Why NOW is the time.

Yesterday, for the first time in two months, I left home for the day, while my daughter tended to Mom. Ray and I drove north a couple hours to a parking lot rendezvous with a family who live two hours further north of that. They brought us the newest member of our family, Pretzel MacTíer (Irish for “wolf”). His mom is a mini blue merle Australian shepherd, and his dad is a white toy poodle. So he’s an Aussiedoodle or an Aussiepoo (or mutt, as we used to call them in the olden days). I spent a long time researching Aussiedoodles. Both parent breeds are super smart—we’ve had both before—so Pretzel will probably be smarter than both of us combined. He’s a little 5-lb bundle of sweetness right now, if you ignore his mouthful of tiny needles.

Why, in the midst of caring for Mom, and with our other furry and feathered companions, would we get a new puppy? Believe me, I’ve spent weeks asking myself that very question. The timing seems like it couldn’t be worse. We’ve been on a list for months, in line for a pick of the litter, thinking somewhere down the road. But NOW, suddenly, we end up first on the list at the same time the breeder has a litter with a male blue merle puppy (the breeder only has a couple litters each year). 

So we’re trusting the Universe. And, I can think of several reasons why bringing Pretzel home might make sense: 

1. Angel-soft puppy fur. 

2. Our dogs, Pedro and Yogi, and Mom’s dog, Oprah, are all 14 years old. Yogi is the sweetest, smartest, most gentle dog ever, and he’s in home hospice care (mast cell cancer). My goal is for him to be Pretzel’s Obi-Wan Kenobi and train the wee lad in the ways of the Jedi...Puppi…Dawgi. 

3. We desperately need all the belly laughs we can get. There’s nothing funnier than a puppy’s hind legs running faster than his front ones, or a 5 lb-er’s tiny little growl, like he sucked up a tank full of helium. 

4. Puppy smells. 

5. We’ll groom Pretzel to become our solo retirement road-dawg. 

6. We’re celebrating our recent 33rd anniversary, which everyone knows is the puppy anniversary.

I’m reminded of the Hopi concept of koyaanisqatsi, or “life out of balance.” After a couple months of home-bound tending, I can occasionally settle into a somber and solitary, sometimes pretty grey place. There’s something about puppyhood amid this vigil that restores balance, pulls me out of my head, uplifts me with life-giving puppy chasing. Pretzel is a constant reminder that even now, there is life, hilarity, and soon, tiny holes in every sock.

“There are some simple truths…and the dogs know what they are.” --Joseph Duemer

Dear students, today's lesson is...

The youngest and the oldest in our family.

As Mom gets closer to the end of her body’s life, I’m trying very hard to appreciate this incredible opportunity to learn.

I’m learning a great deal about the process of dying—the physiology, the stages, the emotional/psychological roller coaster, the humor, the drugs, the drug interactions, the moments of joy. I’m also learning that no matter what the research says, the process is not predictable, nor are there neat demarcations between one stage and another. It’s messy; the trajectory is convoluted, random, and circles back on itself over and over—some days look like “getting better,” and some days feel like the last day. There are no straight lines gliding downhill toward a tidy, scheduled death.

I’m learning about my mother. Impending death strips away pretense, bravado, and show[wo]manship. I may have caught glimpses before of my mother’s insecurities, but the raw root fears behind these insecurities are roiling full-on now, perpetually whipping up the surface. I’ve learned that my mother is terrified of silence, of being alone, of loss of control, of appearing less than charming and pulled together, of oblivion. Learning these things has helped me make Mom’s environment more comfortable—playing music, having a TV on, chatting as she gets tucked back in bed, helping her dress up now and then, can all help alleviate, at least temporarily, her fears.

I can’t really do anything about Mom’s fear of death, which she’s only expressed out loud once. I don’t pretend with her that I know what will happen in that moment, or where she’ll go, or if she’ll go anywhere. I don’t make stuff up to make her feel better. I do talk to her about how we move through the veil (metaphorically) at birth and again at death, two parallel doorways in a natural, earthly life. I assure her that we will take care of her throughout this process, that she won’t be alone or in pain, that she’ll be comfortable. I remind her how lucky we are that she can be in her own sweet room, tended to by people who love her.

Mom and brother get ready to brawl.

More than anything, I’m learning about myself. I’m learning that it’s easy to be all Buddhist and talk the talk about compassion and unconditional love. But at 5 a.m., when Mom’s been awake every 1.5 hours for the past 24, when meds/fear/disorientation make her mean and combative, when she crawls out of bed sideways past her guardrails and ends up on the floor, then it takes some superhuman zen to walk the walk. I’ll admit my walk-the-walk skills have come up short a few times, and I’ve blown my stack or fallen into a puddle of weeping mess. It’s a constant reminder that I’m a work in progress.

I’m also learning that my lifetime of idealistic belief in home hospice as the best death is now frequently running up against the gritty, dirty, frustrating, isolating, and just plain physically HARD realities of 24/7/365 caretaking. And I’ve become painfully aware that one advantage of institutional care for the dying is a TEAM of caregivers, not one caregiver who sometimes wants to curl up in a dark closet and suck her thumb.

Wishful thinking.

Today, though, Mom had an early morning shower and is napping peacefully, the sun is shining, our canaries are singing, and the coffee is hot and strong. So I’ll eat my peanut butter toast and see what lessons the day brings.