Christmas Spirit

Christmas is upon us in 12 days.  December is always a time of scrambling and being lost in busyness.  Trying, each year to make it perfect, better, memorable.  I get caught up in trying to buy gifts with money that I don't have.  Trying to do more with time that does not exist.  Trying to achieve perfection that is impossible and make memories that won't be remembered.  Every year I stress, because I fail.  I fail at perfection, imagine that.

Today I have been reflecting.  On my failure, on the season, on Christmas memories, on this world we live in.  I have been thinking about Christmas spirit.  It doesn't really matter what you believe in.  Whether you are a Christian or a Jew or an atheist.  You can use whatever labels and embrace whatever thoughts make you comfortable.  Whatever gets you through the night.  That may be a strange statement for a Christian to make at Christmas time, this time that we celebrate the birth of Christ.  For me though, it makes perfect sense.  The only thing I may get perfect this year.  I have been thinking about Christ.  Maybe he is your savior or maybe, for you, he is only a historical figure, or maybe even a fable or a myth.  We can all find peace in him, in the manger of that story.  In that tiny baby, born homeless but full of hope and possibilities.  This season is about hope, about promises.  In the midst of this winter season, where things are dead, or at least dormant, there is still promise.  The promise of rebirth, of spring that will come.  Jesus was that promise.  He was hope.  The Christmas spirit is found in our spirit.  Not in a store or the lights or the gifts. 

I see all around me hurting spirits.  Broken people trying to cope with this "most wonderful time of the year".  People trying to just make it to another year.  People trying to stay warm, trying to keep food on their table, trying to hold on until...

I think about my Christmas memories.  I remember very little about what presents I received.  I remember about time spent.  Not the time spent pursuing perfection, the time spent together.  I remember baking cookies.  I remember caroling.  I remember visiting the train display at CG&E (now Duke Energy), I remember the Christmas display at Krohn Conservatory and the live nativity there.  I remember family gatherings and people no longer with us.  I remember candlelight services and hymns softly sung.  What do all of those things have in common?  They have nothing to do with excess, or perfection, or money.  All wonderful, cherished, free memories.  This season was never supposed to be a burden, a sad and stressful time, it is supposed to be a celebration of hope, not of what is.  We need to cling to that hope.  That hope can be Jesus, or the oil in the lamp that did not burn out, or the hope that somewhere, deep within ourselves, we have the ability to go on, for one more day.  The hope that spring will return, the sun will shine, things will bloom again.  The hope that we will find grace and love will prevail.  The hope that maybe we can touch just one person and make a difference.  The hope that we can create just one memory that will outlive us.  The hope that maybe giving someone a smile, or a phonecall, taking a plate of cookies to a neighbor, putting a quarter in the kettle or a can of food in the barrel can make a difference.  It might plant a seed that will bloom in the spring.  Who knows, that seed we plant might take root in ourselves and grow that hope within us. 

The Christmas spirit is one of love.  Be nice.  Don't judge.  Reach out.  Do it because of Jesus, or do it because it is the right thing to do.  Do it because somewhere in all of us is a hurting, dirty, broken person who needs grace.  Invite the spirit to dwell in you.  Whatever spirit your mind is comfortable with.  That spirit of love and grace and caring.  That Christmas spirit.

Thanksgiving

My life has been a series of events, some joyful and easy and others difficult and painful.  I am sure that is true of every person on the planet.  One thing I can say, that is not true for everyone, is that every one of those events have blessed me.  I didn't always know it and I could not see how that was always possible at the time, but I can honestly say that is an absolute truth in my life.  At times I did not know how I was blessed by something until years after it happened.  Some events felt like they cursed me before I could be thankful for them.  Some things I knew were good for me, even though I didn't want them to happen.  They all have left a kind of imprint on me, they have shaped me and made me who I am today.

I hear people say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  The flip side of that is sometimes you have to be broken in order to be fixed.  When your heart breaks, it feels like it will never be fixed.  Even the fix may leave an ache, sort of like when you break a bone you are left with some arthritis.  It doesn't mean that it isn't as strong or stronger than before, it just means that you have an ache to remind you of that trauma.  I am thankful for my aches, they mean I have lived life and I have risked things and I can be more loving and empathetic to others because of it.

My heart is heavy right now.  My son had his heart broken today.  I hurt for him and I hurt because I loved the girl I thought would be my daughter-in-law.  I didn't realize that it had been 3 months since I wrote about my son, R.  Time has gotten away from me, it seems that the days are speeding by at a breakneck pace.  Some days I scramble to get everything done, most days it just doesn't happen.  Okay, that is my excuse (whine) for not writing. 

I am thankful for my son R.  I am thankful for both of my sons, but he is special to me.  He is my baby (though he hates it when I refer to him that way).  He is my unplanned child, he came at an extremely difficult time in my life, I thought of aborting him, our relationship was tumultuous from the start.  Early in my pregnancy, when I was debating what to do, I almost miscarried.  In a split second, I went from wondering if I should terminate the pregnancy to knowing I wanted him.  Despite being my second child, the pregnancy was high risk and difficult and the birth was long, drawn out and hard.  From the time he was a toddler on, he was fiercely independent, I felt he didn't really need me.  I have outlined the trials and hardships of his teenage years here in earlier posts.  Maybe because we fought so hard, both for each other and against each other, we are very close and protective of each other.  We are understanding and tolerate each other.  He is a blessing and a joy to me every day.  To say I am proud of him doesn't even scratch the surface of what I feel.  He is amazing.  I marvel at his mind, his wit, his love of life and his tender heart.  He is a loving son, a loyal friend, a hard working employee.  He gives second chances, because he has been given second chances.  He forgives, because he has been forgiven.  He tolerates and overlooks faults and flaws, because he acknowledges his.  I hurt for him and with him, but I know he will be okay.  He has been hurt before and he will probably be hurt again and I am sure he will keep an open heart. 

As his mother, I want to fix things.  I want to mend the hurt and make it okay.  That is much easier when your children are 3, than 23.  So instead, I love him and I am here for him and I tell him I understand (because I do).  I hope that he sees the blessing in all of these things and that one day he will be able to be thankful for them. 

Domestic Servitude give away

I don't know how many of you are readers of  Domestic Servitude.  It is a blog, put together by Danae and several other ladies, and they post helpful tips, tutorials, recipes and links for making any home run smoother.  This week they are also hosting a give-away for a $45 gift certificate for CSN stores.  Check them out and enter the give-away.

The heartbreak

R was always a quiet child, though in the right group of people he could (and still can) be gregarious and extremely funny.  He has a knack for problem solving, he intuitively knows how things work.  From toddler hood on he was fiercely independent, "I can do it myself" was his mantra and he meant it!  He has a natural athleticism, he taught himself to rollerblade, to ride a bike, to ski.  Much of my "parenting" of him was watching him struggle to do something until he mastered it, my offers of assistance were always refused.  He has a easy going manner, he is compassionate and accepting, which made him a magnet for some of the kids who were on the fringe and social outcasts.  Though he had hordes of friends from all circles and of all social strata, I think he also felt very alone much of the time.  He has such a gentle and loving spirit, animals and children are always drawn to him.  He was constantly bringing home animals, baby birds that fell out of the nest, injured rabbits, stray dogs and cats, we had them all.  He could approach and calm almost any animal, he was the "horse whisperer" of all species.  Children too, he is the pied piper, they clamor for his attention, which he provides patiently and willingly.  When R is around, I am chopped liver to the dogs and grandkids, he is the star in their eyes.

He is gifted musically, he can play 5 or more instruments.  Some, such as piano, he taught himself to play, but is still very good.  He was invited to join the high school marching band when he was in junior high.  He did take trumpet lessons, but I felt guilty for not being able to provide more instruments and instruction.  Sports was another thing he excelled at, even as a toddler he had superior coordination and ability.  He picked things up quickly, but he also worked very hard at them.  While other boys had dads that coached and tossed with them, R only had me.  I did sign him up, pitched to him, played catcher to his batting, I was always the "team mom" and later always the score keeper.  I just couldn't offer him much instruction or demonstration, I also was not a dad.

I think one thing that is plentiful to single moms is guilt.  As hard as I tried to be both parents and the breadwinner, I could not.  R's dad was not involved or available.  He never paid any child support and showed up or called less than once a year.  While it was very hard on R, it was for the best, his father had his own problems, his own addictions, and just didn't have it in him.  I guess I always hoped that not being exposed to his father's demons would somehow sever the inherited predisposition for substance abuse.  I also knew that nurture contributed as much as nature and I nurtured the best I could.  I also worked...a lot.  I worked enough that I did not see the early signs of his straying off the trail and experimenting.  Maybe I did not want to see it, but he had been the one I was least worried about.  He had so much going for him and he was always extremely mature for his age.  We were very close too, he usually told me everything, even things I didn't want to know.  He never told me he was using, not until he was caught and it was too late.  Not until he was in over his head and even I could not get him out.  That is the thing about addicts, no matter who loves you or how many people, or how many resources you have, only the addict can do something about it.

I was so clueless that I was in denial even after his arrest.  But once he was back home and on house arrest it was hard to not see the elephant in the room.  He would sneak out, he stole money from me, his anxiety level was extremely high since he was not using all the time.  Slowly the truth began to emerge.  I became his probation officer, interrogator and a private detective.  I also still supported him, loved him and cried over him.  It is very hard to balance the hurt the addiction causes with the love you have for your child.  It is hard to continue to support, love and fight for their life and not enable them.  It is hard not to resent the turmoil that has been brought into your life.  It is hard to realize that a mother's love and hugs and kisses cannot make things okay.  It is hard to believe that there will ever be an end to the lies, and the hurt, and that one day your son might be back and this stranger will no longer be in your house.  It was reminiscent of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"; someone had come into my house and stolen my son and replaced him with this alien, this addict.

When I started writing this, I thought I could just sum it up and dash it off in a post.  As it is, I am having trouble keeping it from being a novel.  I do not feel bad leaving you all hanging again, especially since you know the end and it has turned out well.  So once again, to be continued...

Heartbreak and gratitude

For a large part of the past two days, I have spent reading a mother's blog.  Not just any mother's blog, this mother is grieving for her son, who died earlier this year (actually on my birthday).  I was transfixed, I could not stop reading.  At times, I could barely see through my tears to read,   She is eloquent, honest and she exhibits a serenity and grace that I would find impossible to achieve.  Her son, Henry, was only 18 and apparently had been struggling with addiction for several years.  My own son, R, battled addiction during his teenage years, I stood by him, encouraged him, prayed for him and lived with a very real fear that it might kill him.  As morbid and pessimistic as it sounds, I often had thoughts of how I might deal with his death.  I also thought about not losing him to death, but losing him to the addiction.  Those thoughts haunted me during that dark time in his life.

My son won that battle.  I have watched him grow and mature into a wonderful and caring young man.  He has broken free from the prison the drugs made for him.  Even during those difficult days, he was loving and sensitive.  The biggest part of that struggle was the fact that he knew his actions and addiction hurt the people that loved him.  The guilt he felt over that confirmed to him what a failure he was.  He felt worthless.  I learned that the addiction is an illness and you need to look hard and see the person behind the addiction.

Reading her words took me back to that time.  I remembered the fear and the anger I felt.  Sometimes I was angry at him, but mostly I was angry towards the illness, the addiction that gripped him and pulled him away from me.  It is a horribly helpless feeling to see your child hurting and dying before your eyes.  For a period of time I was oblivious, I used to wonder if I could have stopped it if I knew from the beginning.  After he was in treatment, I learned that he began experimenting with drugs when he was 12.  I watched him try and fail, time and time again, from the first time he was arrested until he finally completed a program, and more than that, he overcame the death grip of the drugs.  Even more than relating to her account of Henry's addiction and her grief, I saw so much of R in her descriptions of Henry.  They both were handsome, smart, athletic boys, involved in sports and other activities.  They were both musically talented, both very sensitive, both very loving.

R was 15 when he was arrested, although he was a teenager he was far from being grown.  He was still my baby, my child.  I cried all night the first night he spent in jail.  The only thing consoling me was that I knew where he was and he was safe.  It was just the beginning.  I found out my insurance, despite what my policy said, did not pay for any kind of substance abuse treatment.  He started two different programs and failed at both of them.  I discovered he was stealing and dealing drugs to support his habit.  I also found he was being threatened by a 34 year old drug dealer who was using him and several other young boys to distribute drugs for him and operate a theft ring.  The police refused to help me, even after this man called numerous times a day and came to our home.  They even knew who he was and he was on parole at the time, they asked if my son could give them information on him or anyone else.  He didn't know anything of value to them, they told me if he "could think of anything else" to let them know and they would see what they could do.  I began to gather information on him and confronted him on the phone and on the street in our neighborhood.  I threatened him, he laughed at me, but I told him I had a gun and if he came to our house again, I would kill him.   I also told him that I knew people who would make him very sorry that he ever messed with us.  He might have laughed, but he also left us alone after that.  People who prey on children are usually cowards.  I found another treatment program, still outpatient (I could not afford any kind of residential program), which was intensive (4 days out of the week) and incorporated several counseling techniques.  I took out a sizable loan (which I am still paying on) and gave my son the option of participating or being in jail.  I also participated in the program, one night in a parent group and one night with him.  In the beginning he was sullen and resistant, he continued to fail drug tests.  After he spent another weekend in jail for failing a drug test, he started trying a little more.  By the end of the treatment he was involved, committed, clean and proud of himself. 

to be continued...

Life

It has been months since I have written here, life has been busy, complicated, but that is what life is. I have wondered why I thought it would be a good idea to have two blogs. Why I thought I could separate and compartmentalize my life. I thought that my original blog would be about J, about our relationship and about D/s. It has been. This blog was to be about all the rest. However, as time goes on, things are so intertwined. J and our relationship are deeply ingrained in my living my life. There is no separation. He is part of me and influences all that I think and do.

I don't want to abandon this blog, though I have doubts that anyone still reads here. This is just a small snapshot though, but it will continue. I will try to use it as a journal of sorts. It does me good to write, but I expect to ramble quite a bit.

I have been worried about my grandchildren. My son and his wife are not being the best parents. They are not being much of anything. Neither of them has worked in a very long time. Their house is horribly filthy most of the time. I am not sure what kind of meals are provided. Hygiene is being neglected (not just the children, but the adults as well). They children are left to their own accord most of the time. Yes, the parents are home, but occupied by the television or usually the computer. Video games and television have become the children's caretakers. I keep the children almost every weekend. This past week I had vacation time from work and I kept them then too. I try to give the children a sense of normalcy. I feed them good meals, make sure they get baths, have them brush their teeth. Things that most children experience every day. Things that my grandchildren get sporadically at best. I have considered my options and what is best for the children. One of those options would be to try and get custody. I'm not entirely sure I could unless the parents agreed. Apparently filth and neglect are considered a "lifestyle choice". I understand that Children's Services have their hands full with actual cases of abuse and while they would follow up on a case like this there really is nothing that they would do. I can hire an attorney and petition the court for temporary custody, but I am not sure it would be granted. I cannot afford to spend the money (attorneys are expensive) for a dubious outcome.

What I have been doing is playing social worker. I have made lists of the problems that I have observed. I have made lists of what must be done to correct those problems. I have written a contract for them to sign that they will follow through. Things improve and then backslide. Some things never get done at all. I follow-up and then emphasis the problems. I explain how these things effect the children's health and safety. My son admits that things are bad, that they have been neglectful. My daughter-in-law grows distant and blames my son. I am growing weary of this whole thing. I want to just be grandma, I do not want to assume responsibility for the children, I certainly do not want to raise them. I do want my grandchildren to have normal healthy lives. I guess I will keep at it.

I am grateful for many things. I am grateful that my family is healthy. I am grateful that all of our needs always get met. I am grateful that I have grandchildren to worry about. I am grateful that I can be a positive influence in their lives. When I become discourages that my house needs paint, curtains, woodwork and new doors, I am grateful that I was able to spend that money on the needs of my family instead. I am grateful for J, he loves me and encourages me. He listens to my concerns and he helps me stay strong. I am grateful for my youngest son, he is a great help to me, he is responsible, he is a hard worker and he loves his niece and nephews. I am grateful for my older son also. I am grateful that he loves his children, even when he is struggling to care for them.

I plan on trying to keep writing regularly here and on my Rabbit Hole blog. Try being the key word here. You know what they say about the best laid plans.

Louise, if you read this, leave a comment. You have been on my heart lately.

Postscript

The last chapter of this story occurred last night when J came to visit me. He came bearing gifts. He brought me a new coffee maker, for no reason other than I needed it. He also told me he bought it before he read my post here. He said that he didn't want me to think he was presumptuous or trying to replace what I had (i.e. a gift from my father).

I am thrilled! His loving thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes. I do not think he is at all presumptuous, I think he is thoughtful and generous. It has made me reflect how three of the most important men in my life all have blessed me and gifted me with the same appliance. (Is it that obvious I love my coffee?) On three different occasions, a gift of a coffee maker has touched me and pleased me more than perfume, jewelry or any other gift that is supposed to be so perfect for a woman. I am a practical girl, give me a practical, useful gift over a romantic one any day. (Well most days, J does spoil me with flowers from time to time and I love flowers!)

The act of making coffee has never meant so much. I will now think how lucky, and absolutely blessed, I am to be thought of, cared for and loved by so many wonderful men. Each of them in a different role in my life, but each of them equally important and cherished.

My father, my son

My coffee maker died this week. It had been taking longer and longer to brew a pot of coffee, making all kinds of noises. It was pretty old, I used it a lot. I knew it was on its last legs. I know it is rather silly to have an attachment to an appliance, but I am a little sad.

You see, it was a gift from my father. It was probably the best material gift he ever gave to me. My father was an engineer, that might not mean much to most of you. To me that meant he was practical and rather clueless at times. He never knew what would be a good gift for someone. When I was still living in my parent's home, I usually helped him choose gifts for my mother. After years of marriage, he still never knew what she liked or might need. He was a generous man, he did not skimp on money or time spent on a gift. He just didn't know.

When he bought the coffee maker for me, I was a single mom, working two jobs. I had a coffee maker that worked perfectly well. He bought it anyway and told me he got it because it had a timer. He said I could set the timer and coffee would be ready when I got up. At the time I thought I would have rather had something I really needed. But after using it for awhile, I appreciated the feature and the thought. That coffee maker lasted over ten years, I used it almost everyday. It made me think of my father every time I used it.

A few Christmases ago, my son bought me a coffee maker. It was a two cup (large travel mug type cups) coffee maker. It dispenses into the accompanying cups. Again, I already had a functioning coffee maker. He told me that he thought it was better, because I could make two cups, one to drink as I was getting ready for work, and one to take with me. At first I didn't use it much, but I have been using it more and more. It doesn't have a timer, but it brews quickly and makes good coffee. I appreciate it and his thoughtfulness.

This week, when I was a bit sad that my coffee maker broke, I thought about the similarities between my son and my father. My son, like his grandfather, is a hard worker, he is compassionate and empathetic. He is hard on himself and expects a lot from himself and other people. They both love dogs and hate to see anyone hurting or down on their luck. They were always close, my son and my father. My father doted on him and my son returned the affection. The other grandchildren in the family (including my other son) did not appreciate their grandfather. They found him to be judgmental and a bit socially inept. He was those things, but he was much more. My youngest son found acceptance, love and a strong male figure in him. He went out of his way to thank him and please him. He enjoyed doing things with and for his grandfather. Their relationship made the other grandchildren jealous. They did not understand his favored status, but they also did not want to spend time with their grandfather. I knew, in part, that my father was trying to fill a void that was left by R's father. I also knew he enjoyed the time they spent.

I will still think of my father when I make coffee. I will think of my father and my son and the special relationship they shared. I will think about their thoughtfulness in the wonderful gifts they gave me, both the coffee makers and the non-material things I have received from them.

Updates and reflections

Ryan, my friend's son, is recovering. He is home, but still cannot walk due injuries to his ankles. Those will heal, but the real damage is probably done to his psyche. He has faced the reality that life can change in an instant. That our actions and decisions can forever haunt us. He will live with the death of his cousin (and best friend) for the rest of his life. I am praying that he finds solace and gratitude in the fact that he was not also killed. I am praying that he find the strength to embrace the second chance that he was given.

The incident has given me pause, it has made me grateful for my own sons, for their health and safety. For their continued chances to get things in their life right. They are adults, but they are often unthinking and irresponsible. They are also often loving and thoughtful. I am thankful that I can be both the recipient of their callousness and their love. I am thankful for each minute I have with them.

As a parent and as a child, I have often made mistakes and have seen the effects of my actions on those that I love. I hope I have learned from the mistakes I have made. Often my learning has been tinged with guilt of not making the right decision. I have wasted a lot of time in regret. I am now learning to let go of regret and move on. Each day is a new opportunity, a new chance to do things right. Our focus should be on the present and future, not on the past. I appreciate my past, both the good and the bad. It has made me who I am today, but it doesn't define who I can be. I can be whoever and however I want. I can do all that I dream of doing.

Sometimes I have been to critical of others' mistakes. I have been short-sighted to the opportunities they still have. My boys can still realize their dreams, they can still be the men they want to be. They still have many chances to do things right. I can't fix their mistakes, nor can I offer them opportunities. I can still offer them advice, but I try to limit that to when I am asked. I can love them and believe in them and cheer them on. I can do that for myself as well. I am grateful for each day I have that opportunity.

Gratefulness

It seems I am only writing here anymore when I am rather melancholy. But writing is a bit of a catharsis for me, so be it.

Last night, one of my friend's sons was in a car wreck. He is in critical condition on a ventilator now. He is 22 years old, the same age as my youngest son. In fact the two of them used to compete in baseball. Ryan survived a tour in Iraq and returned home to his family and now his life is dangling. His cousin was also in the car, he is dead at the age of 21.

I cannot imagine what these mothers are going through right now. Except, I think that I can, this is every mother's fear and worry. We all have imagined it at one time or another. It is a reality that we sometimes forget. We forget when we get frustrated, or disappointed, or angry. We forget when everything is going well. Tonight, I am saddened, subdued and hurting for a friend. I am also grateful for my own sons. I am thankful that they are well and can be here to frustrate me, test me, anger me and love me. I am grateful for every single moment of stress and worry and frustration they have ever caused me. For if something ever happened to them, I would give everything I have to get one of those moments back.

Tonight, I am very grateful, for so many things.

Back to normal?

Thank you Louise and Shannee for your condolences. Life is returning to normal. My granddaughter actually did have to have a minor surgical procedure to clean drain the infection, she is now healing and recovering well. I have been dealing with my grief and it did help to cry it out that night. My routine is definitely changed now. There is no cat to feed or give a pat to. Of course I still have the three dogs who command and vie for my attention, but this is the first time in almost 20 years that I have not had a feline friend around. It is strange for me. Dogs and cats are most certainly different and I miss that interaction that I had with her (as demanding and conditional as it was). It has crossed my mind to get another, but my last four cat losses were very hard and I am not ready. I also really don't have the time and financial resources to devote to another animal.

I must say that I hate playing god. It is always a gut wrenching decision to know when it is the right time to end a life, especially when it is slow decline and not relieving total misery. Perhaps it was good that I had a major distraction on that day. Her passing was not nearly as peaceful as others that I helped cross over. Certainly it wasn't painful, but she fought so hard against it I had to second guess myself.

It makes me ponder the suffering we allow our human loved ones to endure, even when they are capable of voicing when they no longer want to deal with the agony of this life. After watching my grandmother, aunt and then my father suffer through what was known to be a losing battle, I wish I had the courage and the resources to help them end their struggle. I understand all of the ethical implications and the possibility of abuse, yet compassion is compassion whether an animal or a human being is involved. I absolutely do not understand why we, as a culture, can justify killing in war, but not help someone die with dignity. Perhaps I should be glad that I did not have to play god in those cases. However, a bit of regret remains.

I didn't even realize that it had been about three months since I posted here. I can give all kinds of excuses, but I am not going to. I just haven't had much to say, at least not much that I thought anyone would want to read. Maybe I still don't, but I am writing tonight anyway. J was here last night and it was wonderful. He made everything better. Tonight I am alone and I am exhausted and incredibly sad.

Last week my granddaughter was in the hospital. She had an infection in her neck, or should I say in a lump on her neck. Bottom line her lymph node was infected and necrotic and they thought it might be a staph infection. She spent several days in the hospital hooked up to IV antibiotics. She is home now and still on antibiotics (heavy duty ones), but she had to return to the emergency room last night and have the lump drained. I wasn't there, but I guess it was pretty hard on her. They had to make an incision and get all the infection out.

If I may back up even more...the day she went into the hospital last week, was the day I took my incredibly old, blind cat to the vet to be euthanized. In fact, I was on my way there, when my son called to say they were going to the hospital. I am very good at pushing my emotions deep inside and ignoring them. I pushed my grief about my cat to the side, so I could deal with the worry about my granddaughter. I was successful in doing that until today. Today I got home from work and got the mail in, I noticed something that looked like a card. I thought it would be something pleasant, maybe an invitation. Instead, it was a condolence card from our vet. I stood there looking at it for a moment as it all sunk in, I just began to sob. I am not a crier, but I have been crying on and off all night.

It is silly and I am mad at myself. I love my pets, I certainly have grieved deeply for an animal before, but I don't want this. I want to stuff it all back in and forget about it. She was old, she was sick, out of all the animals we have had, I was never particularly bonded to her. She didn't even like me when she was younger and she just tolerated me when she was old. But I cared for her. In fact I cared for her for 16 years. She was my son's cat, when he left home he left her here and I continued to care for her. When she became blind, I continued to care for her. In fact, I was careful not to move anything around and to stand and guard her food while she was eating (so the dogs would not steal it). I became much more aware of where she was at my feet, so I would not step on her or bump her. I brushed her when she could not groom herself anymore (at least as much as she would tolerate before she tried to bite me). She and I developed and maintained a routine and an understanding. She put up with me, because she needed me and I put up with her, because she reminded me of myself. We were both tough and we were survivors. In fact she was such a tough survivor that she hissed and spit at the vet in her last minutes and it took two injections to finally stop her heart. Maybe she knew, maybe she did not want to go gentle into that good night. Somehow I think I Dylan Thomas reference is appropriate for her (especially a poem about his blind father for my blind cat).

So I guess I will continue to shed a few tears for her tonight. I actually am releasing the events of the last week as I am releasing her. Because tomorrow life marches on and I must march on with it. Tonight though, I can cry for Cybil.