Four Years

Four Years.  It's really kind of stunning that I have lived four years without my mom.  So much has happened in the past four years.  So much my mom hasn't shared.  And yet, I've survived.  

The past year has held immense growth for me.  I've figured out a lot about myself.  Much of it coming in the last few weeks honestly.  I've begun to figure out a lot of things that I likely would have not ever understood if my mom was still here.  

I wish I could write a long, long blog post and explain all the recent lessons.  But they are new and profound and for right now, private.  I need to process them more before sharing them...if I choose to share them at all.

Suffice it to say, four years ago, I was broken.  I had lost my mom.  This is where I was then: http://findingmymom.blogspot.com/2009/10/and-so-this-is-how-it-ends.html

Today...I am in such a different place.  I am no longer broken.  So many pieces have been put back together in ways they weren't connected before.  I understand so much more about myself.  I am a different person.  Of course, how could I not be?  I lost my mom to cancer and am losing my dad to Parkinson's.  But in losing my parents, I truly have found myself.  It has not been an easy journey.  The important journeys are never easy.  I have climbed mountains I haven't wanted to climb.  But upon reaching the top of those mountains I have been able to see clearly.  My head is above the clouds, not lost in them anymore.  

The blog I wrote when my mom was sick was called Finding My Mom in Small Goodbyes.  And I did find parts of my mom.  But what I have found in the past four years is ME.  And I am so, so grateful for the lessons I have learned.

I miss a lot of things about my mom.  I also miss things that never existed.  And there are things I don't miss as well.  I can say that now.  I wish I had figured out all this stuff before she died so we could have had a different relationship.  But it took her dying for me to figure it out.

Today will be a day of reflection as always.  But this year is different than all the rest.  I don't know how the day will go but I know that I am grateful for the person I am today.  I am grateful for the work I was forced to do because I lost my mom.  

There is power in time passed.  Time truly is a great healer.  And it marches on... 

When Feelings Get Hurt

Parkinson's truly is an insidious disease.  It is confusing and aggravating and just when you think you've made some progress, Parkinson's shows you who is in control.

I was so glad that dad's meds were adjusted last Friday.  I've been anticipating a change in him, convinced that the blood pressure meds were the problem.  Then on Thursday morning, just as I had shown up for work, I received a call from a nurse at dad's assisted living community.  Someone in the dining room had called for help with him.  He was dizzy and pale.  After some assessment, which resulted in more low BP readings and a very slow pulse, the staff wanted to call 911, but dad refused.  

So, here I was at work.  At a job where I can't just up and leave at a moment's notice without some significant hassle for everyone else.  And it felt as though the world started moving in slow motion.  I had become THAT person.  The person I study.  The person I read about. The person that can't hold a job because they are taking care of a loved one.  The person whose life has to stop and change gears at the drop of a hat when something like this occurs.  And in this short period of time, I wondered how I was going to pay my bills if I couldn't hold a job.  I wondered what I was going to do if dad was admitted to the hospital.  I was supposed to be starting a week long vacation the next day to devote time to my kids and my master's thesis.  Was everything going to change?  My head was spinning with all this, but partly because I didn't want to focus on what was happening with dad.  It all felt like too much.

Thankfully...so very, very thankfully, we switched care to the doctor we saw last week.  An old-school doctor who still makes house calls.  I asked the staff if they thought he would come over for dad instead of calling 911.  The nurse told me that he was already on his way over for someone else, so she would just add dad to his rounds.  I can't explain how relieved I was that we just started in his care.  Thank goodness for people like him.  Doctors who still take time with their patients.  His trip out to see dad saved dad the fear and confusion of an ambulance ride and it allowed me to stay at work and receive updates by phone for a couple of hours.  

The result was that more of dad's BP meds were adjusted.  He may just go off of them all together, but for now, we'll keep reducing them.  I called and spoke to dad later in the day and he was still confused about everything, but at least he was feeling better.

I drove out on Friday and sat with him for a while.  He was still confused.  He still couldn't come up with words.  And he was still unsure about what happened the day before, but he absolutely remembered that he did NOT want to go to the hospital.  We spent some time together and then I got up to head out for a busy day of errand running.  As I was getting to go, I told dad what I always tell him, "Call me if you need anything" and without even looking up at me, he said, "Well, it didn't do any good yesterday".  

Wait?  What?

Ouch.

I then went on to explain to him that I was in constant contact with the nurse and that I had been at work and that if the nurse had told me he wasn't getting better and/or that he was going to the hospital, I would have come.  He said he knew that.  But, wow, it definitely stung to hear him talk as if I had let him down.

And it still stings.  And I've been thinking about it a lot.  My reality is that I am the one who is in contact with my dad's assisted living community.  They all know me there.  I keep dad's grocery list and make sure that he always has the things he wants in his room...grape nuts, milk, honey, chocolate, chips, dip, ice cream, gum, etc.  I do all his laundry.  I pay his bills.  I talk with his insurance company.  I take him to doctor's appointments.  I fix as many of his problems as I can...like getting him a new, more user-friendly cell phone.  I bought him a robe that he can sit in in the mornings instead of getting fully dressed when he wants to get out of bed and rest in his chair.  I sit and research the latest and greatest PD information always looking for another option for him.  A large portion of my life is devoted to my dad.  But I also have a husband and children and three jobs and a master's degree to finish.  

And I know that my dad is confused and maybe he's so used to having me around when he needs me that he didn't understand why I didn't come on Thursday.  But...I got my feelings hurt.  And they're still hurting a bit.  But that's on me.  I know that no one can make us have feelings.  They come from a place within us.  And I know this is part of being a caregiver for someone with a neurodegenerative disease.  I understand the reality.  It just isn't always easy.  

And after I visited dad today, I still feel like something is off.  He's forgetting to go to the dining room for meals.  He's still hard to talk to.  I spent a good portion of time talking to the nursing staff.  And I wonder what is happening.  Is the Parkinson's declining?  Is it med related?  This damn disease is complicated.  It's a constant struggle to figure out what is going on and what needs to be done.  So, next week will be another call to his neurologist.  Probably another appointment.  

Please understand, I'm not complaining.  I'm just sharing.  It's important for me to get this stuff out for me to release some of the stress.  As I've progressed through my master's thesis, I have had some PD caregivers make contact with me.  I can't explain how much that has meant to me.  No one understands PD caregiving like another PD caregiver.

This blog is my place to be honest.  And in all honesty, it's hard to watch someone you love struggle like this.  It's hard to wonder if each day will be a good one or one that isn't so good.  It's hard to wake up in the middle of the night wondering if dad is okay.  And it's hard for dad.  He's living in this body that is betraying him.  I just want to make his life easier.  And this week I feel as though I let him down.  It seems I'm always letting someone down.  And it's not a fun place to be.  I am only one person and I'm doing the absolute best I can.  It's just frustrating when one's best isn't good enough.  

But my feelings will heal.  My dad's PD will not.  And so we all just keep plugging on day by day.  It's all any of us can do. 

One day at a time...

The Medication Battle and When Daughter Knows Best

Well, how about a little Parkinson's post again?  

Today I took dad to his first official appointment with his new family practitioner.  I love this guy.  He is old-school medicine.  He believes that a general practitioner should be just that...someone who is knowledgeable in general medicine...so basically just about everything.  When specialists are needed, that's great.  But he believes that the art of medicine is dying away and doctors are losing touch with their patients and taking temperatures and sending them out to someone else.  He doesn't practice that way and I'm so glad we found him.

Over the past few weeks, I've noticed a significant decline in my dad.  His memory had become very poor.  His speech was confusing.  He could barely carry on a conversation.  AND...he couldn't win a game of bingo when he used to be the group's ringer!

I became concerned.  I'm always a little on edge and apprehensive about Parkinson's dementia.  And then it occurred to me that his neurologist had added a new Parkinson's med at his last appointment at the end of August.  It was the first thing I discussed with the doctor today.  He took dad's blood pressure and it was 90/50!  No wonder he's confused!  And then I found myself so frustrated.  The staff at the assisted living community are taking his BP every day.  There had to be times when it was low like this.  Why wasn't I called?  Why didn't someone think this was concerning?  Why didn't anyone else notice my dad's confusion?  And then I was annoyed with myself for not automatically thinking blood pressure.  This is what happened in rehab too.

The doctor looked at me and said, "Good job paying attention!  Sometimes, oftentimes, daughters know best".  And he immediately wrote an order to stop the newest med.  It's not just daughters, but husbands and wives and sons and nieces and nephews and caregivers in general.  We're the ones that are paying attention.  We're the ones that MUST pay attention.

But could I have caught it sooner?  My work schedule has changed.  I'm almost working full time now and I'm trying to adjust to the new schedule and I feel as though, perhaps, I haven't paid quite as much attention to dad.  But I also feel that at $4100/mo, we should be getting people to pay attention at the assisted living community as well.  Yet, the bottom line is that no one is going to know my dad the way I know him.  They know dad today.  They don't know the dad I've known my entire life.  

And then I have to remind myself that I'm only human...and ultimately, I DID catch it.  I'm curious to see how things play out over the next few days.  If he returns to his more normal self (normal as far as Parkinson's goes), I'm going to sue for lost bingo winnings!  ;)  I truly believe now that it was the med.  And that frustrates me and aggravates me.  Four and a half years ago, when my mom was diagnosed with cancer, I didn't understand that it was going to be me who was going to be researching meds and side effects and drug reactions and interactions.  I also never truly understood how little the medical system works together.  But the last four and a half years have shown me this problem close up and personal.  Over and over and over.  It's so much of a concern of mine that my masters thesis is based, in part, on coordination of care (or lack there of).  

These are humans we're dealing with here.  They aren't numbers.  They aren't lab rats.  These are humans and my dad lost a month of his life over one medication.  And he could have lost more had this continued and his blood pressure kept dropping.  What happens to the people who don't have a loved one nearby paying nearly constant attention?  That idea scares me.  

Something needs to change in this system.  I don't know how the change happens just yet, but I know there is a large part of me that wants to be a catalyst in that change.  If nothing else, at least an advocate for patients and caregivers as they muddle their way through this system of ours.

Today was a good reminder to remain vigilant.  

To end on a funny note, after what dad called, "the most thorough prostate exam I've ever had" :o, the doctor told him today that he has the prostate of a 60 year old.  I think I'm going to get him a t-shirt.  ;)

Dear Jonathan Michael

As I sit to write this, I can't help but wonder where the last 15 years have gone.  At the same time, I can't even remember what my life was like before you.  Today is the first birthday of yours where I won't see you.  That's what happens when you have divorced parents.  I thought I had prepared for today, but I have to admit, it's still extremely hard.  And yet, I know that this is just another lesson in letting go.  I won't always have you with me on your birthday.  In fact in a few years most of your birthdays for the remainder of your life will likely be without me.  But this first one gives me a little stab in the heart for sure.  

Lately I have seen a lot of posts going around Facebook by adults who have written open letters to their children with messages for them.  I haven't agreed with all of them, although have certainly loved a few.  I considered writing one to you today myself, but instead I decided to do the opposite.  Below are some of the lessons that YOU have taught me in the past 15 years.  For as I have said, more times than I can count...I believe I have learned more from you than I likely will ever be able to teach you.

So, these are just a few of the lessons off the top of my head:
  
* From nearly the moment you arrived, you taught me that motherhood was nothing that I thought it would be.  I still say that I was the greatest mother before I had children.  I thought I knew everything, when in reality, I knew NOTHING.  

* You taught me the meaning of true, unconditional love.

* You showed me how little sleep a person can get and still survive.  

* You taught me how much entertainment can come from one cup of flour (and how long it takes to clean up said entertainment).

* You let me know that inside of me is a town that was built by you when you were there.  It's boarded up now, and I'm pretty sure I can feel the tumbleweeds sometimes, but it once housed you, and then your brother.  That gift of imagination was priceless.

* You taught me how judgmental I once was.  You helped me see that we're all doing the best we can with what we have in this world and that one should not judge lest she be judged.

* You helped me find my inner strength.  You pushed me to make choices in order to do what was best for you regardless of other's opinions.

* In an emergency room at Midnight with a toddler in nothing but a diaper, running a fever and struggling to breathe, you unleashed the roaring mother bear inside of me. 

* You taught me that responding to your every need would NOT, in fact, raise a dependent child, but instead would foster great independence.

* You made it clear that Happy Birthday is not a song that everyone loves.  

* I learned that picking clovers is a great way to spend time in right field while playing t-ball...even better than stopping any potential ball that comes your way.  Through this lesson, I was shown that my dreams aren't yours and that the baseball gene skipped a generation. 

* Through you, I learned that video games aren't evil and that in the hands of a grounded human being, they can be educational, fun, and a stepping stone to learning how to build a gaming computer from scratch.

* I learned that children absolutely will learn what they need to know when they need to know it.

* In an orthopedic office, with a pre-teen with a badly broken arm, you showed me your incredible inner strength.  And that you didn't need me to hold your hand anymore.  

* You tried valiantly to teach me that turbulence on a plane is nothing to be afraid of.  And that sitting next to your mom while she is freaking out on said plane is embarrassing.  Sorry about that one...

* You have shown me how to speak one's truth.  Your ability to be true to who you are, even in the face of strong opposition is humbling and inspiring. 

* You have taught me that there is simply no need for countless toppings on a pizza and that the simple joy of a cheese pizza is lost on most people.

* I have learned that nearly everything people told me about the teen years is just as false as the messages I received before becoming a mom.  I LOVE having a strong-willed, passionate, self-assured teenager.  Our conversations and debates are some of my favorite times.  Your quirky sense of humor makes me laugh every day.  I appreciate that we can respect each other's differences and know that it's okay that we don't always agree with each other.  

* And nearly every day Jonathan, you teach me that you are not mine forever.  That from the day you were born, every day was, and continues to be, one more day of you moving away from me.  And that my job has always been to give you a foundation, a safety net, and wings.  All the rest is fluff and often smoke and mirrors.  

You, my son, are one of the most incredible human beings I know.  You are your own person and I love the young man you have become.  I get such joy out of watching you continue to grow and evolve.  Now that you are 6 feet tall and significantly taller than me, I look up to you both literally and figuratively.  I am immensely proud to be your mother.  I know this next year comes with driver's ed and yet another path to take you even further away from me.  And yes, there is a large part of my heart that breaks as you move further and further down that path.  But I also know from all my lessons over the past 15 years, that the reason you can continue to stretch your wings is because your foundation is strong.  You know that safety net exists if necessary.  And you know that no matter how far you fly away, I will always be here waiting with arms outstretched, to welcome you back to the roost whenever the winds blow you back home for a visit.

But give me just a few more years okay?  :)

Happy Birthday my wonderful Jonathan Michael.  I love you more every single day.  Thank you for teaching me how to be your mom and how to be a better person each and every day.  Although today is filled with presents for you, the greatest gift was given to me 15 years ago when you were placed in my arms. It has been a truly blessed decade and a half.  Thank you for choosing me to be your mom. :)

Lessons

As I said when I first started this blog, it would be about several different things, but one of them would be caregiving.  I didn't really think about it having a focus on self-care at the time, but that has been a recent theme in my life so it makes sense for it to come out here as well.

As I'm on hour 54 of my recovery from a tooth extraction, I feel the need to explain the emotional process behind this procedure.  This is my blog.  It is my own personal therapy.  So, no need to read on if you don't want to.  For some of you, this will be a little much, but I am a firm believer in the mind-body connection.

At the age of 18, I received a root canal on my last molar (my wisdom teeth weren't in yet).  I vividly remember that root canal.  It was my dentist who performed it and he walked me through it step by step.  I've had two root canals since that one and the process seems to be significantly easier than it was 26 years ago.  Nonetheless, the procedure itself wasn't all that bad (although it was three appointments).  However, I do remember house sitting and being in throbbing pain after one of the appointments.  I remember very vividly lying on the couch in tears.

Over the years, that tooth continued to give me problems.  About 10 years ago, it had become mostly a silver filling and very little tooth.  I always wanted to get that filling replaced with something that wasn't silver and full of mercury.  

Seven years ago, I had moved back in with my husband after having been separated a year.  This move was against my therapist's recommendation, it was against friend's recommendations, it was even against some family recommendations.  Most of all, it was absolute opposite of what my heart wanted.  But my head told me I needed to try to save my marriage.  Not for me, but for my children.  I was in love with someone else.  I left him to return to a marriage that no longer existed in an attempt to follow the rules.  I was going back because I felt I had broken rules and the rule follower in me was fighting to right that wrong.  And I understand now that I was going back, in part, perhaps in large part, because my entire life had been an effort to make my mom proud of me and I knew she was disappointed in me and I needed to fix that problem as well.  I will never forget the moment I told her I was going back.  She looked at me, smiled and said, "I have been praying for this!".  I'll also never forget how I felt in that moment....that I was giving up everything that I wanted, everything that made me feel right...in order to make my mom happy so that she would love me again.

The background story is much deeper, but suffice it to say that my mom's pregnancy with me was a surprise.  I always knew that and that's the message I grew up with.  I always felt I had to fight for her love.  My mom absolutely did the best she could with what she had available to her.  She wasn't a bad person.  She sacrificed nearly everything she ever wanted for her kids.  I learned that from her. Her mom judged her harshly.  She often told me that she never wanted a daughter because she didn't feel she could be a good mom to a daughter.  Please understand that I don't blame my mother for my choices.  They were, and are, my choices.  She and I reconciled our differences as she was dying from cancer.  But it is important to understand from where I've come over the past 8 years.

The day I walked back in to my old house, my old life, I knew I had made the greatest mistake of my life.  I cried for nearly three days straight.  Sobbing cries.  In following my brain, I destroyed my heart.  And within days of moving back in, a huge chunk of that offending tooth fell out.  Because I had had a root canal, there was no pain except for the constant sharp edges that shredded up my tongue.  

The following year was absolute pure hell.  For everyone in that house, especially my children...the ones I thought I was trying to protect by going back.  I spent an entire year trying to figure out how to leave again, how to go from being a stay-at-home mom to bringing in some sort of income.  Every day was a fight.  Every day was a battle.  And then, finally, 13 months after I moved in, I was out again and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in order to survive, I had to move on regardless of the "rules" and regardless of how my mom felt about my choices.  

Two years later, my mom was gone.  We didn't speak much until she got sick, and then, as I said, we resolved our differences.  She spoke to me differently than she had my entire life.  At one point, in a hospital waiting room, she said to my boys, with her back turned to me, but within hearing distance, purposefully, "Your mom is a much better mom to you than I ever was to her.  You're lucky boys."  As I was tucking her in to bed one day, she grabbed my hand, looked up at me and said, "You don't have to do this.  I don't deserve it."  Taking care of my mom as she was dying was exhausting and heartbreaking and cathartic at the same time.  My mom and I expressed our love to each other in ways only she and I could do.  When she died I knew that she loved me and she knew I loved her.  I still miss my mom.  But what I have learned over the past four years is that what I miss more is the fantasy mom that I never got to have.  

Now, I know that many of us don't get our fantasy mom.  I also know that if I could have reconciled this issue before my mom died, maybe my mom and I could have had a different relationship where I didn't have certain expectations of her that she couldn't meet.  Nonetheless, my journey the last four years since she has been gone is to understand the relationship I had with her and the lessons I learned and the false stories I told myself over the course of my life that brought me to where I am today.

So, back to my tooth...more of it has fallen off over the past several years.  A year ago, my dentist suggested it go because there simply was no good fix for it anymore.  My gums had become so sensitive around it.  I had to have a crown put on the tooth in front of it because food got stuck between those two teeth and had damaged the front tooth.  I had to have a toothpick with me everywhere I went because so much stuff got stuck in there.  My dentist said he thought he could pull it, but that it would likely come apart in pieces and would take about an hour so, because of my dental anxiety, he felt I should be sedated.  I had never been sedated before and I hate medication, but I agreed to do it in order to get rid of the tooth.  I took the medication as required an hour before the appointment, but it had no effect whatsoever.  The staff asked me if I had taken the pill when I got there.  My dentist looked at me and said, "Well, that didn't work at all".  Ha...I'm convinced my natural anxiety level laughed at that sedative because generally medication hits me hard and fast.  So...after gearing myself up that day, I left the office with my tooth still in my mouth and a referral to an oral surgeon.  

It took me several weeks to make the appointment with the surgeon.  I talked to my therapist about my anxiety surrounding this tooth-pulling.  She and I looked up teeth in a mind/body connection book.  Here's what we found.  The 8 teeth on the lower left are "linked with the realization of a person's emotional sensitivity" and that "a problem with one of these teeth indicates lack of emotional recognition within the family".  It then goes on to say that dental problems on the left side are "an indication of unresolved issues with your mother".  And I cried...but wait...I resolved my issues, right?  I did that when she was sick.  But as I delved deeper it became obvious that although I had resolved things WITH my mom, there was still work to be done in my own heart.  I began to really work through some issues that were plaguing me.  I finally went in and met with the oral surgeon but left that office in tears after the doctor made it clear that it would be ridiculous to pull the tooth and not do an implant.  He told me that my dentist was wrong to tell me otherwise (yes...the dentist that referred me to him).  I left with a $5000 quote and 4 prescriptions to take PRIOR to surgery.  I am allergic to many antibiotics and had no desire to take a prescription "just in case".  The rule follower in me told me I had to do what I was told.  But I had been learning to follow my heart and my heart said this was the wrong surgeon.  I was learning to find my own voice.  I knew I deserved to have my own voice.  I listened to my heart and I cancelled the appointment to pull my tooth.

Over the following weeks, I taught three childbirth classes.  In each class I had a dentist.  Each class.  I heard the universe's message and asked one of the dentists for his oral surgeon referral.  He gave me a name of a surgeon who I had heard of before.  It still took me a few weeks, but I finally called.  Two weeks ago, I met him for a consultation.  He was friendly and made it clear he didn't think I needed an implant.  He told me that, yes, the tooth would likely come out in pieces, but that it would be a fairly straightforward procedure.  I left with a quote of $250 and no prescriptions.  I said I would call to make an appointment.  I waited a few days, but my heart was now telling me that I had done my work.  It was time.

As I left the surgeon's office with my tooth in a sealed plastic bag 2 days ago, I stared at it.  I would post a picture here, but it is disturbing.  Everything above the root line is black.  That tooth was just seeping mercury into me and, at the same time, draining me of so much.  Having that tooth gone is a very, very long journey and it is not simply about a tooth.  It is about my voice.  It is about my story and how I am changing it.  My therapist told me that I likely wouldn't be able to get the tooth pulled until I could have something to fill the space because the universe doesn't like a vacuum.  It was one day about 3 weeks ago when I just KNEW.  I was going to fill that space with MY voice.  And I have been practicing.  I have been speaking up when I would otherwise remain quiet.  I have been been asking for what I need.  I am working on being proud of who I am today, not trying to become someone that I think other people think I should be.  I have made ENORMOUS changes in my life in the last week.  And now that tooth sits on my night stand.  I don't know what I'm going to do with it, but I know some ceremony needs to take place.  It is not simply a tooth.  It represents freedom to me.

And then one more little lesson in the past couple of days.  I do not have to be a martyr.  This is a big one for me and one I know needs to be addressed.  I don't like pain meds.  I have a prescription but haven't felt the need to take the prescription.  I was authorized to take 2-3 200mg ibuprofen every 6 hours for the first 2-3 days.  I took one 200mg ibuprofen when I got home from the oral surgeon's office and another 4 hours later.  That was it.  Then last night, I found myself in some decent discomfort.  I fought that ibuprofen.  Interesting how I choose the "rules" I am okay with following.  My internal rules about pain meds are apparently larger than the rules given to me by my oral surgeon.  Finally last night, I surrendered.  Ahhh...surrender...it is my deepest lesson.  I allowed myself the ibuprofen and I have taken two today.  I do not have to suffer.  I removed a part of my body and a huge emotional block two days ago.  There is going to be some discomfort as my body adjusts.  And it is okay to not have to suffer.  Martyrdom does no one any good.  

And so I move forward in healing both my body and my heart.  I go forward in changing my story.  And I fill the space of my tooth with my own voice.  I fill the space with self-care.  It is not a fast journey.  You don't change a lifetime story in one day.  But it is a shift in my path.  It is a different road.  It is not entirely comfortable yet.  But as I continue to walk this path, I see more light than dark.  I know it is the right path.  Of course, none of us ever know where paths in life will lead, but I'm excited to walk this one for a while.  

Good-bye old tooth.  Thank you for the 26 years of lessons.  I'm ready to go on without you now.  :)

Caregiving, Self-Care, And the Care of Others

It's been a long couple of weeks.  It's been just over 2 weeks since we put Luna to sleep.  In that time, we have received three beautiful sympathy cards from all three of the vet clinics who tried to save Luna.  In addition, we received a bouquet of flowers from the vet hospital and a letter from Washington State University's College of Veterinary Medicine informing us that a donation was made in Luna's name by our regular vet's office.  This letter came with a link to their Pet Memorial Program where we can add a picture of Luna.

It feels good to know that others out there truly understand what it is like to lose a pet.  There are still many days when Luna's absence is so tangible.  She definitely left a hole in our family, but to be cared for by so many others and to know that people do understand our loss definitely softens the blow a bit.  

And this is the reality of caring for others.  I have been doing it for so many years, but it is when I am on the receiving side that I truly understand the impact.  I have had so many people tell me, "I couldn't have done this without you.", which of course isn't true as we all step up and do what we need to do when we need to do it.  Nonetheless, it is the idea that having a caring hand or heart makes nearby makes difficult times easier.  So, it's not that someone "couldn't" have done something without another person, but that the difficult task was made more manageable through the care of others.

The same can be said when it comes to my dad.  I do believe he can still manage a lot of things on his own, but when I'm with him, some of the difficult parts of his life become easier.  For instance, I could have the assisted living community take him to his doctor appointments, but they don't stay nearby and offer support.  I do.  I am there to take notes and ask questions and make sure dad is getting the best care possible.  

This week I had to have a discussion with the manager at the assisted living community over some concerns I have had recently.  It wasn't a fun conversation, but I needed to do it for my dad.  For $4100/month I expect exceptional care for my dad.  I don't expect for him to sleep on his floor all night yelling for help because he's fallen out of bed.  I expect that after four months, and repeated discussions, housekeeping should be able to understand that the sheets go OVER the footrest at the end of the bed instead of tucked in which then frustrates dad and makes him sleep in his chair in the living room.  I expect that people shouldn't have to sit alone in the dark in their rooms when there is a power outage because only the hallways have power (what happens in the winter with no heat?).  I expect that when I call during a power outage and ask that a message be relayed to my dad, that he will actually get it.  

So, although my dad lives in a community with 24-hour care.  Ultimately, he relies on me to make sure he is truly cared for well.  And I take that responsibility seriously.  Last Friday, I stood in the pouring rain next to my car while my dad painstakingly tried to get his legs to do what he wanted and I realized that THIS is my caregiving life now.  It doesn't matter if a caregiver is drenched.  There aren't enough hands for an umbrella.  I can fold up and unfold a walker with the precision I used to have when it came to strollers.  I know how to look for the perfect handicap parking spot (they're not all perfect!).  I look for fall hazards every where I go.  I time my dad's activities around his bathroom needs and medication times of day.  And my patience is continuously tested by the heartbreaking stillness and stiffness of Parkinson's. 

Caregiving isn't just about taking care of the daily tasks of someone else.  Although there are many, many people living out there doing just that.  But it's also about the small moments of simply reaching out to another human being and offering a simple gesture of care. 

Last night, my oral surgeon called just to check in on me.  Not all oral surgeons do that.  I'm sure he was home with his family making his nightly calls to check on his patients from that day.  It's likely something he does every work day.  And sometimes he probably gets a patient on the line who has lots of questions or concerns and he might spend quite a bit of time on the phone.  All he did was leave me a voicemail, but that call made me feel cared for.  He didn't just pull a tooth out of me and send me on my way, but he took an extra minute out of his day to call and check in.  It's that simple stuff that makes a difference.

If we could all just take a moment out of every day to care for another human being, just think of all the difference we could make in the world.  

Let me end this with a quick note about self-care, because the older I get, the more I truly understand how important this is as well.  Although being cared for is a wonderful thing, there is great growth in self-care as well.  Having my tooth pulled yesterday took 7 years of build-up.  It should have been pulled years and years ago.  But there was so much meaning behind that tooth (that's for another post).  I had to work through all of that first.  Now that I am on the other side, it is one of the greatest feelings.  I am DONE with that tooth.  And today, I am home and have a house I could clean and so many other things that I could be doing with a "free" day.  But instead, I am going to rest.  I am going to give myself this day of self care.  A part of my body was removed from me yesterday and my body deserves time to heal.  Even though that removed part was toxic, my body still needs time to fill the space that has been left behind and the best way to do that is to simply be still and let positive, refreshed energy fill the space rather than exhausted, overwhelmed energy.  And so...today's plan is all about SELF-care.  

The past two weeks I have provided care, I have been cared for and I have practiced self-care.  And somehow the world seems just a little more peaceful because of it all.  Take some time this weekend to offer some care to others and to yourself and perhaps to receive some care from others as well.  In a world where there seems to always be the threat of yet another conflict, it is in these little moments of care that all the difference can be made.

Silence

Silence is rare in this busy world of ours.  It's even more rare when small children are in the home.  I remember a day, probably 10 years ago when a friend of mine mentioned that she was having a cup of coffee in silence while her kids still slept.  Her kids were just a little older than mine at the time and I remember thinking, "Oh my gosh!  Will that actually happen to me someday?  Will I get a quiet cup of coffee again in silence?"  And I did.  And I have had many since.  And I'm having one right now.  And the silly thing about it is that I do love the silence, but I am always amazed at how much I miss the noise of small children.

There's a lot of silence in my house these days.  I have teenage boys.  My life does not completely revolve around them anymore, nor does theirs revolve around me.  My oldest will be 15 in just a few weeks.  I am quite aware that he is just three years away from 18.  The first three years of his life went by in a blink of an eye, I know these next three will likely go even faster.  I have a desire to cling to him.  To hold on.  To beg him to stay with me.  Just like he did as a toddler any time I left to go somewhere.  How the roles have been reversed.  The child who I called my "velcro baby" now won't even give me a hug.

I'm sure my parents felt the same way.  I look at my dad these days and I immediately am transported back in time to the man I grew up with.  The man with the big smile and the boisterous laugh.  That man is lost behind the mask of Parkinson's disease.  His laughter has been silenced.  I know I'll never hear it again, but thankfully, I can still hear it in my head.  The roles are reversed here too.  I am now the protector in this relationship.  My dad who always made me feel safe now needs others to keep him safe.  

Thursday morning, as I was preparing to make a phone call to the vet, I received a phone call from a nurse at my dad's assisted living community.  She told me that when they delivered my dad's 8:00am meds, they found him on the floor next to his bed.  As the story has developed, it seems that his feet got tangled in the sheets and he fell out of bed early in the evening on Wednesday night and laid on the floor the entire night, yelling for help.  It makes me sick to my stomach to even write any of this because I cannot believe my dad had to go through that experience.  Alone.  In the dark.  And being met with silence.

Something happened to my dad's mind during that fall.  He has been much more confused the past couple of days.  I have had long talks with the nursing staff.  They have seen it too.  His "watch status" has been increased.  He's being checked on every hour during the day and now has a minimum of two checks during the night.  I am incredibly grateful that he is in assisted living now as I can't imagine what we would be going through if he was at home alone.  We moved him at exactly the right time.

My dad and I spend a lot of our visits in silence.  I used to feel the need to fill the space with a lot of mindless banter.  I don't anymore.  We just sit together.  Yesterday, when I said good-bye to him, his eyes teared up and he said, "Thank you for everything."  I told him, "I'll always be here for you dad."  And he said, "I know.  You're a good person."  

I am a good person. I'm okay with saying that.  However, I'm not good for everyone all the time.  In caring for my dad, I feel I've become less of a good friend and a good wife at times.  But certainly, the person who gets the least amount of attention is myself.  I know this is not healthy and I'm working on changing that, but it is not easy when there is always someone else to take care of.  I am a caregiver.  I always have been.  I will always have someone or something to take care of in my life because I call that to me.  And perhaps it makes me feel important.  It makes me feel that I am supposed to be in this world.  But I'm coming up on 45 years old.  I told Olly last night that I'm likely well beyond middle-age for me.  My mother died at 73, my dad is 76 and I'm not sure he'll make it to 80.  My grandparents all either died in their 70s or 80s.  I don't have a 90-year life span in the couple of generations before me.  And if I don't start taking better care of myself, I will just cut down my own lifespan.

And so, in the rare moments of silence, I reflect.  Over a quiet cup of coffee, alone in my house, I listen to the silence.  The only sound right now is that of the keyboard as I type these words.  The early morning air is blowing through the kitchen window as another beautiful late summer day begins.  I have the entire day in front of me.  I will make a trip to see my dad, but there is no one else to care for today except myself.  I have work and school to attend to, but will make time for a workout and ideally some sort of enjoyable activity in there as well. 

I felt a little sorry for myself this morning as Olly left because, once again, I am stuck at home with school responsibilities while he goes and has fun.  My boys are at their dad's house.  And this house is still noticeably missing Luna.  I feel her presence and still expect to see her.  But then am reminded that she's gone.  I didn't want to spend the weekend alone.  It has been such a long week with intense emotions.  But perhaps this is a lesson in mindfulness.  Today is about honoring myself.  Listening to the silence.  Hearing what it tells me.  I am an introvert.  I recharge in silence.  And I get very little of it.  Perhaps this weekend is my opportunity at a true recharge.  Perhaps this weekend is not a reason to be bitter, but instead, it is a gift. Ah...how I love the journey that comes with writing.  I almost always come out with some new revelation that I couldn't see prior to getting the jumbled thoughts out of my head.

In the almost 15 years since I have had children, I have very seldom been alone in my home, especially for an entire weekend.  Perhaps I am lost in the reality that there is no one here to care for.  Except myself.  So, this weekend I will work on my capstone project, I will get some work done, and I will spend some time taking care of me.  I will honor this silence and see where it takes me.

I Miss Her

I had a rough night last night.  Sleep evaded me.  I tossed and turned a lot.  I woke hungry with the realization that I ate very little yesterday.  This morning I am still hungry, but not much sounds palatable.

I miss Luna.  

Thank goodness for my night owl son who woke me in the early morning hours to tell me there were still candles lit.  Sheesh...Fire and grief shouldn't go together.  

I took some photos with my phone last night.  I'm going to post them here.  I thought about posting them on FB, but I figure if I post them here, people can click in and view them if they so choose.  I think they're beautiful, but I know not everyone feels the same way about death.  I think it's odd that there are not photographers at funerals and beside death beds.  Honestly, maybe I should do that work.  We take pictures at birth, why do we not at death?  We did last night...and these pictures will be precious memories of the end of Luna's life.

This is the pile of Luna's meds (and this wasn't all of them...some were all used and tossed already).

This was Luna after the tranquilizer set in.  The first dose of pain meds and sedative did nothing for her.  Her body was working so poorly that things weren't processing through her as hoped.  We were all feeling very stressed that Luna was not ever going to settle and we were going to have to take her out to the Vet's truck to get anesthesia through a mask.  We were both grateful and sad when the tranquilizer finally began to work.

Olly and Christopher and Luna

Lexa came at some point.  She sat in the window and pretended not to notice or care what was going on, but I don't believe that was true.  She was almost always in the room.  And this morning she is obviously upset and trying to figure out what to do with the way she feels.  At this point and time, she's taking it out on Lightning (our oldest cat).

This is Dr. Sue Preston.  She is one of the angels that walk the earth.  She is shaving Luna's leg in the hopes of getting a vein.  We're still not sure if it will work with as little as Luna's body is working and the chance of having to go out to the truck is still possible, but we're all hoping for the best here.  We kept all the fur that was shaved.  Parents keep the first locks from their baby's first haircut, why wouldn't we keep some of Luna's at the end?

Olly holding Luna's leg to help the vein pop while Dr. Preston's prepares to inject the final dose that will allow Luna to be free of this painful body.

She has the vein.  It's almost over.

The final injection.

She was gone within seconds.  Peacefully.

Christopher blew me away.  He insisted on being present the entire time.  I don't know if I could have done this at 11.  And I was so thankful that my kind-hearted husband cried openly tonight so Christopher could see that it's okay for men to cry.

Sweet, Sweet Luna.  Finally out of pain.

This is as close as Lexa got, but it was obvious that she knew what was happening.

Dr. Preston left us alone shortly after Luna had passed.  Olly, Christopher and I spent quite a bit of time with her and then I asked Christopher if he wanted a few minutes alone with her.  He said yes and Olly and I headed up the stairs.  I had to get this one shot from the top of the stairs before we left him in private.  I love this kid and his kind, compassionate heart.  And for the record, I love Jonathan for his strength of character and knowing what is okay for him.  He felt badly that he couldn't be part of this, but I assured him that there was nothing to feel bad about.  He and Luna had said their good-byes.  Over the past several days, I caught him talking to Luna many times.  He'd immediately get up and move when he saw me.  But he said his good-byes his way and I am incredibly proud of him for doing what was right for him.

Rest In Peace Sweet Luna

2007 - 2013

Good-Bye Sweet Luna

~ I started this blog this morning after making an appt with the vet to come put Luna to sleep tonight.  I wrote throughout the day in order to keep my mind focused and not to let it get overwhelmed and wander into places it shouldn't go.  I realize to some of you, this is all a little much.  To some of you, Luna was "just" a cat.  But to us, she was family.  And this experience opened up so many wounds inside of me that I now realize were not healed, but just scabbed over.  Nearly 4 years ago, I lost my mom.  Today, I lost Luna.  And though some people may not understand...the experiences were incredibly similar.  There are many lessons to be learned today.  I have promised that I won't let grief be silent.  I lived this day.  I didn't pretend it wasn't happening.  I lived it.  Every moment.  

Today Luna died.  

And this is the story of how I lived this day. ~ 

Last night we made the decision that we had to finally let Luna go.  I just got off the phone with the vet and we arranged for her to come by at 6:30pm tonight.

And now there is a clock ticking in my head.  Luna's life is down to 9 hours.  I'm nauseated.  My hands are shaking.  I have a pounding headache and the tears won't stop falling.  I'm going to leave this page open today and just blog randomly throughout the day as my own way of saying good-bye to this precious cat of ours.

The vet told me that I needed to be prepared for the chance that she won't be able to get a vein on Luna and will need to put a mask over her face to administer the medication to put her to sleep.  I am praying this won't happen.

10:30am - I go into Jonathan's room and sit down as I have for several weeks and administer more bad news.  This is the last time when it comes to Luna though.  I tell him the vet is coming at 6:30.  He shuts down and puts all his effort into not crying.  It breaks my heart.  And I do cry.  I don't hide my own emotions from him.  But he's almost 15 and is embarrassed to cry in front of his mom.  I expect it will come tonight, but for now I ask him if he wants me to leave to which he replies, "yes" and so I respect him enough to walk away instead of wrapping myself around him like I want to do.

11:00am - I go out to the fridge in the garage and manage to pinch my finger between the freezer and fridge door.  I yell, "Damn!" and then absolutely lose it.  I sob.  It's a recognizable sob that I haven't felt in years.  It comes from a place in my heart where grief resides.  It is the same sob I cried when the realization hit me, just days before my mom died, that I would never hear her voice again.  It is guttural and painful and comes from the cracks inside my heart.  Lexa, our youngest cat, comes through the cat door and tries to comfort me.  She hates when anyone in the family is emotional.  Thus, she has done a lot of comforting me over the years.

11:30am - Christopher has been awake for a bit, but I'm procrastinating on talking to him.  Ultimately, he comes downstairs.  I am sitting at the kitchen table.  I ask him to come sit with me.  The tears immediately start welling up in his eyes.  He knows what's coming.  We talk for quite a while.  We both cry.  He is wise beyond his years.  And so incredibly compassionate.  

12:00pm - I find myself in a weird surreal place where I am on Amazon searching for cat urns.  Amazon really does sell everything.

12:30pm - I finally muster up enough strength to take a shower.  It seems like too much energy as the anticipatory grief is sucking every last ounce of energy stores out of me.

1:15pm - I slowly pick up Luna from the floor and move her to Christopher's bed.  She immediately snuggles in.  She doesn't have the ability to jump up there anymore (she was always such an amazing jumper).  She came down last night to try and use the litter box we moved upstairs for her, but instead she went on the floor.  I know that has to be devastating for her because she has always been an incredibly clean cat.  As I move her, she smells my fingers.  I had just made a turkey sandwich for Christopher.  I run downstairs and grab some turkey and bring some to her.  She eats a bite or two.  It feels like her last meal.  Christopher and I look at each other and start to cry again.

2:00pm - I head to the grocery store.  Feeling odd to be running errands during Luna's last hours.  But we need comfort food...and wine...I need wine.  I hadn't had an alcoholic drink in about 10 years before my mom got sick.  Then wine and I became reacquainted   It's a crutch, I know.  But it's one I appreciate now and then with the stress in my life.  

2:30pm - While in the grocery store, I begin to cry in the cat food aisle when I realize I won't be buying Luna's favorite snacks ever again.  I loved our morning ritual when she would run downstairs and I would say, "Where are the snacks, Luna?" and she would lead me directly to the pantry.  I know it's these little things that will hit me a lot over the coming days and weeks.

3:00pm - I arrive home and I sit in my car in the driveway.  And I cry.  I look up at my windows and know I'll never see Luna waiting for us again.  

3:30pm - Christopher comes downstairs to talk to me.  As he is walking away to head back upstairs, I say, "Hey...come give me a hug".  I knew it's what he needed and he nearly runs into my arms and he sobs.  The same sob I cried in the garage this morning.  But it's his first time.  It's even more painful to hear it come out of him than it is to experience it myself.

4:15pm - 2 hours and 15 minutes.  That's what's left of Luna's life.  I'm sick with anticipation.  I want to call the vet and say, "Don't come.  Please, please don't come."  But I know I can't.  I pet Luna and tell her how much I love her for the hundredth time in the past few days.  

4:30pm - Christopher runs downstairs and tells me that Luna just fell off of his bed.  I run upstairs, she is lying on the floor.  He said she looked like she was trying to jump off and just lost her balance and landed on her back.  Christopher and I sit with her on the floor and cry.  This is hell.  But another reminder that we are doing the right thing.  This needs to end for all of us, but especially Luna.  I find it mildly ironic that I received an early morning call from my dad's assisted living community this morning informing me that when the nurse arrived to give my dad his 8:00am meds, they found him on the floor next to his bed.  He had fallen out of bed overnight and couldn't get up and couldn't reach his pendant to call for help.  What a helpless and terrifying night it must have been for him.  My heart is aching and in the midst of the pain, I also feel numb.  

The rain pours again today.  This morning I stood outside in it as the warm, summer rain fell on me.  It's been a long while since we've had this kind of weather.  It felt soothing and cleansing and appropriate for a day like today.  All the windows are open in the house now.  I don't care if water comes inside.  It's as though the clouds and the heavens are crying for Luna too.  But also preparing to meet her and to welcome her.  I feel oddly separated from, and connected to, the universe at the same time.  

Lessons.  So many lessons.  I know the universe is calling me to listen.  To learn.  

I know I'm well into middle-age now.  I know the older I get, the more grief will visit me.  I recognize grief.  It is familiar to me.  It is similar to that old friend who only comes around every now and then, but you easily pick up right where you left off.  I know grief is my friend.  I know the growth that comes with grief.  And I know that grief never truly goes away...just evolves and comes back around when it's time to visit again.  Yet, that doesn't make it any less painful when it appears.  

I know that grief is always a risk in love.  But I want my boys to know that the risk of grief is not worth giving up on love.  I know that I would never feel this grief without immense love and for that I am grateful.  I am grateful to Luna for loving my boys the way she has which is now causing heartbreaking pain as they lose her.  But they will never, ever lose they love she gave them.  It is a gift they will carry forever. 

4:45pm - 1 hour and 45 minutes left.  It's too close. Anticipatory grief, who has been living with us for weeks now, is preparing to leave as grief itself arrives.  

5:15 - Olly is in the car on the way home.  The clock is my head is ticking loudly.  My hands are shaking.  My breathing is rapid.  There is such a heaviness in my heart.  This is the closest I've been to a panic attack in 8 years.  I've got it under control because I've done a LOT of work on panic.  But that isn't stopping the panic from trying to break through all the defense mechanisms I have developed to keep it out.  I'll beat this one though.  Panic doesn't get to win today.  I'll take the grief, but not the panic.

So, I clean.  I take out all the garbage.  I throw out all of Luna's meds, but not before taking a picture of all of them to remind myself how hard we fought.  I busy myself.

And then I swing by the upstairs bathroom.  Jonathan is just finishing up a shower.  Waiting outside the bathroom door is Luna.  For as long as I can remember, she has waited for him after his shower.  They had a ritual.  He puts the wet towel on the floor and she sits on it and they hang out.  She's always liked wet towels.  She hasn't been outside the bathroom door for the past 5 weeks.  But today, she is there.  She can't scratch on the door.  She can't call to him.  So, I let him know she is there.  He opens the door and she goes right in.  She is telling him good-bye.  There is no question that she is saying her good-byes.

And here come the tears again...

5:40pm - Luna's time is down to minutes instead of hours now.  The skies have opened up here.  It is dark and wet outside.  It is definitely appropriate.  The news says there could be a tornado.  Of course there could.  The world should be upside down today.  Tornadoes in places that don't get tornadoes.  Luna is leaving.  Everything is topsy-turvy.

I find myself walking around the house lighting candles.  Apparently you can take the girl out of the church, but you can't take the Catholic out of the girl.  It seems instinctive.

Texts are starting to come in from people letting me know we're being thought of.  It warms my heart and slows my breathing.  The loveliest sentiments are sent to me on my FB page.  The world is a good place.

5:45pm - I realize I'm dehydrated.  I've had no water all day.  I guzzle 24 oz of water and feel remarkably better.  I find my Star of Bethlehem flower essence (it "softens the impact of shock, grief or fright") and I take a vial full.  

And I breathe.  It's down to that.  One breath in, one breath out.  That's all that's required of me right now.

6pm - 30 minutes until the vet arrives.  We all seem to want to be near Luna now.  The way she looks at us tells me she understands.  My back is aching.  I've always carried my stress in my back.  Trying to relax and let go.

It's strange knowing the time someone is going to die.  I couldn't help but think about people on death row and what the day of their execution must be like for them.  It's the only thing I can think of that could be similar to knowing your time of death...as silly as the correlation is.  I have to say...if I ever thought I wanted to know when I was going to die...I definitely don't now.  

6:45 - The vet is here.  Breathe.  In.  Out.  Repeat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She's gone.  Luna is gone.  My heart is in little tiny pieces.  

Olly, Christopher and I were with her through the entire process.  There was no mask.  She went peacefully. The wonderful vet was so compassionate to Luna and us.  

Jonathan bravely chose to do things his way and stayed in his room.  At first apologizing until I assured him that he has every right to do this his way. I am incredibly proud of both of my boys for taking care of their hearts and making the right choices for themselves.  

And now grief is here.  Grief is living in my home for a while.  I didn't want this visit, but I welcome grief into my home as I know the lessons are important and enormous and powerful and necessary for myself and my family in different ways.  We all have a different path to walk through this process.  We will do it alone and we will do it together.  That's what families do.

Thank you to all of you who graciously held space for my family today and over the past several weeks.  Thank you to all the vets who were involved in Luna's care.  The past 5 weeks have been complete hell.  Now the healing begins.  It will be long.  It will be slow.  But we will heal.

Luna

When I sat down and started this blog, I originally envisioned a blog about Parkinson's and Caregiving.  I knew, of course, that some of the other aspects of my life would come out.  This is the blurb on the front page of the blog:

Steps in Silent Stillness is a blog about caregiving. It is a blog about Parkinson's disease. It is a blog about life transitions. It is a blog where I will share, vent, cry, rave and likely experience many different emotions. It is a blog about me and my dad and my family and my friends and my work. It is a blog about yet another life journey that I know others are on as well.

Well, here I am...in the middle of caregiving for my cat.  In the middle of another life transition as my family prepares to lose her.  And right now, I'm going to share, vent and cry, rave and definitely experience many different emotions.  This post is about me and my husband and my children and our current life journey.

This is Luna.  She is our CAT.  We have two other felines.  One who thinks she is a dog and one who thinks she is a human.  Luna has always been proud to be a cat.  She is quirky and silly and loving and aloof and everything a cat should be.

The bottom picture we have always called the "Luna Lay".  It is often with both front legs out as well and sometimes with the tail straight up in the air. 

She is our "middle child" cat.  She was added to our family five years ago when she was a year old.  The way she came to us is complicated, but suffice it to say, she was supposed to be ours from the beginning.  

She loves boys over girls.  She and I have always had sort of a distant relationship.  But we shared an enormous love for all the boys in the house and in that way we were connected.  However, in the past two weeks, she and I have bonded in a way only two females can do.  I understand her.  And she knows it.  

The above pictures make me smile and they make me sad.  This is not our Luna today.  She is gaunt.  She has no energy.  Occasionally, we still get a Luna Lay out of her, but not as often.  Most of the time she is sleeping or hiding out in a closet.  Too much stimulation bothers her.  

So, let me back up for a moment.  At the beginning of July, I started to notice a change in Luna.  She seemed sort of depressed.  Her normal routine had changed with the start of summer.  She's always been a creature of habit and I thought this was just an emotional reaction to the change.  But then things returned to more normal at the end of July, but no change in Luna and she seemed to be having a harder time eating.  Over the next couple of weeks, her weight loss became obvious and I made an appointment to take her into the vet on July 30th.  Luna hates being outside the house.  The car ride to the vet was terribly difficult on both Luna and me.  The vet kept her overnight which was also hard for all of us and after several different tests including an ultrasound, they found what they thought was the cause of everything.  Luna has a congenital defect that she has had since birth.  And we were referred to a surgeon.  

Olly and I had a moment of questioning whether we wanted to spend the money to do surgery, but it was a fleeting moment and we decided quickly that we were going to do what needed to be done for Luna.  She's only 6. She could have a long life ahead of her if this defect could be fixed.  

Luna and I met the absolutely wonderful surgeon on August 5th and he made it clear this is a rare defect in cats and that even if it could be fixed, there were many unknowns as to whether Luna could survive, but all the professionals believed it was in Luna's best interests to try as without the surgery she would certainly die.  And surgery was scheduled for August 8th.

Jonathan (almost 15) and Christopher (11) came with me the morning we dropped Luna off for surgery.  My stoic 15 year old began to cry and sobbed for an hour non-stop.  My 11 year old had been off and on in tears over this for days and this morning was no exception.  We busied ourselves during the day to keep our mind off the surgery.  At 12:45pm the surgeon called and said Luna was running a 105 degree fever they couldn't get down and we needed to figure out what was up before doing surgery.  And that night we brought Luna home with her 2nd round of antibiotics and a rescheduled surgery date of August 15th.

Luna was beginning to get frustrated with the meds.  You could see her fear every time Olly approached her.  It was heartbreaking for all of us but we believed it was all in Luna's best interests.

On the morning of the 15th, I took Luna in alone.  She was so very tired of her cat carrier and would bury herself under the towel I laid inside for her.  You couldn't even find her she buried herself so well.  I asked them to take her temp before dropping her off.  It was still a little high, but not as high as before and we all went about another day of waiting.  At 3:30pm, the surgeon called and I could hear he was upset.  He said Luna's fever spiked again and they ran some more tests to determine if she had some sort of infection.  I would need to go get her again and pick up new antibiotics.

Luna hated the new antibiotics and threw up the first two doses.  Back I went to the vet (on my own) to get something different.  By this time, the neurologist, the internal medicine staff, the surgery staff, the front desk staff all knew me.  They were incredibly compassionate to me and the situation we were all in.  I came home with new antibiotics and Olly gave Luna the one pill on Friday and Saturday night, each time with Luna becoming more combative.  On Sunday night she fought hard and hissed and tried to bite Olly which is completely out of character for her.  And in that moment...I knew she was done.  She was done with our games.  She was done with pills being shoved down her throat. She was done with me taking her temperature twice a day.  She looked at me and in her eyes I knew she was saying, "No more".  

And so, on Monday, we all talked and discussed the situation.  We made a decision that if the test results came back negative, that we would stop pushing things for Luna.  We would stop torturing her.  We would let her live the time she has left and we would simply love her.

Yesterday, I found out the tests were, indeed, negative.  Today I spoke to the surgeon who truly felt for our situation.  He believes that the congenital defect just happened to be found but that Luna's main problem is something even bigger that, so far, has been un-diagnosed.  "Un-diagnosed".  Wow...what a trigger that is for me.  My mom was diagnosed with "cancer of un-diagnosed origin" 4 1/2 years ago.  What's with "un-diagnosed" in my life?  Anyway, the surgeon is going to consult with internal medicine just to get their thoughts on what the options for next steps are, but he and discussed that as of this point, we feel it's in Luna's best interests to be home and let her die in peace surrounded by the love of her family and not on an operating table. 

And so here we are...living in this ridiculous world of anticipatory grief where I spent so much time 4 years ago when my mom was sick.  Yes, I am relating this grief to that of losing my mom.  Some of you may not understand it, but Luna is our family.  We are preparing to lose a family member and it is painful and heartbreaking.  My two boys are closer to this cat than they ever were to my mom.  This is the first time they are experiencing this pain.  And as a mother, it is devastating to watch knowing that I can't take away any of their pain.

But this pain is a lesson in love.  It is a lesson that says anytime you love, you risk the pain of losing that love in some way or another.  But the true lesson is that the potential pain does not mean we shouldn't love.  Luna has been LOVED for the past five years.  Unconditionally.  And she has given us so much love in return.  She knows she is loved.  And she knows she is leaving us.  And she knows we tried to help her.  And she is grateful to us for respecting her enough to stop.  In April of 2009, my mom told my dad, my brother and me, "no more chemo".  And it was heartbreaking and I wanted to beg her to reconsider.  But I saw what it did to her body and I saw what was in her eyes when she said "no more".  That's what I saw in Luna's eyes on Sunday night.  "No More".

My mom died too soon.  Luna is much too young to die.  And yet, sometimes, this is how life works.  And what we have to know is that the love that was exchanged while the one we loved was here is what was most important.  

Things are hard in my home right now.  We are all walking on pins and needles.  Many tears have been shed.  We are taking it one day at a time.  And the irony of how much grief counseling I do in my job is not lost on me.  I understand grief.  It doesn't mean I like going through it.  I know that this is a valuable life lesson for my children.  But I wish they didn't have to have it. I know the pain we all feel is for ourselves and what we will miss when Luna is gone.  But all the rational talk doesn't ease the pain in my heart.  What I do know is that we don't talk about grief enough.  Grief over losing important people in our life.  Grief over losing animals.  Grief over losing a home or a job.  There are many different kinds of grief and we rarely talk about any of it.  Grief is painful and people would like to ignore pain.  But it is part of life.  

My family is in pain right now.  We will get through it.  But I won't keep silent about it.  By sharing Luna and our impending loss of her, I honor her importance in our lives.  And oh how important she has been.  There are many tough days ahead, but we'll take one step at a time.  And we'll love Luna, and love each other, along the way.  Because although there is less loss without love, love is also what gets us through loss.  Life is meaningless without love.  Through our loss, our love will not diminish.  Instead, it will grow, as our hearts expand to carry Luna in them for the rest of our lives.