It was different with my Max: I was with him in the vet's office when he took his last breath. My mind is filled with images of him lying next to me in the big comfy chair when I was pregnant, and again when I went through cancer treatment; tearing across the yard in bursts of energy, lap after glorious lap with his tongue lolling out in a big doggy smile; up on his hind legs, paws on my chest, smothering me with kisses. The last time I saw Max, his soul had departed, his soft body was relaxed, freed from the pain of sickness, his eyes were closed, and the tip of his pink tongue peeked out. I held onto him while he died.
My Charlie Brown has always been a different story. From the moment I first laid eyes on him at the pound, Charlie was stoic. Pell-mell puppies, crying babies, thunderstorms - nothing got to him. Like any dog, of course, he wasn't fond of 4th of July fireworks, but he took them in stride. Charlie didn't play fetch or play with pull toys or even like dog treats. He was a roll-around-on-the-ground dog who favored helping himself to the Thanksgiving pumpkin pie (we knew it was him and not Max because Charlie had pumpkin pie on his nose). Whereas Max would pick his pill out of its cheese hiding place, if Charlie needed medicine, cheese was a treat rather than a necessity. More important was to get my fingers out of his teeth's happy way. And Charlie didn't give kisses; he snuggled and nuzzled. At one point he was an almost-70-pound baby who would wiggle his butt with happiness (his tail was docked when the animal warden first found him) and who in his last days would melt his head into my hands while I rubbed his ears.
Because I held Max while he died, I've always had a sense that I saw his soul move on to a safe place, a heaven or a haven. But my Charlie, ever the capable one, took himself away.
In the past he's opened our gate, taken himself for little jaunts around the neighborhood, and come back home (causing me to walk the neighborhood with a plastic bag in case he'd left anything along the way).
But in Tuesday night's storm, he didn't come home to us. We searched and searchd. Late into the night my husband drove the streets, and walked where he coudn't drive. Animal control searched. First thing Wednesday morning I biked to search, and walked where the ground was too rain-soaked for my bike. I looked in the field, among the trees, and along the beach. I walked down the stairs he was afraid to descend with me. Every piece of driftwood and every fallen leaf was the color of my Charlie, but I couldn't find Charlie.
In the afternoon, two neighbors came to share the sad news that Charlie's body was where the water meets the sand, just away from those stairs.
I don't know when Charlie died. Did he die in the storm during the night? Did he die in the sunrise? Was he still alive while I searched the beach -- did he try to find me but I didn't see him? Did he die when I walked to look somewhere else?
Why did he walk so far from home in a storm when his hips were failing and he was weak? Did his canine instinct tell him it was time? Was he exploring? Was he afraid and confused?
The last time I saw Charlie was as his body was lifted from the trunk of our van. He was wrapped in a blanket (in life, this big scary-looking dog loved to cuddle stuffed animals, shoes, blankets), paws forward, glazed eyes open. I gave his sand-covered paws a final squeeze (he used to play bossy paw with us) and stroked his neck.
I feel tremendous guilt that Charlie died alone on the beach. The thought of my gentle beast dying alone on the shore convulses me. I pray that the beautiful souls whose memorials overlook that spot came to guide him. I pray that Max came back for his friend. I pray that while I slept, a piece of my soul knelt by Charlie. All I can do is pray for Charlie. His collar will stay by Max's in a special place in our home.
Yesterday my arms felt empty without a big warm Charlie to hug, a Charlie to comfort as he aged and weakened. But I remind myself that I've still got a houseful of loved ones to comfort and keep safe. In the coming days, we'll grieve: and out of habit we'll make sure the gate is closed and will listen for the scratch at the back door; we'll remember and we'll look at pictures; we'll cry for our beloved dead; we'll heal and eventually smile at memories.
But for now I hurt. I hurt and I feel guilty and I want to hold my Charlie.
This will be the first Thanksgiving that our family doesn't have a dog. Our pumpkin pies are safe. This year, there's little chance that presents under the tree will be peed on. In the new year, we'll search the animal shelters for the next members of our family. And for the rest of my life, every time I walk the beach I'll think of Charlie Brown.
photo: Karin Ostroske
Uh oh. I see it's been almost a week since I last wrote. It was a very busy week, and by the end of it, I found that my jeans were buttoning a little tighter. Somehow I slipped from vegetarian into carbotarian, and looking back, I can tell. I can see where I reached for cereal insted of fruit, and extra bread instead of carrots.
I also see where I was staying up too late and ending up too tired to go to the gym most mornings, and being too tired from lack of proper fuel to go to the gym in the evening!
Thankfully I heed the warning sign of the tight button!
I also realize that I was spending last week in the present, and didn't think at all about the future. Sure, we must be here now, but there is something to be said about remembering how we want our futures to be. I'd like my body to be ready for triathlon season (I think my bionic ear is getting better!) and amusement parks. I want my shoulders to be nice and straight, not all slouchy as they're slipping into. I want my aches and pains to melt away under good training, which I know they do.
So my goals for this week:
1. To be in bed as early as my body would like;
2. To eat 5 servings of raw fruits & veggies each day; and
3. To stay hydrated with water (not almond milk).
What are your goals?
If you knew how my arms are shaking while I'm typing this, you'd give me great kudos for not only using my brain to come up with something to write but for also using my arms which are trembling with fatigue.
I really like my arms. They're not shapely and they're not particularly strong, but I like them. As a matter of fact, I think I like them because they're the weakest part of my body and I can watch them get stronger and more defined. Today was Arc Trainer Day, which I've given the subtitle Arm Day, so while my legs went to town, I watched my arms which braced me.
The first thing I noticed was a brand new freckle. I noticed it because I have a particular freckle formation on my forearm: it looks to me like a candle snuffer. Today the handle of the snuffer was looking more sturdy than usual. Realizing it was chocolate (I made - not ate - several trays of chocolate this morning), I sheepishly wiped it away. I remember when I used to worry about not sweating enough on equipment -- now I have to worry about not being chocolatey! But I digress.
Anyhoo, once my freckles were reduced to their normal number, I thought about how even though I think of my arms as weak, they can do some pretty good things. They can carry loads of groceries; they can toss kids around in the pool; they can hug; they're the port to giving life when I donate blood.
So when I was all done on the arc trainer I hit some upper body machines and I hit 'em good and hard because I really do like my arms and all that they do. And next summer, when I'm finally allowed to swim again, I want them to pull me through the water like nobody's business. AND I've challenged myself to do two - count 'em, two - pull-ups on that bully-of-a-bar in my childhood gym.
Grand plans. Now if only my arms would stop trembling.
J
Ooh, lots of inspiration on The Biggest Loser tonight. The contestants were infuriatingly annoying, but the trainers were spot-on and seeing the changing body shapes reminded me that I can still achieve results with hard work.
Here are my excuses for not getting up early to go to the gym tomorrow morning:
1. It'll be cold and dark and I'll have to scrape off the van.
2. Some of the machines are broken at the gym.
3. I'm loving my polar bear flannels and really don't want to be out in the cold dark morning, scraping the frost off the van.
4. Maybe I'll work out at my other gym in the evening.
Reasons I'm going to get my morning gear ready, set the alarm clock, go to bed now and go to the gym in the cold dark morning.
1. The cold feels awesome after a good workout.
2. My legs are still sore from self-directed weightlifting, and I need to make my upper body sore to match.
3. I want to reshape my body.
4. If I exercise in the morning, I can do other things in the evening - or even get a second workout!
And that, once again, is how to talk myself into doing the healthy thing. I have no valid reasons for not planning on the gym tomorrow - just lazy excuses.
I'm gonna quit whining like those contestants and just do it.
Hide & Seek has never been one of my favorite games. Even as a child I never felt like I could find a good enough place to hide. When I was found, I felt like I didn't hide well enough; and if I wasn't found, I had that little moment of all kinds of panic: "What if they ditched me? What if they forgot me?" And seeking? Forget it. So imagine my chagrin when my kids ask me to play Hide & Seek. As an adult, there are even fewer hiding places I can squeeze in to.
Today was my scheduled appointment with my counselor, and with a couple of sessions under my belt, I half expected to be wiped out afterwards. My counselor and I are a good match, and I'm covering all sorts of ground. The drive home aways finds me enlightened and exhausted. On the other hand, since I've been feeling very level since our last session, I thought today's session might be a cake walk. It's really up to me: what do I want to explore.
What I got around to today was my insecurities as a mom; and trust me, I've got a lot of 'em (insecurities, not moms). When you get down to it, my worries stem from one theme: I worry that our kids will grow up and move away, leaving me alone and lonely. (Yes, I know this sounds crazy coming from the same person who occasionally considers running away to a remote northern island free of children's demands. Even as I write I have a wee helper.)
Why would my children move away? Well, with luck and love, our kids will move on to fulfilling lives of their own, which may or may not happen in northeast Ohio.
Why would my children leave me alone and lonely? If I hurt my kids emotionally, they might not want to be around me. I have visions of lying alone and forgotten in a nursing home.
Why would I hurt my children emotionally? Not intentionally, of course. But what about all those unintentional times I hurt them?
"Mom, will you play with me?" "Not now."
"Mom can I have...?" "No, we don't always get what we want."
"THIS is dinner? Blech." "Just eat it, it's good for you."
What about those times I lose my temper and become snappish or sarcastic? What about the bad example I set when I don't do my own chores yet expect my kids to complete theirs?
My counselor and I spoke for a good hour, which somewhat surprised me since I didn't think we'd have much at all to talk about. Then again, earlier this week when I saw my daughter's final elementary school Halloween parade, I knew I was grieving inside and needed to find a way to cope.
I knew I needed to find a way to cope because since I've begun counseling, I've rarely used food medicinally. As a matter of fact, I've come to view comfort eating in a different light. Without my old coping tool of food, I needed to do more. I needed to hold my dilemma up to the light like a crystal, seeing how the light plays off this surface and that, so I can understand just what it is I'm holding on to.
Driving home today, I thought about how so many times when I give my kids the short end of the stick, it's because I'm trying to maintain the illusion of perfection (don't laugh). My kids absolutely don't think I'm perfect - just ask 'em - but they're loving and precious and I don't want to ever let them down. And in my efforts to never let them down, I put unrealistic pressure on myself.
And I realized that instead of answering my daughter's "Can I help?" with "Not this time," I owe her and me a better answer. I owe us "I'm trying to figure out how to do this." I can tell her what I'm trying to accomplish, and invite her to try to solve the problem, just like I am.
I can show my kids that it's okay to not have all the answers. I can teach them the value of "I don't know," and how "I don't know" isn't the end, it's just a bump in the road.
I can teach them how to overcome obstacles. My husband is extremely good at this, but my kids need to see it from me too. Just like my husband talks through this challenge or that, I need to verbalize my inner dialogue and model this skill of figuring-out.
I think that's why I'm so crazy about working out and lifting weights. Every time I accomplish a new lift or level, I feel self-reliant and empowered. Unlike the external praise won through cooking or crafting, exercise gives me self-made pride.
Having explored this fear of mine (abandonment) in a new light, I felt so calm that I was able to play hide and seek with my youngest this afternoon. I found her and she found me.
Boy, am I gonna be sore tomorrow. Tonight's was the best workout I've had the pleasure of in a long time. I drove toward my west side gym (younger crowd than my early morning east side gym) in the setting sun with some new music to listen to (including Shonlock's "Hello"), found a free arc trainer, and got to it.
90 seconds in, my quads asked just what did I think I was doing. 13 minutes in, the couch potato in me was whining to stop at 15. And I distracted myself like crazy to keep going because I had decided that come hell or high water, I wasn't quitting till the clock ran out. I closed my eyes and imagined pedaling in a tri; I glanced at the TV screen and couldn't solve a single puzzle on Wheel of Fortune; and I concentrated on good form and using a whole bunch of muscles.
I really, really needed a good hard workout which left my clothes sticking to me. I've been feeling like a polar bear at the zoo, pacing back and forth out of boredom. I miss my trainers like crazy, the way they'd work me till I felt like a pile of overcooked noodles. I never thought I'd say it, but I even miss those push-ups on an inverted bosu ball.
I'm so thankful for tonight's workout: for the frame of mind, that the equipment I wanted was available, for knowing how to use the equipment. I felt so good that after the arc trainer I did some leg presses (out of deference to my surgeon, I didn't press 400). I worked so hard that I've got my post-workout freeze going on (I'm wrapped up in my coat while I type).
Next time I see my surgeon, I'm going to put on my weightlifting gloves, drop to my knees, and beg him to let me start lifting again. But first I have to get over the pain that awaits me tomorrow morning. It's so worth it.
~Karin
Who doesn't love chocolate? Many of my happiest memories involve chocolates: twine-wrapped parcels bursting with chocolate sent to us from Oma in Germany; Advent calendars which built anticipation of Christmas with chocolate behind every door; the chocolate peanut butter scent of a Halloween haul; the baby-sitter who gave my sister and me 3 Musketeer bars (till then, I never knew people kept chocolate bars in the house!).
Somewhere around high school I decided that I wasn't going to like chocolate anymore. It was my thing. I held on to that thing all through college and beyond.
And then I married into a family of chocolate makers. Seeing danger ahead, I tenaciously held onto my mantra "I don't like chocolate." I weakened to "I only like chocolate from Germany." And then the horse blew out of the barn.
Well, Ladies & Gentlemen, I am here to report that I have recently discovered the chocolate vaccine, a cure to chocolate addiction.
Work with chocolate at home on a regular basis.
Similar to exercise, working with chocolate takes patience, concentration, persistance, and education. But whereas exercise enlivens me and helps me blow off steam, working with chocolate makes me anxious enough that I can hardly wait to go for a walk. After exercise a good shower is in order; during the chocolate process I find myself washing my hands dozens of times.
Working with chocolate is rewarding in that it takes some effort and offers the reward of people pleasing. It's fun to create things, to experiment with recipes, and have relatively quick feedback. It can't hold a candle to the endorphins of exercises and just the scent of it increases my desire to exercise.
So bring on Halloween and Christmas, and you can keep the chocolate. I'll make it.
