Moving on

Well, life goes on. I got a new bike last week – the stepthrough version of the same bike I've been riding for the last four years or so. I love that bike! When the company that made it was sold last fall, Mr. A suggested that we should really get another one as a backup bike, before the new manufacturer starts changing everything that makes it the perfect bike for me. I'd been thinking he was probably right, but couldn't bring myself to spend that much money for a second copy of a perfectly good bike I already have.

Then last week he emailed me at work. He found the exact bike I wanted, on Craigslist for about half what a new one costs. A guy in town had bought it for his wife, who rode it exactly five miles before becoming "unable to ride anymore" ... I didn't ask for any details about that, just gave it a test putt around the culdesac, forked over the cash and loaded it into the back of the truck.

It really is basically brand new – there was even a little packing tape still stuck to the frame. They also threw in a new trunk bag that I looked up online, which turns out to be selling for another $85. All in all, a pretty great find.

It makes me happy to reflect on how kind Mr. A is to me, how well he takes care of me, always looking out for me and doing things he doesn't really need to do, to make my life easier and more enjoyable. It's a blessing I never really expected to have in my life. It makes me want to be a kinder, more thoughtful and more generous person myself.

We took the new bike and one of Mr. A's mountain bikes to China Camp State Park yesterday, down in Marin County on the San Pablo Bay. It was a perfect, beautiful warm spring day and the first time I'd explored that park – we'll definitely be going back soon to check out more of the trails. The new bike is not really designed for riding off road but it handled surprisingly well and even got an approving comment from a bunch of hardcore bikey guys who passed us on the way back.

Ugh. I ate too much raw cabbage tonight and now I have a terrible stomach ache. They were good cabbages, the last ones from my winter garden ... this is the first time I've gotten a stomach ache like this from cabbage – usually it only happens when I eat broccoli or bananas (which is why I don't eat those things).

So this is pretty much the stupidest entry I've written in quite awhile. I just wanted to leave something a little more cheerful at the top of this blog in case either of my loyal readers happens to check in here and feel depressed about that last depressing entry. A new bike and a great day riding is cheerful, right? Yes! Stomach aches, not so much. I'm sure I'll stop thinking about that just as soon as it stops aching – probably within just a few hours, and definitely by morning.

Sadder than I wanna be

For some reason I guess I really did think that knowing it was coming would prevent me from feeling it so deeply when it finally did happen. It's strange to be reminded so inescapably that I am not as strong as I always think I am. I'm still glad I stayed with him and held him while he died, but was not prepared to feel this sad and sort of ... disoriented.

I've had some of my usual anxiety dreams again, waking up crying or drenched in adrenaline. Knowing it's a natural reaction to the stress of grief and change – that helps me not get too wrapped up in freaking out over it. I know it will pass. It's still distressing while it's happening, though.

I keep thinking I see him lying in his corner, or walking through the door. I turned around in my chair just now to look at his bowl, which we'd left where it always was, and noticed Mr. A has put it away somewhere. That feels strange too. I wasn't going to move it. I wondered when he would do it. It must have been this afternoon – it was still there this morning. I know because I checked it, like I always do, to make sure he'd eaten all of his breakfast. Which, of course, he had not.

Feeling the life drain out of someone you've known for five years ... is something. Feeling his breath slow, and stop. Feeling his heart beat fade away to nothing. It would be strange NOT to be affected. And yet I feel grateful for the experience, though I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's because it makes Life seem so real and vivid, and precious. It really doesn't go on forever.

I also keep thinking about that guy who tried to run me off the road last month. What if he really had killed me? I've known lots of people who've been killed by cars and always hope that when I die it has nothing to do with a car – I hate the thought of essentially being crushed to death by a big metal machine. My thoughts about the guy himself, though, have been strangely benevolent ... in a weird way I've sort of come around to thanking him for the reminder that it's really up to me to take care of myself out there, to always remember that I am a precious, fragile living being and that the person most capable of making sure I stay healthy and safe for as long as possible is ME.

So strange, to think of my own death someday. Incomprehensible. Still, no more incomprehensible than the thought of my own life. Anybody's life.

Anyway. Dark thoughts, dark night. Better try and get some sleep.

Now resting in peace

It's done.

Last night was the first night in years that the Jeeps did not sleep in the doorway of my room, guarding my bed. Instead he slept on his towel in front of the fireplace and I dozed on the couch, keeping watch over him for a change.

This morning I got the vet on the phone as soon as the office opened, and he was able to recommend a different clinic that does house calls. So I made the appointment and then sat with the Jeeps and fed him little bits of Milkbone and roasted chicken, which he sharked down as usual – a last little bit of pleasure I'm glad I got to see him enjoy. At 11 a.m. two sweet young blonde vet techs arrived with a little case of equipment and a yellow and red blanket. I held the Jeeps with one hand petting his forehead and the other hand on his heart, and in just a few minutes it was over.

As odd as it may sound I'm really grateful I got to be with him at that moment. For one thing, my being there meant Mr. A didn't have to be, and that was a good thing. He'd already said good-bye several hours earlier, before he left for work. He was so distraught he didn't want to see the very end, and I didn't think there was any reason to press him on that. I've finally learned to trust that most people know what they need in situations like this.

For me, staying present and engaged seems to be the least painful approach, even when the situation pretty much sucks. Denial, distraction, resistance, euphemizing, rehearsing the impending imagined drama over and over again inside my head – doing that makes me feel trapped, strangled, clouded and overwhelmed, in addition to sad.

Now, when I think back to this day, I'll know we both did everything we needed to do, for ourselves, for each other, and for the Jeeps. I feel like my experience of knowing and loving him is as complete as it's possible to be.

So that's it. The blankets and towels are in the dryer, his dish is washed and put away. I searched the house and yard for any final errant poops and disposed of them. Before the vets arrived I took a few pictures, though I don't expect Mr. A will want to see them, and made a paw impression in clay and clipped some hair for a memorial piece to be made later. These things I've set aside until ... I guess until the time feels right to mention they exist.

In the meantime, there doesn't seem to be anything else to say except that even after all this time and anticipation it still feels pretty unreal to know he's really, truly gone.

Pending

We're probably putting the Jeeps down tomorrow.

He's been having trouble with his hips for a year or more, and all winter it's been getting harder and harder for him to get back up when he falls. Now, in the last month or so, it's gotten suddenly worse. And today for the first time he can no longer stand or walk at all, not even if we help him.

Tonight we were holding him up to eat a little dinner and noticed a horridly infected gash in his leg. All I can think is that he must've cut himself on one of his falls in the yard. I cleaned the wound as best I could, and held warm compresses on it for a half hour, which seemed to feel good to him. Then we laid him down on some towels in front of the fireplace.

He's sleeping now. Not like his usual sleep – he's clearly out of it.

Maybe the wound is the reason he can't stand or walk. It's definitely possible. What if we treat his leg, and he gets better, and gets to have one more summer? Would that be a good thing?

I don't know. Summers here are so brutally hot. He's almost eighteen years old. An astounding age for any dog. Even if by some miracle he does come home from the vet tomorrow, we've always said we wouldn't let him suffer. Until now, I don't think he has been. Today he clearly is.

We'll see what the vet has to say.