Five things about grief and moving forward in healing NOW!

The last time I posted was a year ago, on May 24. As I told someone recently, I haven't much felt the desire to write since Mom and Dad went on to their Heavenly home. Besides, most of my posts after they died were grief-filled downers or "boring" stuff about starting my new business, Tin Cats Antiques.  I didn't know what to do with myself anymore, so I couldn't write. I've been immobilized in my grief, plain and simple.

And, people, in general, stopped reading my blog. Readership when the blog was immensely popular consisted of wonderful, supportive fans of Mom and Dad, and friends kept up with their sad and painful journey through my writings, as well as the difficulties Kim and I faced in the caregiving process. We received so much support, I felt both overwhelmed and grateful.

My readership reflected exactly what happens with emotional support after someone you love dies: It died. I don't mean people stopped caring, I just mean people are people, and it's difficult to watch someone suffer and to believe you don't have the right words to say or to know how to help. We tend to turn away from that which makes us feel uncomfortable. That's just human.

So a couple of weeks ago. I posted an apology of sorts on Facebook about dredging up my grief again. It's anniversary time for Kim and me: Mom died three years ago on May 13, and Dad died three years ago today. I used to work with grieving people in my counseling career, and, of course, I saw people struggle hard when anniversary dates rolled around. It's just a well-known, given thing that happens to grieving people. Research supports it, as well.

And now I know it.

I apologized in my post because I don't want to wear people out with my stuff, but I posted anyway that, yes, it's anniversary time, and yes, I'm feeling it. (And for some reason, it's been worse this year than last.)

I received responses from friends I think I intuitively knew would come from my friends: "Don't apologize for your feelings." "Friends will be supportive, regardless."

That's true, of course. Totally true. True friends will be supportive, no matter where you are. I'll take it even a step further to say that probably if you find yourself grumbling in your head or wherever you grumble, "Get over it already" to anyone who is grieving, you might want to "unfriend" that person, both Facebook figuratively and Real-Life literally. Blunt, but true.

Five truths crystalized for me that day. Actually, they are absolutes I've learned about grief, grieving people, and friends of grieving people:

1. Grief never goes away. Ever. The pain can lessen, and then it can come right back and bite you unexpectedly. But the pain remains forever, and I would submit that the amount of pain is in direct proportion to how much love you have for the people (and pets) you lost.

2. We do not "get over" painful losses. As I was told by experienced others and now know to be true, we instead must learn how to live differently, without the loved ones in our lives.  Therefore, never tell a grieving person something like, "Don't you think it's time you moved on?" My response to anyone who would say that to me now is, "No, but I do think it's time I moved on from you."

3. No two people grieve alike; therefore, never tell someone how he or she should go about grieving. There's no right or wrong way, (although we do need to be mindful of getting stuck in unhealthy ways; that's a post for another time.)

4. Grieving people loved their lost ones so much that we want everyone else to love them that much, too. Seriously. We want you to know just how special and awesome they were. We want their lives to keep mattering, forever and ever. We want their legacies to live. Therefore, let us talk about the loved ones we've lost, as much as we want. And you can talk plenty about them, too. We desperately crave hearing your stories and memories about the people we've dearly loved. Do you find yourself annoyed by this or uncomfortable with it? Well ... you might want to rethink that "friendship" thing ...

5. There are no right words to say. Therefore, you don't have to avoid us out of fear of saying something wrong — except "get over it," of course. All you have to do is be there. Just listen. Just hug (or virtual hug). Just tell us you love us. Just tell us a favorite story about the ones who are gone. Check in every once in awhile. Just let us know you're thinking about us. And if you really think you have to have the right words, then the right words are these: "I don't know the right words. I just know I care about you, and I'm sad you are hurting right now."  It's not hard at all.

In addition to clarifying those five absolutes, something shifted positively within me when one of my mom's friends told me in those Facebook responses that my mom was very proud of my writing talent. My writing talent? Really? I thought I mostly practiced word vomit — at least that's been my style for the past three years.

And here's the coolest thing: On May 12 (the day before the anniversary of my mother's death), I was cleaning out the back house for an upcoming garage sale when I started rummaging through the two boxes of memorabilia, pictures, school assignments, essays, Little Dribbler's uniforms, report cards, calendars, artwork, BARBIES!, "Toddy" bear, my Audrey doll, letters and cards (email didn't exist then!) from family and friends — from birth through graduating with my bachelor's degree — that had been stored for years in my parents' attic. I found things that made me bawl hysterically, but I equally discovered things that made me laugh hysterically or smile with happy memories.

And again and again I read Hallmark cards from Mom and Dad signed, "We love you." "We're proud of you."

New ideas for blog posts started to flow that day, so I'm going to do my best to write again. I would like to honor my English teacher/Librarian mother's enjoyment of my writing.

I don't believe in coincidences. I believe that day I spent blanketed by memories, plus your supportive responses to my Facebook apology, edged me forward in my personal healing. That's just how it works, and that's why we cannot judge another person's grief journey.

Thank you for continuing with me on my journey. I hope you get something helpful from me now and then.

And I'm so grateful to report that the new ideas I gathered for future blog posts have little to do with debilitating grief. Thank you, God ... I think I get to move forward now.

A Fine Little Something About Grief

It's been five months since my last post. Mostly because every time I think about it, I think, "Who the hell cares?" So I don't write.

Perhaps that attitude is indicative of depression. Yeah, probably.

But here I am, and it's been exactly two years since Mom and Dad left us. That's how I feel: Left. They left us.

Left us.

I am selfish, yes, I know, but I miss them. You might think after two years, I might feel better. I can tell you that what is better are the memories. I think more about the good times than those awful, wretched months after Mom had that stroke and then Dad got sicker and then they both died.

So that's good. I don't think I could have gone on if I lived in the middle of that still.

The good memories make me smile. But those memories also make me miss them more. And that's why I feel left.

I understand it's not their fault. God chooses time of death and all that. But that doesn't change my feelings. So, yeah, they left us. All of us, not just me.

You see, it's still in the back of my mind how inconceivable it is that they are gone, because their influence is still everywhere. I guess in some comforting way, then, they are still here.

But it bugs the heck out of me that I can't see them or interact with them anymore. It makes me angry, in fact.

And I think, "God, why can't you let me see them together, just one more time, to see what they are doing with you and how they are feeling and what they are thinking? I don't think that's too much to ask."

So I will continue to wait.

In the meantime, I trudge along, still trying to find my way in this "retirement" type stage of my life. It's retirement because everything is part-time and on my own terms, mostly. I do the antiques, I craft, I listen to audio books, I take care of the house and the animals. And I sleep and rest a lot due to the chronic pain issues I face. That's a huge factor in my depression, not just grief. And living with chronic pain is a whole other post that maybe someone else who reads might relate to. So, I'll just shove that aside for now ... even though I can't really because at this moment, I hurt.

But I don't always just trudge. I skip sometimes, too, because that's life. Even in grief, good times happen. Lots of good times. I am grateful for those, and I think about those times, too.  So don't worry too much about this downer post. Keep in mind it is the anniversary of their deaths, so that counts a big something for my attitude.

I read a book recently in which one of the characters said, "You never really understand something unless it happens to you."

She didn't say "until it happens to you." She said unless.

Think about it. That's so true. There is no full comprehension about what anyone is ever going through. And that's how grief is. That is the one thing I have learned about it. It is my own grief to muddle through, just as your grief is your grief.

All we can do is try to love one another through it, without judging and without controlling.

So here I am, two years down the road to simply share that whatever you are grieving and however you are grieving it, that's fine. It's yours and you're doing it just fine. And if you don't feel like you're okay in your grief, then get help with it.

I have. And that is just ... fine.

Still just that little girl at the little red table

My new all-encompassing activity of life, from morning until night. Because that's how I do things.

When I was a kid, I sat for hours at the red aluminum child-size card table in one of the two matching red chairs, and colored, painted and drew for hours and hours and hours.

I recently reverted to that little girl when Dorsey surprised me with a "craft" table for Christmas. I actually got it about a week before Christmas, and I knew I was getting it, because Dorsey made it for me. I guess I was spending enough time making messes at the dining room table that something had to change. I've painted A LOT of wooden plaques with game boards, pineapples, sayings, saltbox houses, roosters and chickens ... And, really, where the heck am I supposed to put all of these things?

But that's beside the point. I love my new little red table! I've been spending most of my time at it. I keep thinking that if I spend enough time at artistic endeavors, like I did when I was young, I will get better and better. Maybe I can regain some of that talent I had as a kid. (You know ... if you don't use it, you lose it, right?)

Lisa has seen her sack, but not her gift!

Sadly, I struggle with the same monster that lived in my head as a child — the self-deprecating, mean, evil voice that criticized every effort at every turn. What wasn't good enough then still isn't good enough now. I find that horribly demoralizing, considering the fact that 50 isn't that far away.

I'm not quitting, though, because I still get satisfaction from making these craft table messes ... the same as I did when I was little. I know enough now to understand three things: One, practice will make me better; two, I don't have to listen; and three, depression makes it worse, but this, too, shall pass.

I didn't really know these things as a kid.

Since about the first of November, I've struggled horribly with depression, which is nothing new to me; I've battled it my entire life. It's made its ugly mark on me in countless, destructive ways. This bout is mentionable because it feels worse than usual. My body hurts. My head, my bones, my muscles, my joints, my nerves. Every finger, every toe. Every hair on my head. I've slept a lot ... or at least lounged in bed or on the couch. I've watched every cheesy Hallmark Christmas Movie. It's a good thing I have many pairs of pjs. It's a good day when I take a shower. It's even better if I do my hair and put on a little makeup. (I apologize to anyone I've seen in public. I just haven't given a flying flip, just in case you have. I still had to go to the grocery store and run odds-and-ends errands, whether I wanted to or not.)

It's a good thing I got the Christmas decorations up when I did; otherwise, they wouldn't have happened. For about three to four weeks, I've been relatively worthless in accomplishing anything.

The new little red table.

But I did manage to paint Christmas sacks for wrapping presents. Not all presents, but a few. It provided an interesting solace for me ... after I threw away the first 10 sacks I did. And when I looked at what was most likely number 11 when I saw it again on Christmas Eve, I wondered why I hadn't thrown that one away, either. But I have to admit I've liked some of my creations. I've even wondered whether when Dad died, he channeled his talents back to me? I truly believed I had lost whatever God had blessed me with.)

I had some fun with this one ... and then I almost threw it away.

Painting sacks got me through Christmas. I have to admit I felt the grief of not having my parents here this year even more than last. Maybe I was still in a fog last year? Or maybe I was preoccupied with all the activity I smothered myself in? Whatever ... I felt completely lost this year.

And I will admit that I became one of  millions of scammed Americans recently. I will not share details, but it was related to my antiques business. Almost $1,000 later, I have been left to trust that the FBI is doing something with my tiny, insignificant little report. Somehow, I truly do doubt anything will come of it. I doubt, too, that I will ever know. That, in itself, is depressing.

We also spent $1,000 at the vet's office last week when we learned my precious Jasper has the feline leukemia virus. I had to beat myself up for awhile when I thought I had lagged on kitty vaccinations, but that turned out to be untrue, so at least I could give myself a small break there.

And I'm struggling with other things I cannot control and, thus, must learn to put somewhere in a perspective with which I can live. So I might paint so many sacks I can make a few paper quilts ... I don't know ... because there's a lot of bad stuff going on in the world right now.

What the heck does one do with painted sacks? I know it's a cheap practice medium.
When I went to bed last night, I wanted to throw this sack away. But I woke up
this morning and kept painting dots. 

And as I name a few of these reasons, I need to be firm in saying ... I — and the millions of other people in this world who suffer from depression — don't need a reason to be depressed. I know my life is good. I KNOW THAT.

But that's not how depression ... the mental illness kind ... works. I just happen to have a few reasons to exacerbate the monster's attack. So, yes, I suppose this one does feel a little more powerful than usual.

... God bless all the paper sacks and little red tables in my life!

Stories preserve lives ... so tell them

Oh, how I miss you, Mom and Dad. 

Recently, I was thinking about what I should do with this blog. I started it in dealing with my aging and ill parents, and then it became about them ... and it became wildly popular with all of the people whose lives my parents touched. Writing this blog and hearing the stories about my parents and the people who loved them gave me peace and even joy during that most difficult time of my life. I got to tell my parents' story(s), through me and through those who shared their own memories of my parents.

The single most important thing to me at that time was preserving my mom and dad. I could not bear the thought of their lives ending. I couldn't stand that what was so central to my life was about to be over or, worse, forgotten. I thought that if I could tell and share and hear their stories ... and get it all in writing ... I could save them. I could keep Mom and Dad alive forever.

That's how stories work, right?

To me, nothing in this world is more important than preserving, sharing, respecting and remembering peoples' stories ... their lives. That's all we have — stories. And every story is important. Every story matters. The tears, the joys, the losses, the failures, and the ultimate triumphs. Every person's story shares those same elements. Every life has enjoyed and endured those things. Our stories connect us to one another, from generation to generation to generation ... and they should be told.

Many are, thankfully, and that's how we are blessed with the books and movies we love so much. Of course, true stories of real people come alive in books and movies, but even fiction is based in fact. And every fictional character represents someone real.

So during that time of caring for my parents and subsequently writing posts for this blog, I preached that people should start gathering, saving, writing down ... everything possible ... those things that represented the lives of those important to them, especially for the older folks. I still believe this is a most important task and encourage all who can to do so for their loved ones ... and for themselves. I'm glad to say my kids and future grandkids will get to hear and see lots of stories about Jim and Nicki.

Clearly, my mother valued stories, as well. (She was quite the reader and book lover ... and had her master's degree in library science.) In 2007, she started a blog — Reflections on the Way We Were: Childress High School Class of 1963, that ran for several years. She and her classmates reflected on their lives and history. They shared their current lives with one another, as well. Those writings for all those years in that blog and the subsequent blogs along the way contain valuable history and stories about those people, as well as a ton of wisdom and insight! (Check out the "1968" post.)

How awesome is that!?

On Thanksgiving this year, Jennifer Johnston, one of my mother's classmates who wrote and administered the blogs with my mom, sent me a memory my mother had shared in the comments of one of the posts. Mom wrote about what Jordie and Cole were thankful for at that time in their very young lives, and, of course, it was cute. Jordie and Cole gave my parents so much joy.

I cried, of course. I shed tears of loss, but also of gratefulness. Tears that needed sharing in my still very raw grief. (I'm beginning to wonder whether it will ever end ... )

Jennifer has decided to close out those special blogs. They will still be available for anyone to read and/or stumble upon someday, but she is writing an "ending" that proves to be more central and uplifting than what has seemed lately like an endless line of obituaries for their class of 1963. I mean, really, how depressing is that? Jennifer is doing the right thing. Our lives are more than the endings!

I am so very grateful my mother had the foresight to create those blogs! She and those who shared of themselves and their memories helped preserve lives and history. She and they have given me and others stories. Of real people. Of real lives. Of real sorrows. Of real triumphs.

And, who knows? Maybe someone will come across those blogs dedicated to that small and special Childress Class of 1963 and transform the tales into something others might someday enjoy on a big movie screen. Why not? How else do stories come to life for all to enjoy and relate?

It's certainly something to ponder. And, again, please consider the task of preserving the lives of you and your loved ones ...

As for this blog ... I still don't know.

I'm just thankful for all the stories that get me through everyday life and connect me to you. Grief certainly makes life lonely sometimes.

Puppy Land

It just doesn't get much better

Dorsey and I were out on our usual morning walk with Indy this morning, and we came to the conclusion that after much heartache, and then after much questioning about whether we had done the right thing in bringing new puppies into Indy's life, everything is all good again.

Indy is back to his old, playful self. At the ripe old age of 8, Indy never had grown out of puppyhood. But when Koda died, his spirit seemed to, also. We've done everything we could think of to revive him. All the love and attention and special treats and walks and grooming and whatever Indy's little heart desired didn't give us back Indy's happy disposition.

As you know, we brought Emma and Max into the pack. For a while now, we haven't been so sure this was the right move for Indy. He's been nothing short of a grumpy old man.

But we labored on ... until we finally realized that not only was Indy playing with the pups, he was instigating play sessions. (I have video to prove it.) 

For a good week now, we have noticed a lightness to his step on the walks, a smile and brightness in his eyes and true enjoyment and desire to be with the puppies. 

That could not make us happier. Now we have three amazing puppies. Life is crazy and hectic in our house, but it certainly is fun and lively! 

I hope Indy will be around many more years with us now. :-)

Never a dull moment, part one

Emma Rose

This little beauty came to live with us last Friday. She's now 10 weeks old, and we chose to name her Emma Rose because she's so pretty. And, yes, she's as sweet as her face looks.

Seal Pup

Two toys for Emma

When we first decided to get a puppy, I thought we should get a male and female from the same litter. I wanted to have two puppies because I never, if we can avoid it, want another doggy to go through the horrible grief that Indy has suffered since we lost Koda. (And just as Indy grieved, Koda grieved when Buffett died. That, too, was awful.)

For eight years, Indy had Koda. She was his girl, and that was clear. They had 10 gorgeous puppies together. When Koda died, he changed. The puppy in him left, for the most part. He stopped eating. He moped.

We showered him with love and attention and have continued to take him on two walks a day. He loves his walks, and he seems to enjoy the extra attention he gets from us.

But he's not the same. (I get it, Indy, I do.)

Several people told us that sometimes, getting another dog breathes new life into the dog left behind. We decided to try it, but like I said ... I wanted two to avoid the terrible awful.

I thought I had found my brother and sister puppies, but it turns out those people were scammers. (No puppies; they just wanted deposit money. Jerks. I turned them in to Craig's List.)

Everywhere else I looked, there was only a male, or a female, or two males. We thought getting two males from a Waco litter would be OK, but Dorsey wasn't so sure. He wanted to meet the doggies first, but he was going out of town. And I knew deep down, he wanted another little girl dog.

So, I took a chance and went back to the people who had the one female left (kinda pricey, so I passed her up at first).

I sent Dorsey her picture ... he was upstairs and I was downstairs.

All of a sudden I hear him shout, "OH! She's so BEAUTIFUL!"

So, I said, "You want her without meeting her, don't you?"

The answer was yes, and so little Emma became our puppy that day. She came from a litter in Lubbock, and the owners met us in Plainview.

It's been so much fun since then. Indy has been unsure, but he's coming around and seems to enjoy her when she's not nipping at his face. (The cats are horrified, and Allie hasn't figured out that if she doesn't run, the puppy can't chase her.)

He's already teaching her bad habits. Koda never ran through sprinklers or stuck her face at the base of one while it was on. Emma is following in Indy's paw prints. 

See? He's coming around.

Still ... having only Emma doesn't take care of my concern of future unbearable grief for the doggy left behind.

So puppy No. 2 — a male from Oklahoma — is joining us July 1. He will be eight weeks. We figure that someday in the future ... way future ... we will breed them.

Our job for now is to make sure Indy stays No. 1 Dog and Pack Leader. We will continue to give him "Indy Only" time with us. And maybe the puppies will play with each other, rather than nip at and annoy Indy?

We shall see as the adventure continues ...

While we can never replace Koda and don't want to, we know life can be great moving forward ... for both Indy and us. As long as things work out, the plan for us after experiencing Indy's terrible grief is to have three dogs at a time. It might be extra work, but I think it will be worth it.

To be continued ...

She's so amazingly cute!

When crying is inconvenient ...

Hold me, Mama. I'll make you feel better. — Socks

Sometimes when I wait too long to post, those things that mattered to me at the time don't seem important anymore ... either because it takes too much energy to remember it all like it was and how it felt, or because I can't even remember anymore.

So first things first: I'm sitting right in the middle of the anniversary of my parents' deaths. Mom died May 13 last year, and Dad died May 23.

I feel as though I've been on a roller coaster of inexplicable emotions. I'm happy one minute ... on top of the world with all the possibilities, and then I'm bawling the next. I'll smile at happy memories, and then I'll cry when I think of the last several months of my parents' lives. I still feel angry when I picture my parents doing the normal things they did, and then realize they aren't here anymore. I continue to think, "This isn't the way it was supposed to be." Every day holds something in it that belongs to my parents. Every day.

Mostly, though, I find myself just being irritable ... unless I'm being distracted with activities, such as cleaning, redecorating, watching Jordie's baseball games, traveling, listening to audiobooks on the road, watching HGTV, or as it has been a lot lately, hanging out with my sister.

The anniversary week of my mom's death, I spent several days at Kim's. We ran errands, got our nails and toes done, went to eat several times, and hung out with Kim's other "sister" Melissa. Then I spent last week, up until yesterday, with Kim in Hutchinson, Kan., to watch Jordie and his team play baseball. We watched games, wandered through downtown, found neat little local eateries and took Jordie out to eat. (Hutchinson isn't a bad little place!)

I've found, however, that these distractions only postpone reality. When not engaged in distractions, I'm truly awful.

The fact is, it would be easier to just cry and cry and cry and cry ... except it's never convenient to do that. Being around people and crying is uncomfortable for everyone, including me; crying in the car makes seeing and concentrating difficult; even crying in front of pets seems to make the pets uncomfortable. Crying also gives me a massive headache. The day before Mother's Day, I went to the cemetery and spent a couple of hours ... I sat for quite awhile, but only after I cleaned the bird crap off the headstone and pulled all the dandelions from their burial plots. (I suppose I should go again soon, just for the sake of upkeep.) I cried for Mom. I cried for Dad. I cried for Koda. And my head hurt for two days after that visit.

Crying is inconvenient, painful and unwanted. Period.

So here I am today, plodding through each activity and making lists of things I need to accomplish in the upcoming days and weeks. I put one foot in front of the other, with some footsteps more graceful than others.

That's just how it goes, and today isn't all that graceful.

The Great Sadness

If you have read the book, "The Shack," by Paul Young, you probably recognize the phrase "The Great Sadness."

It's what the main character called the feeling that enveloped his whole being after the disappearance and murder of his young daughter.

Yes, he continued to go through life, but he felt as if he were going through the motions. The Great Sadness overshadowed every part of his life. Joy eluded him.

I feel that way now.

And I don't think there's anything more to say.

One year is just around the corner ...

Since my parents died close to a year ago now, I sometimes feel like all I am is a downer when it comes to discussing this whole grief ordeal. Yes, there have been some really great times during the past year ... got to go to Sandpoint, ID, and to Curacao, and I started my Tin Cats Antiques business.

All of that has been great, and the business has been the perfect distraction from my emotional reality.

But, honestly, since about Thanksgiving or a little before, I have struggled. I got a little break from constant sadness when getting ready for Round Top, and then during Round Top ... but then a man from Santa Fe visited with us for a long time at our booth ... and the man looked like my dad in the eyes. I swear we could have been talking to my dad! 

After that, I had difficulty concentrating, especially during the last two days of the show when it was so slow, and because I was sooooo drained. I hadn't had much time to myself, so I felt pretty crowded and overwhelmed.

For a week after Round Top, my days were a flurry and a mess. I had to get my financial stuff straight, figure out where to store furniture our house can't handle, and get some much-needed things done around the house.

Everything is in order now. Dorsey started his new job TODAY! (We've known about it since the day we left for Round Top — thank you, Jesus.) Finances are in order. Taxes are filed. The garage is fixed and painted (Dorsey did it), insurance policies have changed, health insurance is taken care of, pets are all good, the inside of the house is all painted and caught up, the trailer for hauling antiques is bought, Jordie is having a phenomenal baseball season and I'm getting to go to all the games ... 

And here we are. Almost all caught up. 

Mom and Dad with Jordie in May of 2013. Yes, we knew Dad had cancer, and yes, Mom had just had a "small" stroke. Still ... all was well. 

So today, with Dorsey away on his first day on the job (in Tampa — we stay in Amarillo), my parents' deaths hit me like a hurricane, reminding me that distractions only work for a little while. Only a little while. There is no escape from grief. None.

So what happened today to set me off? My usual walk with Indy when I tell God I'm all messed up and confused and disordered, and I don't know where to turn or what to do. And then Jordie texted me that he will be pitching on Friday — his 21st birthday. — and my first thought is, "I need to call Dad!" 

Whoops.

Dammit! (No, Jordie, it's not your fault. It's life.)

And here I am again. 

I know this grief thing is forever. 

I know it is. I will never NOT miss my parents. I will never stop wanting to see them again. I will never stop hoping for the evasive visit from the heavens ... 

But I'm truly counting on the words of my friends before me who say that someday, the memories and thoughts will be more pleasant than painful.

I  need that to be true. 

It's only been almost a year ... I don't think I can last another 30-40 years otherwise ... 

Lord, have mercy.

Saddest but best lesson learned about grief support

Sadly, I have reached the age when others in my age range also are losing their parents. It's just the cycle of life, I know.

But that doesn't make it any better or even OK.  I have discovered in the two years of watching my parents suffer and then pass that not much is harder than this process. Not much rivals the difficulty and the grief of becoming an orphan, even at the ripe old age of 46. I believe I have said this before, but there is something childlike in all of us that reappears strongly when we lose our parents.

We always want and need our parents. If the relationship has been a loving and healthy one — even with the typical dysfunctions — or if the relationship was estranged or strained, we want our parents. We either want what we had, or we want what we always wanted to have in a parent.

It makes no difference, so I will say it again: Losing your parents is difficult, no matter what. I have learned much, changed much, hurt much, grieved much and continue in all these matters. I will never be the same.

I am writing this particular post because I need to share something that has been on my heart since Day 1, pretty much. I have often hesitated to write it, fearing it might sound bitter. I hope this one doesn't come across that way.

I now know that when my classmates and school friends — people with whom I once was close or spent much time with in school, sports, work or church — lost parents or a parent at far earlier ages than I did must have been as hurt by me as I have been by some of my former associates.

Here's why: I didn't "get it." I didn't understand the devastation of losing parents. I didn't consider that all support, any support from others but especially people they might have expected to respond in such a time would be and was eternally appreciated.

I failed to be a friend in several of my friends' lives, and for that, I will be forever regretful. If they noticed my absence, I am so sorry ... much more sorry than they might know, because now I do get it.

I hope to someday, maybe soon, make it right with those people who come to my mind immediately. And I know that besides those, God will make aware to me whomever else deserves an amends.

I realize there are all kinds of reasons people fail to attend funerals: conflicts, they live too far away, can't bear funerals, they were out of town, they didn't know until after the fact.  I've had all of those reasons myself. Some are quite legitimate, but really, we can generally work around most.

While attending a funeral for a friend truly might be out of the question, never is there an excuse for not offering condolences or a kind word. Ever.

I'm not sure I failed in that, but probably I did, being human and all. If I did, I will do my best to make that right, as well.

I have so much appreciated all the love and support and kindness people have shown me during this time. People came out of the woodwork! People I didn't know. People I had lost contact with. Even people I knew don't care that much for me. Just people everywhere. That is the best feeling in the world. It's also so important during the early grieving process, and especially as the grieving continues and peoples' lives go on.

Remember that. Let's try to be there for our friends and associates. A kind word and the smallest gestures travel miles.  Attending funerals in support of families and in remembrance of the one who has passed is ... I have no words for that ... Let's just do it if we can.

Change change change change change ...

Yep, here I am sitting in the middle of the utility room floor, painting.
I'm trying to accommodate for our cats. That old carpet had to go!
I need something I can easily clean!!

Mom and Dad's house is scheduled to close this week or next. We had offers on it within a day of it going on the market. I really didn't expect that, but I suppose that's good if it's time. Obviously, it is. The house is going to what appears to be a nice young family who will bring life to this house my parents loved. (Thank you, God. And you know the funny thing? The husband of the family owns a lawn business. My parents adored and doted on — built — that backyard. I just know this family will make it even better. And Mom and Dad would be so happy.)

Selling our parents' house is the last big thing for Kim and me to do with their "things." As we have checked off each of these tasks, I have surprisingly found myself in deeper depression than in relief. There's finality in all of this. There's the absolute, "They aren't coming back!" in all of this. (I certainly understand why some people put these estate things on the back burner for years. Kim and I are just extremely task-oriented, and well ... property taxes aren't fun to pay, especially when they're for no good cause.)

New cabinet for the newly-redecorated Jordie room — which was once Hart's room.

I continue think to myself, "It wasn't suppose to be like this."

Because it wasn't. Not in my child-like mind. Sure, most people assume they will outlive their parents (and that's how it should be, for the sake of our parents), but when it happens, it's a huuuuuuuge shock. I mean, Mom and Dad should always be there, right?

So, here I am, in the remaining days of wrapping up Mom and Dad's estate, and taking care of my own.

The former Jordie/Hart bedroom is in the process of becoming a guest room.
I have repainted furniture (from my grandparents' that my mom repainted for Hart's room).
When it's all said and done, I'll share some pics.

Although I always knew this, the notion that I don't have control over much in my life finally began to sink in about three years ago.  This became more and more clear as my parents became ill and then passed. Life last year became a matter of "do what you gotta do today," and that was absolutely it.

Here we go again.

You know if you've followed my life/blog recently that Dorsey was laid off from his job a little more than a month ago. This is scary stuff. Yeah, I know God has the solution all worked out and it's all good. That doesn't mean I always appreciate God's timing. I'm like, "C'mon, God. I know you've got this, but can we have this joblessness thing end sooner rather than later? Thanks!"

The truth is, we don't know where Dorsey will end up, job-wise. Yes, I'm finally willing to move from Amarillo. But I don't want to. It's not necessarily Amarillo itself. I mean, Amarillo is what it is. It's my home, good and bad. So you know what that means ... But it's home.

And I love my house ... my home for the last 14 years. I'm finally getting it into the shape I want it to be in ... the shape that matches the things we have, plus our style. I'm finally furnishing and making this house exactly how I've imagined for a very long time. (OK, yeah, I have even bigger picture ideas, but let's start small.)

And now, we might (likely) have to move, just to follow a job that will insure our livelihoods for at least a little while longer.

Such irony.

All this stuff I'm doing now — the ONLY things I have control over each day — is either for us or for whomever buys this house in the event we are forced to move from Amarillo.

Oh, the metaphors for life and homes and houses and all that ...

Everything but the grief

The garage sale at our house to let go of more of our parents' things went well. I'm still shocked by the amount left over.

So I will say it again: Every year, I'm going through our things and ridding us of whatever we don't use or enjoy anymore.  I told that to anyone and everyone at the garage sale who would listen.

I decided to keep a few more of my parents' things ... chairs that go so well in our living room (so we sold a love seat), some small fiesta dishes and a little dish "thingy" my mom bought years ago from the ABC Catalog. That bowl set is symbolic of the many, many, many Mexican Pile-on dinners we had at my parents' house. It just has to stay in the family and carry on with its beloved duties, I guess.

Today we boxed up and delivered the rest of the things to Downtown Women's Center.

It's over. That's over. (I hate garage sales, and people sometimes simply make me go ... "hmmm.")

Kim and I accepted an offer on my parents' house. It appears that if all goes as planned, that will be over in mid March. I cried when accepting the offer. I only want the house to go to people who will love it and take care of it. My parents poured themselves into it; it was the first and only home they ever owned. That backyard was their pride and joy.

Then it's over. Really over.

Everything but the grief.

Truly, I can't believe it's almost been a year since Mom and Dad died. It feels like yesterday. I cry sometimes like it was yesterday. I cry every time I take Indy for a walk, so lately, that's been about 5 days a week.

And if you're tired of hearing about it, sorry. I'm tired of living it.  What I am learning from others who have been through this is that the pain never goes away ... no matter how old you are or how old your parents were when they died. Instead, you somehow just move on to living life without them in it.  Woo - effing - hoo.

Whatever. I'm so not in the mood for grief.

*****

Dorsey is still job-searching. It's been a month since he got laid off, and he's worked hard every day in his quest for something new. He's treated the job search like a job. Thankfully, he has a few irons in the fire, which keeps us hopeful and emotionally able to keep going. Of course, we hope something works out soon; it's quite scary to be in this position. I try not to think about a time when no fish are biting, and he's just casting his resume into the big black hole, as he calls it.

Not knowing whether we're staying in Amarillo or moving somewhere else is unnerving to me. I don't know why. I just don't care much for uncertainty. There was a time not long ago when I was adamantly opposed to moving because we were just getting to the point where I could do things to the house I would love. Our home is perfectly designed to house early American antiques, some of which are quite primitive looking. (Plus, I've always thought about how much crap — after 14 years of living here — we would have to sort through, which seems daunting. But I have done a great job of unloading things lately.)

Now, while I still think about those things and have determined I might as well still go on with the low-cost home improvements (painting, etc.) ... one, to stay busy and the other, to help resale potential ... I have resigned myself to moving.

In fact, sometimes I enjoy thinking about making a new start in a new place with new people who know absolutely nothing about me. This is popularly known as the "geographical cure," which really doesn't exist, you know. Still, there could be some fun things about it. But if we're going to move, I hope it's closer to Kim and Vince; our family seems awfully small right now. And I hope that someday, Jordie will settle close to us, too. Doesn't much look like Hart will (he's in Maryland), but you never know.

*****

Speaking of Jordie, baseball is going GREAT for him. (School has never been an issue.) He is doing well in his pitching, and old injuries are staying out of the way. His team is doing well, and I have been able to see him play. When he's been on the pitcher's mound, I've pictured his granddad looking down from Heaven's portal, Grandma by his side, and they're cheering him on. I know my dad would be so pleased. Interesting fact: When I've actively watched Jordie in a pitch, imagining my dad watching, Jordie has thrown strikes.

*****

We finally launched our new business! Wilmarth's Tin Cats Antiques. http://www.tincats.com
Yes, please visit the site, shop, refer it to others and help us to carry on. This business has been the key to my moving on at all during the past several months. And, ironically, it has only been possible because of my parents. My mom would be so proud, I know this is true ...

.... time to go wipe my eyes and blow my nose ...

Grief sucks.

More letting go

The estate sale went well. Still, so much stuff remained, especially furniture and clothing.

Normally, Jan (who did our estate sale) would determine with us a plan to unload the items still left. That could be auction or donation or whatever. And then she and her crew would clean the house and get it ready for sale, because the house goes on the market today.

Instead, Dorsey and I decided we would do a garage sale at our house. We had already planned to have one ourselves, because we have figured that when Dorsey gets a new job, it will not be in Amarillo.

So Monday and Tuesday, I cleaned out the rest of Mom and Dad's house. Jan had already done the hardest part of sifting through and organizing. I really just packed and boxed things up to get them ready for our sale. My mom really liked dishes and serving platters ...

I hadn't really expected the task would be so emotionally daunting, but it was.  The first day, I came home and spent the rest of the night in a stupor on the couch. The second day wasn't much different.

Our housekeeper, Anabel, cleaned the house to ready it for sale. Anabel has cleaned our house and my parents' for several years. She started cleaning for Mom and Dad after Mom had her first stroke in 2013. When Anabel walked into the house, she said in her timid English, "Smells like Nicki," and she smiled broadly.

While sorting through my parents' things, I thought about the things left over. These were once special and/or important items to my mom. Or, they were things she had kept from both sides of the family when relatives had died. I wondered how much of the things left were something she would sell in a garage sale. I found myself wondering frequently why certain things hadn't sold. In fact, a few things were left behind that I took home myself ... things I missed the first time. Maybe that's why some were left.

Going through the clothes to donate to the Downtown Women's Center was without a doubt the most difficult experience. Both of my parents took great pride in their clothing. After Dad retired from coaching, he became quite a sharp-dressed man. He had his style, and it was all Dad. On the other hand, clothes to my mom had always been important. I remember reading a series of letters she wrote to her parents when she was away at college. She talked about all sorts of stuff, of course, but "cute clothes" were included in her writings. I remember my mom reading the letters again and saying, "I can't believe how shallow I was!" But we laughed.

I found myself carefully and gently boxing and bagging up their clothes. I was struck by how, when I've donated my own clothing in the past, I just hurriedly tossed them into bags, and that was that. I could not do that with my parents' clothes. The majority were dry-cleaned and perfectly pressed. I wound up packing 15 bags and seven boxes of clothes. And I decided right then and there I would go through my own things once a year to weed them out! That was just way too many clothes!!

I noticed how all of my mother's clothes were "teachery," because she was a teacher/librarian. She had so many holiday-related sweaters! I recognized many of the things she wore and thought, "I remember that!" I pictured her getting ready for school every morning.

It was no different with Dad. Our cowboy. Boots, jeans, hats, shirts, slacks, golf shirts ... All of it quite expensive.

I felt sad to let it all go. It was as if I were having to let go of them ... a huge part of them and their personalities. I told my sister that I hoped whomever would be getting these clothes took good care of them and appreciated them. I've never thought that about my own donated clothes.

While painful, this process was necessary for my own grieving. I think it was a significant task in the letting go process. But as I have thought for some time now, I know my grieving will never completely end. I will just learn begrudgingly how to live with it. I know I will never stop being that little girl inside who wants and needs her parents. A part of me will always think, "This isn't how it was supposed to be."

So here I am again ... gathering things from our house for the giant sale, which will be next Saturday, Feb. 20.  It will be more letting go, both literally and symbolically.

But really ... it was never supposed to be this way ...

Estate Sale Weekend

Home of Jim & Nicki Wilcoxson, 20+ years. It goes on the market Feb. 4. This house is perfect
for a young family or retiring couple. Or a single person, of course!

Well ... that time has arrived. Mom and Dad's estate sale will be this coming weekend: 9 a.m to 5 p.m., Thursday, Friday and Saturday, Feb. 4-6. Sunday is TBD.  The address is 7241 Bayswater. This is the Windsor-Bonham-Amarillo High school district.

Kim and I visited the almost-finished estate sale setup today, and I must say, Jan and David Migliaccio (Kim's in-law's) and their employees at Rag and Bone Antiques on 6th Street have done a phenomenal job of organizing Mom and Dad's things and making the house look homey again. The worst part of going over to their house the past year has been the cold emptiness. I couldn't stand it, so I rarely went after Socks and Blaze came to live with us. I feel guilty about that. I know I neglected their house, but I couldn't face it.

So here we are, and I have taken some pictures to share with you. I hope you will come out to find something fun and/or meaningful. (Please know that Kim and I already confiscated the best and most meaningful stuff to us. :-) ) Frankly, I'm not sure whether my mom would want people rifling through her things, judging her tastes and such. But at the same time, I know my parents would be pleased to have others enjoy what they once enjoyed. My mom was a gift-giver, after all.

Books, books and more books, and Dad's collection of golf books. And if anyone in the
coaching business, or Dad's coaching friends are interested, we have tons
of my dad's play books and notes tucked safely away. You can contact me about that. What a fantastic way to let his legacy live!!

Bedroom suite and odds and ends.

Guest bedroom suite plus odds and ends.

More furniture. Jan says roll-top desks
don't usually sell well. My mom refinished this one
and she was so proud of it.

The top photo shows all the toys Jordie and Cole played with when they came over.
Dad had lots of tools still left, and lots of hand weights and other outside/physical and lawn types of things.
We even still have lots of golf clubs left over.  

Mom loved the country look and country collectibles. 

Lots and lots of dishes and china.

There is more than what these pictures preview, so if interested, you'll just have to come see!

And, the Childress house closed yesterday, so all of a sudden, things seem to be moving quickly. It has been close to a year, and it's time. Kim and I have struggled and struggled with our loss that goes on and on. Frankly, I don't expect things to get better and/or easier. Mom and Dad are gone. Period. Hanging on to homes or things will not bring them back. We've already taken home the things we want to use and or have as remembrances.

Another chapter is ending.

The story never will.

Life happens ... however it's going to happen

AS IF losing my parents, having a sucky Christmas without them and then losing Koda were not enough ...

Our losing streak continues.

Dorsey got laid off last week. Second time in 10 years he's received this gift from the newspaper industry. Need I say we're done with newspapers?

But what a run. Newspapers put a lot of food on our table and clothes on our backs. We've had lots of fun, too. I'm quite thankful for the work we have been blessed with. Just think: It could be way worse. And at least now I have a business of my own we can concentrate on building. (Can't wait to debut my web site!)

The first time Dorsey got laid off — from the Amarillo Globe-News after almost 19 years — I was angry and bitter. I believed that act was personal, and I almost let the bitterness ruin my life. I had no idea it would take me several years to overcome the change of having a traveling man for a husband. Shook my world and my world view.

I've lived, changed and matured a lot since then, thank God. In some ways, this thing is small potatoes compared to other things we've experienced in the last 10 years.

Eh ... this layoff I see as, "it is what it is." I got over the whole "you shouldn't lose your job if you've been a loyal, excellent employee and have worked your ass off for the company" after the first time. I experienced it with Dorsey, and I saw many others over the years go through it, too. Too many to count. It's the nature of the corporate world, and it has no ounce of loyalty in it. (Individuals might, but not the corporate institution itself.) In fact, you ain't lived until you've been laid off, right?!

So, whatever. (OK, not really. I know this can be financially and emotionally devastating for so many; I just refuse to go there this time.)

Still ... it bothers me when I know how talented Dorsey is, and I know and see how hard he works. There's still that thought of, "But, but ... he's so good!" I'm like, "What were they thinking?"

I just hurt for him.

BUT ... life happens. And I know that when we fall, we get up. And Dorsey is way talented and has a phenomenal resume ... maybe I should post it? Heck, if I could hire him, I would.

I know we'll be fine, though, because my faith in God tells me so, and my experience with God is that every single time something terrible has happened, blessings have come out of it anyway. This time will be no different.

I'm tired, though. Physically and emotionally. I still have anxiety and fears. I don't like change. I still cry a lot. I can't sleep much. My body still hurts. (Those injections in my spine a few weeks ago didn't help.) Yeah, it's true. I'm pretty darn down these days ... since the day Koda died, it's like everything with my parents is brand new, too.

What I see is the upheaval of a move. I can't see that Amarillo will work out for us. I dread packing up 15 years worth of stuff and our (nine) animals and finding someone to buy our house and finding a new house and getting used to a new city and being farther away from Jordie (but maybe closer to Kim). Remember, I'm tired.

But if we move, I realize completely that someday, I will look back and be thankful it ever happened in the first place. Because that's life. That's how it happens.

It happens the way it's supposed to. With pain comes joy. With joy comes pain. With pain comes joy ...

On and on.

But, damn ... I'm really, really tired.

December's hurricane

I began my journey of my parents with you about this time last year. I think I can safely say you already know how my 2015 went, so I won't replay it for you.

Peaceful night in April.

Yet, in spite of it all, my faith in God grew, and I experienced one of the most blessed times of my life. Sure, I had a lot of difficulties in there, but my faith sustained me.

Then December happened. When people have talked about grief with me, they've often referred to those "waves" that crash over you ... some expected, and some not.

The wave that hit me in December — when Koda died — came quite unexpectedly. I had no idea it would be so big. I had no idea I would nearly drown.

With December came the ugliest wave of anger and sadness I have experienced so far on this journey. It was as if, in the cycle of grief, I was just getting to the anger part. That wave knocked me down so hard, I barely came up for air. I think I spent most of December under water, lungs about to explode.

I love these little furry blessings.

Don't misunderstand me. I didn't think I would just float unaffected through this first Christmas without my parents. I made plans — we made plans — to ease the journey a bit. I have no idea which parts of the plans or the things we did or didn't do made it possible for me to come up for air every so often, but I did. In every day ... almost ... I had some good moments. And while family was here visiting, I had several good talks and times with people.  I even made sure to express gratitude and thankfulness to God for the family and pets I do have. Every day.  I also stuck with my morning Bible study, meditation and prayer routine.

But after Koda died, the tears flowed relentlessly. Everything made me cry. It was as if my parents had just died and I was starting over. I was irritable, depressed, in a lot of physical pain, and just plain weepy. I felt like I had no control over what was happening to me, no matter how hard I prayed or tried to practice serenity and all that good stuff I've been taught.

Just didn't happen. ... Dammit.

When we returned from vacation, I begrudgingly put up our decorations. Dorsey did the tree since nearly every ornament was a gift from my mom, and I wasn't ready to go there. I did feel glad and more in the mood for Christmas once the house "looked" like Christmas, but I never much got into the music.

Me ... on Melt Down Morning.

I baked, which I enjoyed until I messed up one of my favorite cakes. Then I had a major MELT DOWN!! That was an "interesting" morning.

I wrapped gifts with more care than I have in the past; I tried so hard to be good at it because my mom took great pride in how her gifts looked. The presentation of her gifts to us was part of the gift she gave. But really, I just suck at it.

We decided to follow our usual Christmas Eve tradition of Mexican pile on dinner and family gifts. We've always done that at Mom and Dad's, but our house hosted this year. I felt detached instead of fully present. I suppose I was in survival mode, even though I had moments of laughing and fun.

We tried to start a well-meaning tradition in honor of my *silly dad (see story below). I felt nothing, except maybe sadness. It didn't at all turn out the way I envisioned. (Expectations are the devil.)

I tried to imagine Mom and Dad looking down at us from Heaven's portal, cheering us on. Eh ... Just made me cry.

Christmas day, I stayed in my pjs. Physically, I hurt, and Jordie and Dorsey went on to see "Star Wars" without me. (I had spent the last two days watching the previous ones to get psyched up, but I never made it to the new one.)

I just think I wasn't ready for all that festivity. I think if it had been left to me, I could have gone through Christmas without the usual hoopla. I would have just observed the reason we even have Christmas (Thank you, Jesus.) and left it at that.

Yesterday, I happily packed up Christmas decorations and got the house back in order.

I officially washed up on the sand like a beached whale (yes, really). I didn't drown after all, but I'm totally water-logged and still gasping for air.

Maybe I was a Grinch and a Scrooge this year. I didn't want to be. I tried. I really did. I tried for my family to be "good," but I just wasn't.

Maybe next year.

******************************************************

Origin of the "Dad" gift

He just looks ornery.

Several years ago, when the boys were still small and too young to do any shopping for anyone, we were at my parents on our usual fun, silly, festive Christmas Eve, opening gifts after stuffing ourselves with Mexican food and desserts.

Our family tradition is to pass out the gifts and then watch each person open one gift at a time. We go around the room until all the presents have been opened. It fell to my dad to open the last gift of the night. It was a big box, and my mom had a most puzzled look on her face.

"Willy, where did that come from?" she asked. (Willy is a childhood nickname.)

"Oh, it's just a little something the boys gave me," Dad said.

We all looked at each other like, "What's he talking about? The 'boys' can't get anyone anything."

He opened the gift and pulled out a nice pair of Ostrich cowboy boots he had bought for himself. And then he just fell over laughing and laughing hysterically at himself. He (and we) thought that was the most hilarious thing to ever happen ... and heck! Why didn't we think of that?

We will never forget ...

Vacation Happens ... the bad; part two

Koda Bear

On Saturday of our vacation, two days before it was time to go home, I was lying on a pool chair soaking up the sun, and Dorsey was out on a dive. My mornings in Curacao had become predictable like that. The vacation was quite lazy and relaxing, for the most part.

Then Jordie called me, clearly upset, to tell me the bad news. Koda, our 12-year-old female golden retriever, had died. After only displaying normal age-related issues — but nothing major or serious — she just laid down and died after a bout of vomiting during the night. I felt stunned.

My initial concern had been for Jordie, however. He felt bad not only because Koda had died (and he was there to experience it while handling 10 other animals), but that he hadn't wanted to call us and ruin our vacation. I learned later that he had called all around Amarillo trying to find help with what to do with Koda. He couldn't find any, so he finally called me. 

Koda's favorite spot when
we had that chair. 

In my effort to help Jordie, I didn't have deeply upset feelings about Koda's death. That's what I do. I shut off until I can fully comprehend. It's actually a great coping mechanism because I can deal with crises better. 

My first and only thought was to call Rohn Butterfield, Dorsey's ex-wife's husband. Jordie likes Rohn (who was once his Sunday school teacher and had helped him a few times with high school math and science problems), and Rohn and Vicki had had their fair and unfortunate share of experience with losing beloved pets. I knew they would know what to do.  And I knew they would help because that's what they do. 

I called Rohn. Left a message. I called Vicki. Left a message. Probably less than two minutes later, Vicki returned my call, and I explained what had happened and asked for help. They immediately stepped in to take care of Jordie and Koda. I'm not sure I have ever been so grateful. 

After it was all said and done, the gloomy, awful feelings set in. All the what-if's. All the guilt. All the sadness. All the fears for Dorsey and for Indy (Koda's life partner and best friend). I'm sure the people around me at the pool were thinking, "What the heck!? This woman is crying in the middle of such beauty?" 

Mopey Indy needs lots of extra TLC right now.

Telling Dorsey was a miserable experience, too. He had had a great diving experience. And then everything changed for him. Dorsey's dogs are sacred creatures to him. 

I wanted to go home. I wanted to be with Jordie and with Indy. I didn't want to be in Curacao any longer. Vacation was over, as far as I was concerned. We'd had a good time anyway.

But we stayed and tried to make the most of the rest of our time there. In a blanket of sadness, we went through the motions of doing whatever people do on vacation. 

I bawled the last leg of our trip home. We were going home to a house without Koda, who was pretty much the most perfect dog who ever lived. Dorsey called her a "9th degree Golden Retriever." (That's just a silly thing Dorsey does. Indy is somewhat of a 5th or 6th sometimes because he's ... goofily imperfect.)

Gift from my friend Lisa.

As we have gotten ready for Christmas, put up our tree and decorated (that's another story), waded through feelings of loss for my parents, baked, cooked, shopped and wrapped presents, Koda's absence has produced a noticeable pallor in our home and our moods. 

Again, Lisa created and gave us this
memorial of Koda for us. She went through
all my Facebook photos and found the ones
of Koda to put on this cross. 

Jordie picked up Koda's ashes for us last week. We haven't decided what we will do with her yet. We're trying to figure out the most perfect memorial for the most perfect girl dog ever. 

Oh, how we love and will miss that girl! Nothing can or will replace her. She will forever be in our hearts and memories, and I am grateful for the 12 years of unconditional love we received from her.