Remembering three boys I never knew

A year ago today, thirty minutes from now, three boys died. I hit them with my car, and they all died. I know it wasn’t my fault, most days. I was in the wrong place at the worst possible time. But there are still those moments when an undercurrent of guilt won’t fully submit to logic.

I think about them a lot, although not as much as what might be considered normal. Not because I am callous or unaffected by it. That’s not it at all. I just had to implement an emotional amputation of sorts; this was only one of a series of events that was so unbelievably heartbreaking, distancing myself from it mentally and emotionally was simply what I had to do for survival purposes.

But I think about them, especially on holidays. I think about their families trying to just get them over with. I picture the empty spot at the dinner table they pretend to ignore and the memories that must haunt them when they think about what they were doing this time last year. I think about what I was doing this time last year, which was sitting alone on a balcony in Arlington, Texas, just trying to get it over with, wondering why it was me who lived and not them and kind of wishing it was the other way around.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about three boys who had their whole lives ahead of them. It’s to send out love to them (wherever their souls reside) and their families and friends who miss them terribly. It’s to say that I truly know the pain of having to wake up every morning the first year without them and think about what you were doing that same day last year…when they were still alive…. when they still had their whole lives ahead of them.

It’s to say that I fully feel the weight of it all today, that it breaks my heart, and that I’m so very grateful that it wasn’t me and I still have my life ahead of me.

… but what I wouldn’t give to know that this Thursday there were three less empty spots at the dinner table.

Original Post: The accident (warning: it’s graphic in some parts)

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Warning. Proceed with Caution.

As some of you might have picked up on, I’m struggling a bit with all of this. Believe it or not, I am not referring to the whole ‘life thing’. I think we are all clear that I don’t quite have that down yet.

No, I mean this. Writing this. It is the thing that brings me the most joy these days, but I can’t help but wonder, am I killing you? Are you so over hearing me bleed? I know I am. But shit, I’m still bleeding a little bit.

So I admittedly went into publishing mode, which I certainly don’t think is a bad thing. It makes me happy to see my words out there in a forum that can reach more people. I love seeing people’s comments, even if they aren’t positive (okay, I don’t like seeing those, but I guess it means that I made them feel something enough to take the time to write about it). And I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty fucking cool to see my bio hanging out down there below an article published in the Washington Post. I’m only human.

But then I come back to this, to you: this community that has grown into something akin to a family, kindred spirits who offer me brief glances into your lives. I get to learn your beautiful stories, one post at a time. It feeds my soul on a daily basis. And your writing!! It blows my mind, and I can’t believe you actually want to read mine. But now, I have this crazy fear you’ll stop wanting to. Because god dammit, I’m tired. I’m tired of being sad. I’m tired of writing about being sad. And I can’t help but think that you have to be tired of reading about sad. But I haven’t quite arrived at happy yet, so what the hell do I write about?

On a side note, for you poor souls who think going on a second or third date is a good idea, I have discovered a full proof method to ensure that we definitely won’t. Just say something to this effect:

So I think you should write about…I don’t know, something happier, like your travels or maybe how you are getting through all of the pain…something that might inspire people, maybe give them hope…

Really? You’re joking, right? Because I seem to recall you telling me that is why you loved my writing in the first place. ‘It’s so honest, raw, engaging, bold…’.

Regardless, I’m just not quite at a place where I’m ready to conjure up my favorite memory from childhood, or from Spain or France or Colombia. I will someday, I have countless. But until I’m in the mindset to write about those memories with the same authenticity and passion I can about the not-so-happy parts, then they will remain unwritten.

In the meantime, I have a bit more bleeding to do.

But I am curious, are your requesting happy because it makes you more comfortable? Is it because, if we did actually start dating, someone you know might read what I write and question why I’m still so sad and heartbroken if we are dating? Shouldn’t I be ‘over it’? Shouldn’t I be happy because I’m with you?

Or maybe you really do just want to read something happy. I totally get it. My favorite new blog, The Incurable Dreamer, is my favorite precisely because it makes me laugh. The author’s writing is honest, raw, engaging…and it’s hilarious. I laugh out loud. And I also cry. Because parts do make my heart hurt, mainly because I can completely relate to her, and because she writes so brilliantly that I feel like am her, in the place where she is, seeing what she sees, and feeling what she feels.

I love it precisely because she does what I so want badly to make others do….she makes me feel.

So apologies if this comes across as bitter, or if it makes you uncomfortable. I want you to feel how you feel, and I want to know what that is, even if it isn’t always what I want to hear.

I won’t, however, write what you will always want to read. And in my defense, I try to set a tone, even throw out a warning in the beginning, to give you a head’s up if what I wrote is going to be especially brutal.

Summary: For those of you interested in a second date, not to worry. I stopped dating altogether, so feel free to offer up any advice you have. And for those of you who are weary of me being sad and writing about it, please know, I am too. But this present state will eventually subside and give way to the me who almost always has a smile on her face and a positive spin on shit situations.  She’s still here, you’ll see glimpses of her in even the most tragic posts, but you have to look a little closer sometimes. And you might actually have to feel something…

So, you have been warned.

proceed

The Accident

WARNING: Some of the content below is very graphic…and it’s sad. It just is.

—-

Pain.

Mine. Yours. Theirs. Is it real? Is it worse? Can you understand mine? Can I yours? Does hearing mine make yours hurt less? Is it too much?

When I was little, there was a lot of it. But I didn’t understand it, really. And I certainly didn’t talk about it, mainly because I was horrified. But also because I knew that it would make people sad to think of me being sad. I didn’t want anyone else to be sad, so I just didn’t talk about it.

This was the impetus for what came to be a lifelong survival tactic. I would seek out others whose pain I thought to be worse than mine, whose pain was real. This would give me a perspective of how trivial mine really was. Maybe I could even help them feel better. Maybe I would feel better. Sometimes I did. And sometimes it all just made me feel worse.

Admittedly, for the most part, I really did not believe pain was relative. I tried to empathize with my friend’s sadness over a broken heart or a fight with her boyfriend. I tried to understand why she was so sad and thought her life was ending. I mean, I tried to. But I couldn’t shut off the voice inside. “Really? You think that is pain? I could tell you about what real pain is, but it will make you sad. And I don’t want you to be sad”.

On the rare occasion that I did share my story, it was done with a tone of indifference so as to not make anyone uncomfortable. I would remain detached while describing the last few minutes before my father’s last breath. I would even leave space for some comic relief if necessary. I would be laughing and my friends would be crying. Well I didn’t want them to cry. So I quit telling my story.

I trained myself just to listen, to offer advice when appropriate, to empathize but not draw too much attention to my pain. I just listened to yours. Yours could not possibly be as bad, right? Besides, I needed to cry, and I could only cry because of your pain, not mine.

As bad. This is what gives pain its power. I compare mine to yours, as you do yours to mine, whether to minimize it or justify it. We all know we are going through different versions of the same thing, that we all have the same pain to varying degrees. We all know sharing our stories and naming our pain will help us heal. But we all still default to either believing that ours is all there is or that it is nothing at all. We don’t want to be the victim. We don’t want to be the cause of more sadness or pain. We don’t want to be exposed, or weak or stigmatized. We don’t want to be in pain.

So this is how I tried to navigate my story, constantly trying to find ways to deal with it while not exposing it. I minimized it or numbed it or I found ways to trivialize it.

But this time I can’t. This time, it’s too big. There is no hiding it. It can’t be minimized. And I can’t find anyone else’s that will allow me to trivialize it or help me gain a perspective. This time, I have to go through it, and if you read this, you have to know about it. And I’m sorry, but you will probably feel it.

I was flying back to Texas after spending a month in Paris. How bad could my life be, right? I just spent a month in Paris. But I spent it by myself, completely heartbroken in almost every way possible.

On the flight to Paris, I truly believed we were going to make it. He was going to do whatever it took to make it work. Maybe he could even come meet me in Paris at some point. But none of that happened. And I was furious with myself. Not because I was sad. I deserved to be sad. I was furious that I could not stop crying over him, while their parents most likely could not stop crying over them. All three of them. All three of them who were dead. But I wasn’t. I was alive, flying back from Paris, all limbs and organs intact, save my heart.

I was in the right hand lane, trailing about 6 feet behind the car in front of me that was in the left hand lane. I was a quarter of a mile away from my apartment.

I heard them hit. And then they hit me. And within an hour they were all dead.

I still don’t understand what happened exactly. I have replayed it over and over in my head, trying to make sense of it. What I was told was that a car full of three 22-year old boys swerved into our lane coming from the opposite direction going 80 miles/hour.

They hit the girl in front of me and then were catapulted into my lane. The car spun around 180 degrees, and I slammed into the two boys on the driver’s side. I didn’t have time to hit the brakes. They were my brakes. And they all died.

I tried to throw the door open to get out. It was jammed shut. I finally stumbled out and just stood there, paralyzed, trying to get my head around what had just happened. Everything was a complete blur of lights and distorted shapes- scraps of metal, severed bumpers, a license plate crumpled up like a piece of trash, orange shards of broken headlights, smells of gas fumes, smoke, hot oil, and burnt rubber. I remember thinking how quiet it was. I can still hear the slight buzz of traffic off in the distance and the sound of fluids spewing out of our cars. The crunch of shattered glass underneath my feet seemed offensive as I made my way over to the side of the road.

I tried to take it all in, not even seeing the crowd of people gathering around me. I frantically began to call the only person I knew in Arlington. He didn’t answer. So I just sat there, methodically pulling cold blades of grass from the ground beneath me, my entire body violently shaking, either from shock or the relentless chill that blanketed the scene of mutilated cars strewn out before me. All were now empty, save one.

The driver, his head, was distorted in a way that reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dalí, tilted backwards as if it was melting down his back. Blood poured out of every part of him. The boy directly behind him, the other one I hit, his head was thrown back too, but facing away from me. I could see his left arm dangling out of the shattered window, blood pouring out of every part of him.

And I just sat there, watching, pulling cold, wet blades of grass out of the ground. I watched the policeman approach the car to access the damage. I watched the fire department arrive and begin to cut them out of the car. I watched them put the boys onto stretchers and push them into the ambulance. I watched the ambulance drive away.

I only later found out that there was a third boy in the car. They didn’t even bother pulling him out.

I continued to sit there, waiting for him to call me back, until someone finally realized it was me who was driving the other car.

Two hours later, after enduring question after question, I was asked the final one.

“Do you have anyone who can come pick you up?”

“No.”

Awkward pause.

“Can we give you a ride?”

“No. I’m okay. Thanks. I can walk.”

The onsite counselor finally insisted on taking me home. She was understandably worried.

“Do you have anyone who can come over?”

“No.”

“What about friends or family you can call?”

“Um, yeah… I will try to call someone. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I mean, I’m still alive, right? I’ll be fine.”

I have this weird thing I do on planes. Sometimes I just can’t commit to watching a movie,  so I watch whatever the person next to me is watching. I can’t hear it, so I just kind of make up my own story and dialogue.

We were about an hour away from the Dallas/Ft.Worth airport, and I was in an absolute state of panic about what I had to deal with after we landed. So I watched his movie instead. I hated it. It was stupid. Just another story. One poor kid, trying to fight back, experiencing disappointment and heartbreak. Oh, and his girlfriend died. That was legitimately sad. But it happens. Death happens. He might as well learn how to deal with it.

It finally ended and the man took off his headphones. I looked at him and made some asinine comment about how trivial it all is.

“It’s life, man. It’s pain. It’s real”, he replied.

“I’m sorry, but no it’s not. It’s a movie. You want to hear real? I was in a car accident a month ago and the three boys I hit died. They all died”. That is pain. That is real.”

He closed his laptop and looked back up at me, straight in the eyes, his pain palpable.

“God, I am so sorry. He looked back down, and repeated, almost in a whisper, “I’m sorry. I know what you are feeling. I know because my wife and son were in a car accident. My wife and son, they both died in that car accident.”

I shut my mouth, and I cried. In a matter of seconds, my pain became insignificant and his pain was all that mattered.

Pain. When is it enough to be justified to be real? I keep on hearing stories like this. About pain. Mine, yours, theirs- all of us wondering what the fuck we are supposed to do with it. We feel it, we witness it, we create it, and we try to heal it. But it is always there, somewhere on the spectrum. And it hurts like the worst kind of hell. But we need to live our lives, so we try to hide it, dismiss it, numb it, or hopefully heal it.

I’m not quite sure how to do that, exactly, heal it. I do know, however, how I won’t – by hiding it. dismissing it, or numbing it. I’ve tried those. They only feed it. They are what sustain it.

What I have finally come to terms with is this. All of our pain is justified. All of it is real. We all bleed the same. The source of our wounds may differ. The extent of the damage may differ, but in the end the results are the same. We bleed and it hurts. And we have to find a way to make it stop if we are going to survive.

So I’m telling you about mine, hoping it will help to stop yours. And I’m asking you to tell me yours, hoping it will help to stop mine.

This is what I want for all of us. I just want it to stop. This is why I am finally telling my story. I want us all to transform our pain into a beautiful scar that we can someday wear proudly, to show to others and utilize as a means to share our wisdom and experience.

But this won’t happen if we don’t give ourselves permission to feel it. To acknowledge that what is happening or has happened is terrible. To allow ourselves to feel sad and angry and resentful and, yes, like a victim.

We are victims of our pain. But our pain does not make us victims.

Our pain makes us real. It gives us depth and courage and resilience. It gives us the opportunity to gain perspective and to practice empathy. It dissuades us from judging too harshly or minimalizing our own or others’ experiences.

Our pain is what makes us human. It is why i believe we are here, to experience the full spectrum of emotions, to learn from them, grow from them and use them to help others do the same. It is the only way we can truly do the one thing we are all here to do. To love.

When we feel pain, when we understand it and when we learn how to heal ourselves and help others to heal, this is how we know we can truly love, fully, with no regard for what we might get in return…even if it is more pain.

This is why I am telling my story.

http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2016/11/20/arlington-police-investigating-fatal-vehicle-accident/amp/

 


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Eternal Sunshine

“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned.”        – Alexander Pope
I have been staring at this blank page for what seems like hours. I can’t stop thinking about a movie I saw over a decade ago. For those of you who have seen Eternal Sunshine, that should set the tone here.

Yesterday, I caught myself laughing, like really laughing. It felt strange but vaguely familiar. A glimpse of color. 

And then today happened. Today there is no color. Grey doesn’t count as a color.

I can recognize that a bad day isn’t cause for panic. Progress has been made. I think. But the severity of it, of this, when it starts to forge its way to the front. Nothing else can be seen or thought or felt.

In my defense, there are moments that are beyond serendipitous. A song I haven’t heard for a decade is now suddenly everywhere. No, it’s not a coincidence. On the favorite playlist of my local coffee shop. Okay, fair. But the hardware store. Really? Three people in three weeks have introduced themselves with the same name. 480 Facebook friends, a tribe I have been building for almost 40 years. Not one of them has his name. Not one.

Depending on the day, I find these coincidences either comical, or I find the rabbit hole. The dissent is quick, and anything but painless.

Now no place is safe. A friend suggests my favorite tapas bar. Oh shit, no, sorry. Okay, how about that place we love on Broadway? Fuck, right. Seventeenth street work? Wash Park? We went to a movie instead.

It’s not always like this. Until it is again. Someone next to me has cinnamon on their latte. The grocery store. Utter disaster. Thrift store. Nope. A fucking bubble gum wrapper. Fallout.

Yes, I have developed some effective coping mechanisms- some healthy, some not so much. But the prospect, the hope, of arriving at the other side intact, unscathed, seems almost laughable if not impossible right now.

Maybe the initial shock has worn off and now I am just acclimating to the resignation. Well this feels worse. The flashes of color and feelings that would normally presuppose happiness, or at least some sense of peace, are now juxtaposed against the prolonged darkness that looms over the relinquishing of hope for something that will never be and never was.

Never was. I close my eyes sometimes and try to imagine it. Eternal sunshine.

Would I do it? Would I erase the past 9 months if I could? The first 3 would go too. Even better, there would be no reason to waste the 6 months that followed trying to replicate them. All the time spent creating ‘us’, memorizing each other’s every thought, expression, scar, and curve would no longer be the justification for spending twice as long trying to fight for it and even longer trying to forget it. If I could get almost a year of my life back without ‘us’ ever happening. Would I?

I know, this is absurd and pointless. There is no ‘erasing company’ to speed up this forgetting process. And yes, I would consider it. And yes, that goes against everything I have been encouraging myself, and you, to do.  Find the gift. Take the lessons learned. Be grateful for the strength, insight, courage… all of the amazing attributes you gained because you went through fucking hell and survived.

All still apply. Just not today.

My dear friend sent me this quote this week. It physically hurt to read because it is absolutely true.

“The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd – The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.”
 Fernando Pessoa

The same day, another dear friend forwarded me this article. I was only able to skim it, precisely because it was so not what I wanted to hear…because it is absolutely true.

“Love is rarely mutual, which is why when it is, magic explodes in the brilliance of stardust…For when a man falls in love with a woman [or a woman with a man], nothing can stand in the way. Not life, obstacles or even one’s ideas of readiness or worthiness. Nothing. Because as much as we’d like to think otherwise, there is no real reason that he’s not be beside you this evening, other than the fact that he’d rather be somewhere else.”  – Kate Rose

Stings doesn’t it? To the point that you start to cycle right back to the denial phase. It can’t be that he/she would rather be somewhere else, with someone else. It’s the circumstances, the timing, the whatever other possible reason you can come up with that will justify why he/she isn’t here.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I am not at the denial stage any longer. I am very clear that he does not want to be by my side. I’m not interested in denying it anymore. But I’m not ready to accept it either. I’m clinging to the absurd.

I want the sun to shine again. And that’s all I want to remember. Just the sun. Not the grey.

I guess this is what we do for awhile, a morbid dance of sorts. We can’t erase the memories, so we have to manipulate them a bit, maybe leave out the parts that still can’t be felt or insert a lens that will shift the focus, change the interpretation to something more manageable. 

Eventually, though, the reality of what really occurred will be very clear and we finally won’t want to manipulate anything. That is the hope, anyway. We will remember how we really felt when they were beside us. The feelings that we are still allowing to dominate our memories- joy, happiness, comfort- were so few and so fleeting.  They were almost always tainted with insecurity and an underlying fear of what we knew was to come. That is what we will remember. And that is why we will be with someone with whom we will experience what is truly love, in the moment, not in a memory.

So for the sake of progress, I’ll leave you with this.

If we had not endured the very worst, we would have settled for something other than the very best. He/she was not the one we have been summoning. A master at disguise, no question, but absurd, impossible, and absolutely necessary to pave the way for what is to come. And it won’t be painful, and it won’t be fleeting, and it most certainly will not be grey.

Read Kate Rose’s entire article here: If He Wanted to Be with You Then He Would Be: https://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/02/if-he-wanted-to-be-with-you-then-he-would-be

The Last Fight

“You did too much. You tried too hard. The only thing you didn’t do is walk away. So walk away. It’s going to hurt like hell. Do it anyway. Do it with grace. Do it with love. Do it knowing you did everything you could.”        – b.breazeale

My dog is dying. I didn’t want to admit it. But I knew it. It is why I postponed my move to Paris. It is why I just signed a lease on the same street where he lives. I knew our time was limited, but I thought we had more time, more walks to the coffee shop- ‘the B’ sitting outside with me, tucked under my legs. He was supposed to be my wingman for this new chapter. He was supposed to be my rock while I try to heal and start over.

I am absolutely furious with myself for spending his last six months away from him. I left him when he needed me most. The irony is almost comical. I left Biscuit and moved to Arlington, Texas for a guy who left me a week later, then left Arlington, Texas to come back to Biscuit, who is now leaving me a week later.

When Eric told me he wasn’t doing well. He calmly said, “I think you should consider moving back early”. That is all I needed to hear. Eric never wants me to worry or hurt. I know that. I knew that every day I called to check on Biscuit, he wasn’t being 100% straight with me. But I still called every day. The guilt I felt because I wasn’t there, when I knew I was losing him, was excruciating. Deluding myself that he was going to be fine was just easier.

So I packed up my apartment the next day and drove out of Arlington, Texas, back home. He is what motivated me to do one of the hardest things I have ever done- give up on a dream, on love. It was the first time that I had to move away from something I love instead of toward something I love.

Two days and 781 miles later, I walked in the door of my home that is no longer mine. Everything had changed, except for Biscuit’s reaction when I walked in the door. He slowly got up and came straight to me. Tail wagging, huge smile, nose forcing its way into my hand for some long awaited pets. Eric said he hadn’t done that in weeks. Within 2 days we were back to our routine- him patiently waiting for me to get myself out the door, our walk to the coffee shop, that now took twice as long , him stopping at his favorite rock, then his favorite bush (pine, totally obsessed with pine), the realtor’s office where he bolts in, pummels the poor man trying to get his work done, relentlessly begging until he gets a treat.

We get to the coffee shop, take our normal spot next to the tree, and our day continued as it had so many times before. And for two days, that is exactly what we did. I knew I had made the right decision. Maybe he was just waiting for me to come back?

And then we began our walk back home. I could see the pain in his eyes with each step, even though he had his normal elated smile on his face that he always had when we were on our walks. By the end, I was literally holding him up, almost carrying my puppy that weighs more than I do. We barely made it inside the gate. And that was it. I slept outside with him until we finally had to take him in on a stretcher. He hasn’t moved since.

Maybe he was just waiting for me to come back.

And yet, I still hope. He has done this before and he came back. If we do the unthinkable and he could have come back…

So, when do you call it? When do you throw in the towel and do the unthinkable? When do you walk away and give up the fight?

It feels absolutely impossible.

The fact of the matter is, I’m so very tired of letting shit go. I don’t want to anymore. I have let so much go in the past year. They say things come in 3’s. This is the 5th terrible, heartbreaking thing that has happened this year. This has to stop at some point, right? A person can only take so much. I don’t care about the whole ‘you only are given what you can handle’ bullshit. Isn’t there a breaking point? Isn’t this why people snap and truly do throw in the towel? I don’t want to break. I have shit to do. And I’m tired of crying. And I’m tired of fighting the urge to ask, ‘why me’? I’m just tired.

So do I call it?  Do I give up on him?

Clearly, he can’t tell us that he is in pain, or if it is to the point that he just wants it to stop. What if he isn’t ready? What if he gets better? What if he wants to keep fighting and we gave up on him too soon.

That is not what I do. I don’t give up. To a fault. I fucking fight- for love, for life, for dreams, for people…I fucking fight.

I know we all have to do this. It’s the whole courage thing. We have to face our fears- our fear of being alone, of failing, of admitting defeat, of being the one who gave up, of never seeing the person we love the most again.

I have always tried to use pain as a guide. If I am causing someone pain, or if I am experiencing pain beyond what is acceptable, if there is little chance of transforming it back into something beautiful, then I know it is time to let go.

That is the intention. That is not what I am able to do when dealing with the latter. I hold on too long- to love, to life, to a dream or a person. I stay too long. I fight too long. Even when that person has long since stopped fighting for me. Even when all hope is gone. I know this is selfish. That person is trying to let go of something that isn’t serving them anymore- my dad holding on, for me; my husband holding on, for me, my puppy, for me. And I encourage them. I make them keep fighting, when I know what they really want is for me to just let go.

He is telling me he doesn’t want to fight anymore. It is clear. And he is holding on, partially for me. And I am letting him.

I think, for the first time in my life, I just don’t want to fight anymore.

 

Upside Down

Definition of Faith (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

1) allegiance to duty or a person: loyalty:  fidelity to one’s promises: sincerity of intentions

2) firm belief in something for which there is no proof:  complete trust

My puppy, Biscuit, has Vestibular disease. Okay, he is not a puppy. I don’t know how old he is exactly. I quit counting, but we’ll say 11ish. He is an amazing dog, as we all believe our dogs to be. But this guy is the dog that you can’t get 3 steps into your walk before you are stopped so that people can love on him. This is the guy who the neighbors ask if you will please go out of town so they can watch him. He touches people in a way that I have seen few pups do. But I am clearly biased.

About a month before I moved to Arlington, Biscuit started swaggering a bit on our walk. His head had a severe tilt to the right and he quickly got to the point where he could no longer stand. I immediately took him to the vet, ran all the tests, plunged into researching all possible causes. All results pointed to two different scenarios: Vestibular disease or a brain tumor. Vestibular disease- curable, brain tumor- he would be in immense pain and gone in a matter of weeks.

We were told the best thing to do would be to put him down.  I refused.  If everyone was telling me they were not sure. If what they were telling me is that there might be the smallest possibility that he could get better, that he might not have a brain tumor at all, then why the hell would we put him down?

Long and the short of it, he has vestibular disease. It took countless hours of research, multiple doctors, ongoing tests, blood work, medication after medication, a strict diet of home cooked veggies and chicken breasts, but we still have our Biscuit…because I had faith in him.

I have been away from him for a bit and was heartbroken to see that his condition has worsened since I last saw him. It struck me as I was walking him this morning of how dramatically both of our worlds have been turned upside down over the past 8 months. Literally. As I caught him from falling over the second time, I knelt down beside him and gently tried to straighten his head, to give his neck a little relief from the strain of trying to hold his head up so he can keep on going. And I cried. I just cried. I cried because I want to take this pain away, because of how unfair it is that this precious, strong, sturdy dog is now reduced to having to be held up by someone smaller than he is. I cried because he might never be able to hold his head up again, to see the world as it is, as it was when he was healthy and carefree and could run and leap and land on all feet with no fear of falling.

I cried because I feel the exact same way. My world has been turned upside down and I truly fear that this pain will never subside, that I will never be able to hold my head up, stand up straight, and walk, much less leap, without any fear of falling.

So this is where faith should come in, right? When something that you believed in- like that you will get up in the morning, be able to put one foot in front of the other and walk a straight line, or that the world you created around a belief in love, around a person you believed loved you- when this world is turned upside down and no longer exists, this is when you are supposed to have faith. This is when you are supposed to believe in something greater, in that greater power or fate or destiny or whatever it takes to conjure up the strength to keep going, when every step you take is taken blindly because everything that was your reality is now completely foreign and you are walking in a world that was yours, but no longer is. You are supposed to have faith.

I don’t have any right now. None at all.

So this is my plan for today. I will gently remind myself of all the things I do have.  I have my dog. I have my health. I have this cup of coffee in front of me and my hands that allow me to keep writing. I have a lot more, I know. I just can’t see it all right now. It’s amazing how unclear things become when you are looking from the bottom up.

Your faithful gypsy,

BB