I'll Be Looking At The Moon But I'll be Seeing You

Pepsi in her glory

Dear Pepsi,

This the letter I dreaded writing. After two very difficult days of rapid deterioration, I took your cues and helped you enter a more peaceful place. In doing so I ended this part of our journey together, though I feel you every minute of every day and know you are watching out for me. You are and always will be my guardian angel. They said I would know and though I wondered and questioned myself as we rolled with your ups and downs, it was clear you were ready, and far too tired to carry on in this life. You looked up at me with a pleading in your eyes as you refused food, had a hard time walking and every breath felt like an effort. You often stared into space, as if your body remained on my behalf but your transition had already begun. I slept on the floor with you for two nights. You were unable to get comfortable; however, it was as if you saw my exhaustion and despite your pain, you fell asleep for three hours so I could get some rest. I woke Friday morning and knew you could not go on any longer, not even for my sake. I called the vet and gave them a heads up. Erica stopped by on her way to work to say farewell and Anne came to help me get you in the car. She drove so I could sit with you in the back. It felt surreal and right at the same time.

Pepsi being carried into the hospital

I tried to keep you going until Dad got here on Monday, or even Rena on Saturday. They understood and told me to do what was best for you. It took all my love and strength to help you make this transition. The staff was very kind and laid a quilt on the floor for you. They explained the process and asked my permission before putting in the IV. Everyone at the clinic has come to love you and were very sad. They put a sparkly pink bandage on your paw, a diva until the end. Anne took video and then we called Rena on FaceTime so she could be with us. Once the doctor injected the medicine you closed your eyes and went right to sleep. You seemed so peaceful. After you went to sleep they left me with you so we could have some time together. I held you, told you how much I love you and would miss you. I called Dad and we actually started laughing about how after you came into our lives I let you have the run of the house. I spent thousands of dollars a few years earlier updating the house and was strict with people about taking off shoes before they entered and cleaning up after themselves. You managed to undo most of that - chewing sheetrock, wood on the banister, the furniture and pulling rug threads. You caused me to relax my rigid and often unreasonable expectations that drove people crazy. After all it was always about you. Dr. Wolff and the vet tech came back in and as I shared Pepsi stories, often humorous ones, Dr. Wolff and I caressed you. I felt as if you heard us and we helped your spirit elevate. I cut some of your fur and put it in a baggie. I touched you one final time and forced myself to leave, walking out the door of the examination room and into life without you. 

A more peaceful place

Kissing goodbye - for now

When I got home Pearl waited for you to come through the door. The house was quiet. I walked over to your pink fleece jacket and hugged it close to my chest, inhaling your smell. I stood in the kitchen and sobbed. Your medications covered the window sill. Traces of you everywhere. Your absent presence is felt in every corner of the house. Part me expects you to prance into the room or lay beside me in your typical spot near my pillow. After being so vigilant for six weeks it was odd not to check on you every few minutes. I felt at a loss and your sisters looked at me as if to say What do we do now? Beats me I thought. My eyes hurt from crying and I was exhausted after running on fumes for several days; however, I made a plan for the day. For starters I wanted to get two frames, one for the painting Karen gave us and another for the painting I made of you and Pearl when we lived in Austin. After the frame shop I decided we needed a trip to Higgins Beach to pay tribute to you at sunset. Before we left Jeanette came over with flowers and a card. We sat at the island in the kitchen drinking tea as I recounted Pepsi stories between laughing and crying. We spoke of loss and love, how deep the connection to our pet babies is. After Jeanette left I wondered how I and my aching heart would manage without you. 

Pepsi and Pearl

Portrait of Pepsi and Mom over my desk

Your loss so soon after my mom's death feels like a one-two punch. Tending to you caused me to eliminate all but the essential. My perspective has been altered radically. The political situation has descended into madness after the election. The world feels upside down. I have strange thoughts about taking Pearl and Pandy to traverse back roads in search of awe in nature. Eat breakfast at cafes in small towns. Chat with strangers. Rent the house for a year, get a small camper and write and take photos. Think quietly with volumes of space around me. See if I can make sense of life without you to anchor me. What's the point of working so hard when the rug is pulled out from under you? I have been at it non stop since I started my doctoral program in 2009, you and Pearl by my side through school and then beginning my career as a professor in a new city. You and your sisters made weekly trips to the nursing home to visit my mom, which many of us believe added years and happiness to her life. Maybe this urge to bolt will pass, and then again maybe not. I love my work, community, house, and Maine; however, going though these past few months, particularly the last six weeks mostly on my own has caused me to question the basis of everything. Either way life without you has reshaped me and I am not certain what will evolve without you darling Peps, my bringer of joy.

Pearl looking for her sister

Your sisters under your watchful eye at sunset

We went to Higgins beach before the sun set to pay tribute to you. The tide was low, just as you like it. It was uncanny how Pearly paused and looked around, breaking her run several times. I know she was searching for you. Look up Pearly, I said, she is here, watching from above. In mind's eye I could see you fearlessly plow into the surf and turn to bark for me to throw the yellow tennis ball for you to fetch. There is no complete picture without you. I walked along the shore and called out your name at the top of my lungs with only the breaking waves to muffle my cries. I looked up to the sky ablaze with strokes of electric sunset hues and I swear Pepsi girl you were looking down at us, trying to assure me you will always be present no matter where we are. I know it was your earthly body that left and your spirit remains a force of love and protection. In that we will never be apart. I will continue to write and speak to you. I will hold you close and feel your presence swirl around me. You will continue to fill every moment with magnificence. You remain my bringer of joy. Over the past few days I have been humming lyrics from a Judy Collins song:

I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day

In everything that's bright and gay, I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new

I'll be looking at the moon but I'll be seeing you

We are far from done baby girl. You will continue to receive my letters. I will listen and watch for you. When your sisters run across the beach at low tide, you will be with us. In every sunset and sunrise. As Dad and I sleep you will lay between us. You will be the in our laughter and silence, in sadness and joy. I will take you on new adventures, whisper your name as I dive into the sea. When I asked you to never leave me I didn't realize you would honor my request, even if you were no longer physically present. As I gaze upward, it may seem I am looking at billowing puffs of clouds, bold streaks of color, or slices of the moon, but really baby girl, I'll be seeing you. 

I love you forever my darling Pepsi,

Mom 

Waiting For You To Live

Portrait of Pepsi and Mom commission for us by our dear friend Karen Anderson

Dear Pepsi,

It has ben a while since I wrote to you in this blog. I have been pretty exhausted with the frequent highs and lows, and as of the past week you have slowed down and become much more fragile. You had two serious bleeds last week, and after that you lost a lot of your spunk. You move slowly and often seemed disorientated. You don't entice Pearl to play or bring me your rope toy. I wish I knew what you are thinking and feeling. Last night was rough - you vomited so fiercely I thought I was loosing you then and there. I slept beside you in the bathroom, listening to your labored breathing. It was the first time you vomited, and we were both freaked out. Since then you have refused food; however you are drinking water and urinating, which is a good sign. Rena was here for a week, and she bought you a new pink fleece coat for our shortened walks, which is so you and diva like. You still enjoy people, wagging your tail and greeting friends and strangers, perking up when we go to the beach or the vet, even barking for treats so loud the doctors can hear you in the exam rooms.   

Pepsi looking at her reflection in the glass - admiring her new pink fleece coat. 

I am wracking my brain trying to know what is the best thing to do for you. I spend all my time with you other than when I am teaching. It is almost impossible for me to be here alone and still function at a basic level, which is really only leaving the house to go to class. After Dad left, we managed until Rena came. We had a nice quiet Thanksgiving, just Rena, Pearl, Pandy, Rena's doggie Picasso, you and me. We went to the beach several times, and one day you actually chased the ball and went into the water. The weekend after last, before your bleeds, it was so warm you romped in the water like always, as if nothing had changed. That's what makes this so confounding. However, since last week, I can see how tired you are. We went to see Dr. Stuer yesterday and he confirmed you are weaker overall, though after acupuncture you seemed visibly better. She's not ready to go yet he said, if she were I would tell you. I keep looking into your eyes, hoping you will make it clear but every time I think I know, I feel more and more perplexed. Several times a day I am ready to throw in the towel and then you light up, wag your tail, and show me it is not quite time yet. I only want what is best for you; however the thought of loosing you feels too much to bear.

Rena, Mom and Pepsi at Higgins Beach

I know the time for you to leave me is drawing near. Sometimes I bury my face into your coat of blonde fur and weep. I whisper how much I love you as I hold you close. Since October 20th, nearly 6 weeks ago, my life has revolved around you. Your cancer has reframed my perspective and existence. I have eliminated all but the essential, which turns out to be quite a bit. While some may think I am waiting for you to die, I see it as the opposite, I am living each moment with you as deeply as possible. I choose to think of it as waiting for you to live.  I wake up every day hoping you are still breathing, wagging your tail, and ready for a beach romp. Dr. Stuer asked me if I had any regrets, and without hesitation I said no, I am just tired. We both are, you especially. If you can hang in until Dad gets here Monday, that would be great, or even Saturday when Rena returns; however, it really is your call. No amount if time will ever be enough, even if you lived another five years.  I admit I am clinging but I can't get enough of you my girl. In the midst of all this sadness we have been showered with concern from our friends as well as strangers. Karen commissioned a portrait of us that captures the essence of our love. People are sending prayers and love from near and far, and we find ourselves in warm and caring conversations, particularly at Higgins Beach with other pet parents. I cry easily, and people are so kind to me. Today we met a woman who moved back home to care for her mother who has terminal cancer. She stroked you lovingly as she told her story. Another woman with a senior dog who we met during our last visit to Higgins joined us. She said she was thinking of us earlier that morning, and was so happy to find us on the beach. You attract love wherever you go Pepsi girl. 

Rapture at Higgins beach

I know it is not long now. Things are changing fast. You seem to be transitioning between worlds. gazing into space, seemingly confused but maybe not, perhaps you have already elevated to a place beyond my reach. I can't keep you here beyond your destiny but every day I am waiting for you to live. Until you can't.

Love you forever,

Mom  

Because I Still Have her

Because I still have her

I can make statements like Every day is a gift

She is still snuggling next to me in bed

Romping on the beach like a puppy

Bringing me the ball to toss

Popping up at the sound of her leash

Pawing her sister to play

Looking perfectly healthy most of the time

As if cancer is not eating her body

When she coughs up blood, drools, and pants excessively it’s another story

My entire being erupts in panic 

I become far less stoic

I grapple and fumble

for the right thing to do against my greed for her

There is an end in sight and no end at the same time

I don’t know quite what to make of it

because I am a holder on

And though grateful for every morning we wake up together

The truth is I am always begging for more

Because I still have her

We live in a dense and shifted reality

Amplified is what you might call it

Extracting joy and feeling moments deeply

What looms in the horizon has slowed me to a crawl  

Weed out the unnecessary

which is a lot when you actually start to do it

I stand still, gaze out windows, notice small details, consider my gestures

Pondering takes time  

I measure everything by her

Your life changes when your focus is whether breaths are being taken

And if they are, then you can fool yourself nothing has really changed nor will it

Not really

Because I still have her

I cannot choreograph this loss

When the boom is lowered

it will render me devastated and bewildered

I still feel my mother lurking around five months after her death

I think I have to go see her

I miss her and want her here again, stormy past and all

I don’t want Pepsi to leave me or live a life without her

All that empty space and hollow ground swallowing me up

There is no filling of a chasm that wide

Cavernous holes like moon craters covering my inner landscape   

Today, at least so far, I do not have to fall into it

Because I still have her

Life is a Beach

Mom and Pepsi at Higgins Beach

Dear Pepsi,

We woke up Thursday morning and you seemed off - you were panting, coughing and a bit sluggish. I looked at your dad asked him if we should take you to the hospital and he shook his head and said, "Why should we do that? We stopped the chemo, so there is nothing they will do. I want her home with us." I agreed, and then suggested we go to the beach since it was a beautiful day. We all piled in the car and headed to Higgins Beach, your favorite place. I typically take you to the beach when the tide is out so you have more beach to run and play on; however, the tide was nearly in and the surf was rolling in close to the sea wall. You and your sisters were so excited!  You dove into the waves, ran along the shore and frolicked like a puppy. Watching you is so confusing and deceptive, most of the time you appear so healthy, making the cancer diagnosis seem like a hoax.

Dad, Pearly, Pandy and Pepsi

When we got home you had one of your best days. Hardly coughing, energetic, and so happy. I went to teach in the afternoon while Dad stayed at home with you. We huddled together in the living room watching TV until it was time for bed. Dad was leaving the next day to go back to California to work for a few weeks. You slept between Dad and I as always, with us listening to you breathe, ready to soothe if you coughed, but you didn't. We agreed taking you to the beach was a must and should happen as often as possible.  The next day we worked around the house before we brought Dad to the bus. It was unseasonably warm, sunny and no wind. I worked in a tank top and Dad in a T-shirt. You and your sisters enjoyed lounging in the sun. The hard part was when we took Dad to the bus to Logan Airport. Dad bent down to kiss you, tears in his eyes, and whispered, "Hang in there for me Pepsi until I come back in a few weeks, please don't go anywhere until then." We stood on the side of the road as the bus drove away so he could see you as long as possible. 

Dad and Pepsi

Last night you slept in the guest room. I refrained from luring you into my bed. Before you got sick you often slept in there. I need to let you do things you enjoy doing without so much fretting. When you coughed I heard you, and came in to check if there was blood. That happened about three times total. We slept in - to 8am - and woke to another beautiful day. I checked the tides and decided we would go to the beach, just you and I this time. I did some cleaning and laundry, and then we left around 10:30 am.  We arrived at the beach to find another warm, windless day with the sun nearly blinding as it glistened on the sea. The beach was empty with the exception of die hard surfers and a few doggies strolling with their parents. I let you off leash and you made a beeline for the water. We walked at the water's edge, me in my water proof Muck boots and you diving in and out of the waves. I took lots of videos and pictures. I want to document every minute of you, make a permanent imprint in my heart that will never be erased. 

In your glory

Since you got sick I have slowed to a crawl, mostly homebound and focusing only on what is essential, which is teaching. When we go for walks I try never to yank your leash and move you along. We go slow so you can linger and smell all the interesting scents. I wonder why it took you getting sick for me to slow it down. Why was I rushing you when we walked anyway? What was so important I denied you the joy of exploring? Whatever I was rushing to seems trivial now. When we returned from the beach I raked up and bagged the last of the leaves. The afternoon sun gave the illusion of late spring, not fall. I put you on a leash (because you are a runner and you know it) and we sat on the front steps while your sisters stretched out on the lawn. We watched the world go by, which on a dead end street can be quite uneventful. A few neighbors walked by and visited; however, mostly we sat quietly as the few remaining leaves fell from the trees. I try to keep thoughts of cancer cells invading your body at bay; however, the weird reality of you being sick against your mostly healthy self is difficult to reconcile. We are a unit, it has been us against the world since we moved to Texas in 2009. We trekked across the country and back by car and plane. When I moved to Portland in September of 2013 to teach at the university, I rented a room for two months while I looked for a house. You stayed with Dad in California and I flew back every other weekend, thanks to Jonathan working for an airline. It was exhausting but I could not sustain without seeing you and your sisters. It took a few months to find the perfect house and neighborhood, and I lived here for 6 weeks before I came to California to drive you East. When we finally arrived at 3am and you bolted through the door, the house officially became home to me. 

Hanging out in the front yard

Though it was January, we began going to the beach right away and it became our ritual no matter what the weather. Wherever we lived, water has been our refuge, even in Texas at Walnut Creek Park where you swam in creek beds; however, nothing can compare to the ocean. You have crested waves in the Pacific, swam in the gentle San Pablo Bay near our Pinole house, and now you claim the Atlantic, swimming whether it is 13 or 80 degrees. I grew up going to the beach since I was a young child, it is the place of my best childhood memories. When I dive into a wave at nearly 60 years of age I still feel the delight of my 9 year old self. I have a strange little habit of dedicating the dive to those I love.  Of the three of you girls, you are the one who loves to swim the most, the first to tear into the surf and jump the waves. Pearl likes to chase birds, Pandy running in circles, and while they love to swim, you are the true water baby. When we walk the trail along the San Pablo Bay near our house in California, you always pull toward the path that leads to the bay beach no matter how long it has been since you have been there. I will never be at a beach without thinking of you, seeing you prance toward the water then plow fearlessly into the waves. I will see you at Muir Beach while I freeze in fear that you will get swallowed up by a huge wave, at China Camp where the water rolls gently onto the pebbled beach, your first visit to Stinson Beach when you got sick from swallowing too much water, and your beloved Higgins Beach, which will never be the same without you. 

Our life together has been a beach - wild, beautiful, sometimes rocky, joyful, soothing, full of unbroken blue, and part of an eternal rhythm. Moving forward, as I dive into a wave you will hear me say, This one is for you Pepsi girl, and through that I will bring you with me and we will never be apart. Never.

Love you my darling Peps,

Mom

Down But Not Out

Nap time with Mom and Dad

Dear Pepsi,

You are one tough girl. I thought we might loose you Sunday evening with all the blood you were coughing up. Dad rushed to get here on a red eye form California, Rena came late Monday, and Jonathan Tuesday morning. You showed us what you are made of and that it is not time yet. By the afternoon when we went to you oncology appointment you were perky and happy to be visiting everyone at the clinic. We had a long talk with Dr. Phillibert and we decided to discontinue the chemo treatment. The cancer is fast moving, and despite aggressive treatment, it has gone into your lungs. We are continuing the Yunnan Baiyo (life saver), herbs, and your holistic treatment. I know you have no idea what cancer is, or why you are being subjected to so many medical appointments and procedures; however,  you know something is up. You speak to me with your eyes, and while I know you are tired, I also know you are not ready to leave us. Not yet.  

Waiting for the family to get here

You get lots of rest. You cough but so far no more blood. Your energy spikes and you are ready to play with Pearl or your toys. You bark at dad while he eats, your appetite is normal and most of the time it is still hard to believe you are so sick. The deception makes it hard to consider the reality that you could leave us at any minute. It is cruel and unforgiving. I am doing my best to be in the moment with you, inhale your presence, and bask in your love. Tears fall, my heart is still slowing breaking; however, I am not ungrateful for the fact that you are still here. Dr. Phillibert talked about the roller coaster and how difficult and exhausting it is for all of us. I am drained of energy and go to sleep at 8:30pm most nights. I want to be home with you all the time. We all snuggle in bed and watch TV, read, and doze. I think about taking you to the beach but worry it will be too much. You start coughing when you get excited so I err on the side of caution. I am greedy for every minute with you because the truth is I cannot conceive of life without you. I happily shut the world out and retreat to our little cocoon. 

Napping with Dad

Outside of our little world there are big changes. You know nothing from elections and a new world order. Trust me when I say it is scary and ominous. Watching you fight and hang on against the odds is my inspiration and source of strength. You remind me of what is good in the world, what has always been good despite political upheaval, dictators, racism, and all other kinds of oppression. There is turbulence, yet being with you provides a stillness and connection to an eternal energy that transcends our mortality. You elevate me from the sadness I feel myself drowning in - about loosing you, the bleak prospects in the aftermath of this election, and a general sense of foreboding that is hard to avoid. I want to choose hope, identify an opening, no matter how visibly small the crack may be. You will leave such a void behind for me to grapple with. I want to assure you I will be fine but we both know that is not true. I will; however, take your goodness forward as best I can, put the capacity for love you have abundantly given me to good use.  You are my bringer of joy, of solace, laughter, and steady and loving companionship. You will never not be at my feet as I write and paint, when the surf rolls up catching us off guard, when I walk through the door on a tough day. I owe you so much. In these last hours, days, weeks or months - whatever I am fortunate to have - I will do whatever it is you need me to do. You'll let me know they said, and when you do, I promise to keep up my end of the bargain. Until then, let's celebrate every precious second. 

Love you Peps,

Mom

Never Can Say Goodbye

Dear Pepsi,

As I write this you are laying beside me, struggling to hold on. We have had some difficult days but also some great ones. We went to the beach, took lots walks, you snuggled in bed with Dad and I, played with your sister, and you rolled with me just about everywhere. The staff at Nordstrom's Rack went crazy over you and even posed for a picture. Last Monday we took you in the ER, and sure enough, your white cell count was very low and the tumor was bleeding. You were admitted and after fluids and antibiotics, you bounced back. A bump in the road your oncologist said. Overall the week was good - and we resumed your chemo pills. You saw your holistic vet, Dr Stuer, and while he said your vitals were not as strong, you still looked good and perky. I continued to maintain high alert status and I am sure you found me annoying as I listen to your breathing and stared into your eyes.

Saying goodbye to Daddy

  The staff at Nordstrom's Rack loving Pepsi 

The past day or so you have been coughing more frequently. I wondered if I should take you to ER last night. I hate to traumatize you with constant poking and prodding and unnecessary visits to the hospital. I doubt my ability to know when to take you in or leave you in peace at home. Today though I felt you slipping. I took you for a walk to the little park you like so much a few blocks away. You were lively and happy but the coughing became more frequent. I took you to the store with me and as soon as I got back in the car the severity of your coughing told me to head straight to ER. The doctor was a wonderful and kind women, she kissed and held you. While there was not another pericardial effusion, the chest x-ray showed the cancer had spread into your lungs and airwaves. You started coughing up large amounts of blood. The doctor said there is nothing to be done but give you love and comfort. And let you know it is OK for you to go. They said you would tell me when it is time and for the first time I am seeing it your eyes. You have fought a good fight. But you are tired.

I asked Sara, our neighbor and a Pastor, if she would come over and say a prayer for you tonight. She came and brought grace to us. Her words soothed us and gave us strength. You turned to look up at her.  Dad is on his way from California and will be here in the morning. I told him don't be mad if you can't hold on. He said he won't but hI hear the pleading in his voice for you to be waiting for him when he walks in the door. He wants to say goodbye but how do we do that? How do I let you go and live in this life without you? Every place in this house is filled by you. Higgins Beach is you. Riding shotgun is only for you. Three toy Peps is only you. There is too much vacancy without you, holes too deep to plunder and still be able to crawl out of. When my mom died this summer she waited until I got on a plane. Fifteen minutes after I landed they called to tell me she passed. I stood outside baggage claim trying to process her death. I felt frozen and confused. The world made no sense. I was with her the entire day before laying next to her in bed watching Netflix as she went in and out of sleep. I watched her chest go up and down and listened to her labored breathing as I am listening to yours now. In my head I know what's going on here but my heart is refusing to accept it.

Pepsi at Higgins Beach last week

Don't worry sweet girl, I will not let you linger in pain. Let's see of you can hold for Dad, but if not, we will be okay. It is nearly 11pm. I will sleep on the floor beside you, whisper how much I love you, and rather than goodbye, let's say goodnight. Sleep tight baby girl, mom is here, now and always.

I love you so much my darling Pepsi,

Mom

The Roller Coaster Ride Called Cancer

Daddy and Peps at the ER

Dear Pepsi,

I took a few days off from writing to you in the blog. Once your dad got here and I could share my mental high alert with someone, I slumped into a state of exhaustion. I wanted to stay in bed Tuesday morning, preferably for the entire day; however, I had to teach two classes and meet with students. At least I didn't have to drag you with me all day since your dad was here to stay home with you. Overall, he was impressed at how well you were doing, perky and ready for your walk at any minute. I went off to teach with the whole crew in bed, and when I came back it seemed no one had moved. Your dad worked four back to back shifts before he got on the plane so I knew you all would sleep in most the day and that's fine with me. All the students asked about you, disappointed you were not in class with me.

Snuggled together in bed

Everything seemed to be going so well until this afternoon. I was at the mural site finishing up an interview with a reporter and saw four missed calls from your dad. I called him back frantically and he told me you had coughed up blood. I jumped into the car and got home in under 10 minutes. You ran to greet me, which is better than the last time we rushed you to ER; however, nothing ever seems completely right anymore when it comes to you. Dad kept the paper towels with the blood to show the doctor, which scared me to look at them. Your holistic vet was at the desk when we bolted in and when I showed him the blood he said to put you through ER. You had no fever, no fluid around the heart, and heart rate was steady. When the doc wanted give you an anti nausea shot I felt paralyzed in making a decision. I asked her to check with your holistic vet, which she said she understood and went to consult with him. He had no problem with you getting the shot so I agreed. The problem is we are not sure if it was a cough or vomiting. In fact the vet could not really say what the problem was because it could be any number of things simple or complex. We got you home and you were drooling profusely. You ate the boiled chicken but not the pumpkin with your Chinese herbs. You seemed off to us and we debated about bringing you back to ER. After a while you bounced back a bit, no drooling and barking at your dad for his dinner. She's back, dad said, but in our hearts we know that's far from the truth.  

Riding home from ER in the front seat with Dad

I scolded myself for feeling too good about your tolerance of the chemo and letting myself venture back to "normal", whatever that is anymore. With your dad here I was able to go about my regular routine solo, and while I missed you, I had a brief glimpse of life as it was before you got sick. Last night your dad woke every 30 minutes or so to check your breathing. For the first time in a few weeks I slept deeply. I warned him he would need his strength during the day - high alert is stressful and exhausting. Your dad is keeping up a good front; however, his face betrays him and I see the strain and worry. He loves you so much baby girl, and being here by your side is all he wants. You are his heart.

Greeting Dad at the bus

As I walked out the door to bike to school, I was greeted by a shower of autumn leaves cascading from the trees. I stood on the lawn and looked up at the bursts of yellow, red and orange falling in slow motion. In that moment I felt the energy of earth swallow me up. It was both foreboding and ecstatic. I saw us though the years - California, Texas, Maine. Puppy, toddler dog and now senior. We are not bound in time or space, rather in synchrony without weight or care. I thought, you and I are in the leaves as they delicately carpet the ground, in the crisp air with no longer a trace of summer, in the dark quiet night that makes no promise for tomorrow. I feel you in all places and times - when we drove 22 hours straight to Austin, joyously swimming in the ocean on the West and East Coast, in late hours of the night while writing my dissertation when you refused to leave me in my office alone. Its been us for so long I don't know how to do life without you. 

My phone wallpaper since 2011

We will keep riding the roller coaster of good days and less good days like today. I will continue to look deeply into your eyes for you to tell me what you want. Everyone says I will know but honestly Peps I am full of self doubt when it comes to you. I am not one who lets go easily, which is my asset and liability. Talk to me girl I whispered as I pressed my face against yours. Your eyes were watering and breathing a bit labored. I shut my eyes and saw those falling leaves, thinking them to be a silent symphony serenading us in a sealed vacuum of time and space. There is no leaving or staying. There is only us. Before, after and always. 

Love you,

Mom