Signs

Things are getting better, slowly. I'm finding my new pug-less normal, which let's be honest, being down a pug really sucks. The kids have been distracting me from my grief, which is both good and bad. Sometimes I just want to be alone and cry, but then someone will be peeling off all of his clothes and another someone will need help getting her Barbie dressed, and I’m forced to deal with the reality of my day, in my face, rather than the tears.

I miss the little thing so much, and I feel her absence everywhere. I miss the “thuh-thunk” of her hopping up on the bed at night, as she needed to jump on a trunk to get up there. I miss her immediate presence when something is dropped on the kitchen floor. I miss her clean-up duties, as I now have to get out the broom after every meal and I knew she cleaned up the crumbs but oh my God did she clean up some crumbs. I kicked a kid’s soft rattle in the basement, twice, and the first time I had to turn around to see what it was because it must have been something Marti rattled around.

Days go by without me opening the back door. I can vacuum without having to worry about Marti freaking out. The fire alarm started beeping its low-battery warning the other day during Owen’s nap. He slept right through it, but he wouldn’t have slept through Marti’s barking at it every two minutes. Someone throws a Kleenex on the ground, and I don’t jump up to wrangle it out of Marti’s mouth.

In the mornings, the kids test me. Owen refuses to get diapered and dressed without a fight --- a literal punching and kicking fight sometimes --- and depending on which side of the bed Avery woke up on, she can be unruly too. There was no wrong side of the bed with Marti. Doors would get slammed as I’d wait for the kids to run off some energy before coming to cooperate with me (particularly as it became harder for me to heave myself off the floor to chase them), and Marti and I would be left looking at each other like, “Kids these days.” I could always count on her to be nice and not slam the doors.

The kids break my heart too. Avery was very upset the first day after she saw how upset we were. It wasn’t until days later that Owen noticed, asking, “Where Marti go?” when I picked up her collar in the car. He’s still saying “Marti all done doctor?” which sets off a wave of tears each time. I’m trying to be as age appropriately honest as I can be, trying to explain the permanence without it being scary. It’s hard, and it’s definitely new parenting territory. I can’t say that it’s my favorite part.

I still get the panicky waves of grief --- the ones that crash over you when you realize you’ll never see someone or something again. When you realize how permanent it is. They’re fewer now, but they’re still crushing. I’m trying not to question the “what ifs” and “could we haves…” We did the best we could have done with the information we had at the time. When Marti starting getting sick, it really wasn’t that far out of the norm. She dropped a little weight --- but she had been 26 pounds in December, so I had tried to dial back her food because of all the crumbs I knew she got from the kids. She threw up here and there and would skip a meal or two, but that was pretty normal. When her vomiting became more frequent and the missed meals added up in April, we headed into see the vet. The X-ray appeared normal; bloodwork was great. An anti-nausea shot, four anti-nausea pills and a bland diet seemed to clear things right up. Her appetite and enthusiasm returned.

So when a few weeks later, she started her once-a-day puke and skipping meals, we hoped it was once again minor. I headed back to the vet, another doctor in the practice just to get another opinion. He noticed her bloodwork from April was slightly off --- possibly indicating Addison’s disease or pancreatitis. We got another anti-nausea shot, pills and another blood test that showed had her electrolyte levels were still off, so they brought her in to perform a 4-hour blood test to see if it was Addison’s. Addison’s seemed to fit --- and it was treatable. I was crushed when the vet called and ruled it out. He said to see how everything went and let him know how Marti was doing --- but Marti had stopped eating after three enthusiastic days and hadn’t eaten the previous night or that morning and was throwing up again. He had me come in for another few pills to get through the weekend, and she’d have an ultrasound Monday to see what they could find. By Saturday morning, she was throwing up a lot more. She’d bark and throw up a little liquid. We’d pick her up, the same. She was down to 18 pounds and we were just starting to get worried about her making it through the weekend. I got into the vet --- the original doctor from April --- and she gave Marti another shot and some cat food to tempt her appetite. When Marti worsened, we ended up going to an emergency vet that afternoon. They took an X-ray, which showed something worrisome and a thickening of the intestines, but couldn’t say for certain what the problem was. They administered fluids, and showed me how to do the same for the next day.

I was relieved to drop her off for the ultrasound on Monday --- and worried when they called saying they’d found a blockage in Marti’s intestine. It could be a tumor, it could be scar tissue. It was hard to say without doing exploratory surgery. He laid out the scenarios, but I just couldn’t fathom it would be the worst case. I was sure they’d find scar tissue from something that she’d eaten; I was sure they’d find actual toilet tissue because she ate it all the time. I was sure a tumor of any sort would be benign, after all, her bloodwork was always great, all other digestive issues were fine. I was crying as I came to pick her up after the ultrasound, and the doctor said he couldn’t say for certain it was cancer. I thought, well, of course it’s not.

Marti had a great night her last night. She had more energy than she’d had in weeks; acted interested and ate a few bites of cat food. I turned the AC on to cool her down and I snuggled with her on the couch for hours. When she hopped off --- which she’d been doing as she got uncomfortable or nauseated --- I moved down to the floor to be with her. I’d pet her, stop, and she’d scratch me to get more pets. We loved her all night long. She got in bed with us per usual, and Alan came to bed with potato chips. We hadn’t seen Marti interested in food for awhile, so when she perked up at the potato chips, she got a special treat.

I didn’t make a big deal of the goodbye in the morning --- I really didn’t think it was good-bye --- but I did have a special snuggle with her as she was at the foot of my bed. I told her that they were going to try fix what was wrong, and that if for some reason they couldn’t, she could go find Rosie (my pug growing up) and my dad and they’d take care of her. Alan took the day off to help me out and we all went to drop her off. I joked that if it was cancer, I’d have to buy ribbons for canine cancer awareness --- not thinking that would be the case. At the vet, they gave me her collar; I joked that she didn’t need it because they definitely knew who she was by now --- and as she walked off, I said “Good luck, Marts.” I was sure my biggest worry would be getting her enough rest and recovery time when I picked her up later that day.

My dad would always pick up spare change. Always. And after he died, I started doing the same. No matter what, when I see a penny, I pick it up regardless of if it’s heads or tails. It’s my dad saying hi, always. After I dropped Marti off, I headed to the park with the kids and Alan went to work from home. As I was walking up to the park, I found two pennies.

The surgery was set to happen mid-day. So when I got the call before 1 p.m., I was surprised --- it was early. And I could tell from the doctor’s voice that it wasn’t good news. There was a tumor, about the size of a walnut, blocking her intestine. He thought he could remove it and reconnect her intestines, although there was a size discrepancy on either side. The bigger problem was that he could see spots --- visible spots --- that could only mean cancer had spread. Certainly he could finish the surgery and we could do chemo, but told us that it was honestly probably best not to wake her up. It was the worst case scenario.

It’s hard not to question what would have happened had we finished the surgery and done chemo. But we just couldn’t fathom having her fight a painful, losing battle just so we could see her fuzzy face again. While sometimes I think it would have been worth it for us, it wouldn’t have been worth it for her. I know that, even though it's hard.

That night Avery picked out a movie from a bag of about ten DVDs her older neighbor friend gave her. Some of them are good --- Disney movies and such --- but some of them are junk, like Barbie movies that just make you roll your eyes. But she picked this one out, and a pug was throughout:

And that weekend, I found two more coins together.

And then in what is the surest sign of a Marti hello, I read a book that I’d had for weeks that I’d never read to the kids before. A dog eating a potato chip.

Then yesterday, we went to the library and grabbed some books. Of all the books, Avery grabs "Sally Goes to Heaven." And of course there's a pug on a couch saying hi.

I know, it sounds kooky. But it makes me feel better. (Well, the book made me cry like a baby, so I was glad I prescreened it before even attempting to read it to the kids.) But what I know of grief is that you take the moments and the things that make you feel better and you hold on tight, much like you hold on tight to the ones you love while they’re here.

Marti

Right after Alan and I got married, I instantly got the hankering for a dog. And while I was nervous about the commitment --- checking out books on dog ownership and various breeds from the library, even though I knew I wanted a pug --- Alan was much less gun shy. So when one day he said, “Let’s just stop talking about it; if we’re going to do it, let’s do it,” we did it. I called the breeder and we got lucky that there was a female fawn pug that would be available that weekend. It was meant to be.

We went to pick her up from her one-eyed mom, and as I was whispering that this place seemed slightly sketchy, Alan was cradling a tiny pug in his arms. There was no way we were leaving without this member of our family. On the way home, I remember looking over. Alan was asleep in the passenger’s seat, Marti snoozing comfortably on his lap. They were already fast friends.

As Marti was Alan’s first dog, he’d never had a living being dependent on him. He had a slight panic attack about it, but I assured him that we’d be fine; we’d be great puppy parents. And we were; she became the center of our little family.

Marti proceeded to be both an adorable puppy and a total beast. She’d eat my shoes. Bite my hands. She was nonstop puppy energy, no matter how much I walked her or played fetch. She’s the only puppy I know that wasn’t a napper --- because she didn’t want to miss out on anything. She always had more to dish out for me, especially those first two years. I always laugh because she would bite me with her sharp puppy teeth and make me cry with her incessant nipping at my hands. I remember wailing, “All I do is love you!” always hoping that she’d turn into the sweetness that she eventually turned into.

When Alan left to go up to Chicago for his internship the summer after we were married, Marti nuzzled her way into our bed. Pugs are the perfect cuddlers, and she snuggled right in with me during Alan’s absence. Once he returned, it was nearly impossible to implement the “no dog in bed” policy that we had previously followed; she was too snuggly to kick out and pretty soon we learned to work around her bed demands, whether it was to let her under the covers, to let her lay sideways while we made room for her or to sometimes just sit on me to show me who was boss.

When I started working from home, she became my full-time friend and best little pug buddy. She’d sit behind me in the chair, and I’d make way for her. She’d get up in my face and paw at my arm when she wanted a walk, a pet, nothing at all. It drove me mad trying to figure out how to appease her, but never mad enough to kick her out of the chair, God forbid.

We hit up pug meet-ups for laughs, hit the dog park every day. We’d laugh because she always proved she was the most submissive dog in the park, lying down to prove she was no threat to anyone, even dogs half her size and ---ahem --- presenting herself. If she was on a leash or across the street from a dog, it was a different story. Fierce, she was, and thought she could take down a Doberman. When we’d travel we’d do our best to find pet-friendly accommodations. And if that wasn’t possible, we spared no expense on pet hotels; some of her hotels were nicer than ours.

She went from Kansas to California with us, and California to New Jersey. She visited Lake Tahoe and Yosemite. She was a well-traveled pug, and traveled so well for us.

When we had kids, I knew Marti wouldn’t be the center of our attention any more. But she was still the middle of everything. Whether I was nursing or dealing with two kids battling for precious lap space, she’d always want to be right in the thick of it; I’d always accommodate. She was my little shadow and my most loyal friend. Always, always by my side. Coming upstairs with me even if I was simply grabbing something really quickly. Coming downstairs as I moved laundry, the never-ending chore. Under my feet always at dinner time, ready to snag anything I might drop, but mostly keeping me company. I was with her all day, every day. Waking hours, sleeping hours. Considering I worked from home, calling her a constant companion is practically an understatement.

She added to the complete chaos in the house --- barking like mad and driving me bonkers when we’d leave the house, always a fun accompaniment to kids who are screaming and not cooperating at all. Grabbing tissue out of the trashcan or ripping apart wet diapers I hadn’t tossed out of reach. The kids would splash in the bath and it would worry her --- so she’d bark to alert us to the fact that they must be in danger, even if we were right there. A constant watch dog, we always knew when something was amiss outside --- whether it was the mailman, a clap of thunder or a dog barking. And if the doorbell rang? Pure chaos. I’d have to chase Marti down to grab her; she got to greet everyone at the door from the safety of my arms. Much like at the dog park, she was only tough when she couldn't see who was on the other side of the door.

Marti went from being a non-napping puppy to the best napping companion one could have. During my exhausted first trimester this time around, she’d nap with me every day. It was our ritual --- get the kids down and go grab a snooze, either on the couch or in bed. She’d snuggle next to me; always fitting like a puzzle piece wherever she lay down, usually right behind my knees. She puzzled her way into all kinds of sleeping arrangements, and our lives.

And now, she’s gone. Gone in the blink of an eye; with one phone call from the vet that changed everything. They could finish surgery, but it wouldn’t help; it was best to let her go. So we made the easiest and hardest decision we’ve ever made. No suffering, but peace.

Now, I miss the chaos that drove me crazy. It’s too quiet. No claws and paws padding around the tiles and hardwoods. No pug snores at the foot of my bed, long sighs that were the most contented sound in the world. No pug coming up to my face at 3 a.m. to burrow her way down to my feet; how many times we’ve woken up over the years to make sure she had air to breathe, it’s too many times to count. No one greeting me at the door, with a stuffed animal always, to welcome me home. No one tackling the kids for their snacks --- she was a relentless beast and was notorious for stealing food from toddlers like candy from a baby. No half growls when she heard something outside but didn’t have the energy to get too worked up --- a little half puff of air to let us know she heard. I do headcounts now --- Avery, Owen, Marti --- and come up one short. Now, when the kids are tucked into bed and it’s quiet time for me and Alan, it’s just too quiet because there is an empty space at the end of the couch.

Even writing this, it doesn’t feel real. My writing feels forced, empty, as if I can’t possibly convey what that lovable little dog meant to me. A post isn’t enough. My Martikins. Marti Bean Soup. Gracious Beans. My Sweetness and Light. And my heart feels so heavy.

I’ve cried countless times over the years in preparation for this. I’d even think about it and be a blubbering mess. She was our first baby. I’d rub her fuzzy little muzzle and always say, “Don’t you go dying on us, Graysh.” And now it’s here, and we weren’t ready. You’re never ready. I wanted at least four more years, but I know had I gotten them, I would have wanted 10 more. With dogs, it’s never enough. Why do we put ourselves through it? Why do we knowingly jump in and fall in love with someone whom we have such limited time with? Why do we put ourselves through the heartbreak and tears and emptiness and quiet? Only because that unconditional love and friendship makes it worth all of the heartbreak.