind up trying to sit on their heads. Veterinarians would tell me the jumping would subside, but it never did. My mother would get extra special love from Coco; she would lick her whole face, sometimes sticking her tongue in her mouth. My dad called her “the lesbian dog.”

We have such happy, funny, wonderful memories of her. The best memory I have is how she used to sit on the window seat in the kitchen window and guard the house. We bought the house because of the window seat, honestly. I said, “This will be Coco’s spot.” And it was. As we would drive up she would watch us get out of the car, and start to rise, her tail wagging wildly. I would wave to her, like an idiot. It was my joy every day. No matter what kind of day I had, that was the highlight of it- seeing my Coco happy to see me.

On Wednesday, February 3. I was getting ready to leave for a business trip. As Coco went to jump on her window seat, she fell. It was the first sign to me, of what was to come. I left for California, with an ache in my heart I could not describe. I returned on Saturday morning to Coco, greeting me, as always, at the door. We had to leave her for the day and drive through a blizzard to get to my nephew, Jared’s, bar mitzvah. It was hazardous conditions, but we made it and made it back in time to have Coco welcome us when we arrived home. That night, however, when she slept with us in bed, she was unusually clingy to me. In the middle of the night, she even stood up and looked down on my head as if to tell me something. The next day I was in another room when I heard a strange sound and found her collapsed on the living room floor. She could not get up. We took her to the vet. She had so many things wrong with her, but it all seemed curable and treatable. The last three weeks, she was progressively getting worse, though, and the “essence” of her, her spark, was clearly gone. My friend, Betsy, at work, told me one day, sympathetically, “Jeannie, you need to prepare yourself.” I listened, but thought to myself, how does one “prepare” for this? You joyfully prepare for happy occasions, like babies, parties, birthdays, puppies, and weddings. How do you prepare for loss? Simply, you don’t. I defiantly decided to, instead, hope. I lived by the quote, “In all things, it is better to hope than to despair.”

On Thursday, Lindsay, worried about Coco’s rapidly deteriorating condition, stayed home from work. Things were not good. We rushed her to the vet and then on Friday, we had an appointment with a neurologist. We drove through another blizzard to get there. She had to have an MRI. Before we left, we said our tearful goodbyes, thinking it was only temporary. I kissed her little head, like I always loved to do, and sobbed deeply into her fur. “Mommy loves you,” I told her. Later on in the day, we got the news, which confirmed the worst of the doctor's suspicions. She had a brain tumor, my poor Coco. We were going to try chemotherapy. We could possibly get another six months to a year. We would not give up our hope or our Coco. Unfortunately, hope gave up on us and we were called at 4:15 on Saturday morning to get to the hospital to say our final goodbye. Thankfully, Scott was there to drive us on the callous icy roads. As we wept beside and hugged Coco, a little poodle in a nearby cage watched us closely and when Coco left this world, he let out a little yelp, as if he knew. Wonderful creatures, dogs are, so perceptive to your feelings. They gave us her fur and made a paw print for us, little pieces of my chocolate puppy that melted my heart nine years ago. In the car ride home, under an eerie sky lit by an enormous full moon, we cried incessantly. I turned to Lindsay and chokingly said, “You nursed her the first day we had her- and the last.” It was bitter consolation, though.

Last night, Phyllis, Scott’s mom, a dog lover, as well, called me and said the best solace I needed to hear. “You gave her a life, just remember that. Without all of you, she would not have had the wonderful life like she did.” This is the only solace I have right now. My mom cried with me this morning and said, “She will be a big void in your lives.” That was what my friend, Betsy, wanted me to prepare for, I guess.

It is 9am on Saturday, February 27, our first day in nine years, without our Coco. Her window seat is vacant. The void my mother mentioned will always be there. But the sun is up, shining brightly in the sky, the first time in three weeks. So strange. A brutal heartless, winter still remains. Our grief is overwhelming-beyond the sun, the moon, the stars. I am empty and vacant as that seat, right now.

Coco, we love you, you will be forever a part of our hearts.

Changes....

It’s come to that point where I could no longer put off looking for a dress, especially when the mother of the groom is anxious to look for hers and she’s respectfully waiting for me to pick mine first. Those are the tacit “rules”, as I am told. I, being the characteristically atypical mother of the bride, really don’t care about the rules or conventions of wedding etiquette. Consequently, I procrastinated for weeks, then months, to start dress shopping. Not to say I didn’t cyber-shop. You can find beautiful dresses that way; however, it’s impractical because we all know you have to try on the dress because it’s always going to look great on the model in a picture.

I distinctly remember the day of my own wedding, almost 32 years ago, my mother was so distraught about her hair; it had been thinning and she was not happy with the hairstyle the hairdresser had done for her. She was almost in tears (in fact, scratch the “almost”) on that day. It was important for her to look beautiful, as well. At 22 years of age, I didn’t “get it”, but that vision remained indelible in my memory. Ego-centric brides in their twenties don’t consider that their moms have to be “number 2” on the scale of beautiful that day, according to my friend, Barbara, at least.

Now, I realize that I will be the exact age that my mother was when I was getting married. And, just as my mom was in 1978, I am going through my “changes”. Ahhh….the beauty of menopause; the time in a woman’s life when she always feels hot and that’s in the literal sense, not figurative, unfortunately. Besides for those emotional and internal physical transformations that are occurring, there are the external physical changes that seem to appear out of nowhere. One of my favorite books I Feel Bad About My Neck by Nora Ephron, expertly illustrates what middle-aged woman experience at this time of their lives. I am certainly not of the writerly caliber of Nora, but I will try to explain. Let’s start at the beginning-or rather at the middle, the middle part of your body, your waistline, or more specifically the disappearance of it. Nice. The neck I could hide because scarves are the new fashion accessories. But the waist and what’s below it becomes another accessory I could certainly do without. “Loss of estrogen,” my older sister explained it. Well, let me add that to my Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday pillbox. But no, my gynecologist prescribes Paxil. “Isn’t that for people who are depressed?” I ask. “Trust me,” my gynecologist tells me, “women are saying it stops the hot flashes.” So, my hot flashes cease and all of a sudden, I notice an even thicker middle. My friend Roselee tells me, “My doctor said Paxil makes you gain weight.” Wonderful. So I have to make a choice- be hot or a size 12. I chose hot. Goodbye Paxil. Hello, gym. Planet Fitness. The only thing is that I notice when I start to do the weight machines is that the pictures on them that tell you what part of the body you are working on are illustrated on the male anatomy. Gender bias alert! I consider writing a letter to Planet Fitness. Then I finally come to a machine with a female picture; of course, it’s one that firms your buttocks and thighs. We don’t want to talk about what happens to those. Hanging, sagging, rippling, bulging, dimpling- the “ings” of middle ag-ing. Not a beautiful th-ing.

I was having a discussion about this with my best friend, Meryl. She decided that whoever designed our bodies got it wrong. For instance, the teeth- why do we lose the first ones at 6 to be replaced by the “permanent” ones? If Meryl were our creator, she would have us lose our first teeth at 40 and get our replacements then. Makes sense, right? Of course, this would put my dentist out of business. But, for once, I would like to go to the Bahamas instead of sending him and his wife there.

Back to the dress…

The truth is, no matter what, make up and black camouflage everything. The problem is, the bride refuses to let me wear black, or anything really dark. I thought of wearing a pair of Spanx, but when I wear that, I feel like I’m suffocating. I considered those dresses that have layers of crinoline under them to minimize me. However, I was never a crinoline girl; besides, I don’t want to have to carry my dress around and those dresses are like having another appendage. I am not a beige person, either. It washes me out. I decided to forget about color for the moment and focus on style. I wanted simple, yet elegant, sexy, yet sophisticated, flowy chiffon, with a bit of sparkle. I wanted to look like Daisy from The Great Gatsby, graceful and artistic. You know the bathing suits that are called miracle suits that make you look ten pounds slimmer? I needed a miracle dress, or one that makes me look ten years younger. If Meryl and I ruled the world, she would be our creator and I would be a clothing designer for middle-aged women. This way we’d have great teeth and look good in whatever we wore.

It happened when I least expected it; I was out shopping with Kim, sister of the bride, and we were right across from a trendy dress boutique. We went in. I tried on dress after dress after dress. Some were flowy, but didn’t have enough sparkle, and then some sparkled, but were stiff and matronly. It was confirmed that beige is definitely not my color. And suddenly, Leslie, the saleslady, brought it over. Immediately, I fell in love. It was a slate blue with a hint of silverish purple, not black, dark enough, but not really dark. It was sparkly on the top, chiffon on the bottom. It even looked like Daisy Buchanan would wear it. It was draped at the middle part, though. “Will this make me look fat?” I suspiciously asked Leslie. “Oh no,” she responded, insistently, “just the opposite-it is very slenderizing.” Hmmm.. It looked great on the hanger. I tried it on. “This is YOUR dress,” Leslie stated, as sure as anything. But she was a saleslady. I looked at Kim. She smiled, “I love it,” she said.

Luckily, the bride was only ten minutes away; heaven forbid I would buy a dress without her participation. She got there in five minutes because she drives like her father. She approved…sigh of relief. “Write it up,” I told Leslie. Two seconds later, she called her future mother-in-law. “My mother bought the dress, you could start shopping.” Everyone’s happy.

It’s getting closer. No more dress shopping. Back to Planet Fitness. Two hundred seven days to work against gravity and the other consequences of menopause. Things are going to change, yes, but for the better.