The Hard Goodbye

I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I’m crossing our bedroom at the old house. Dom is sitting up in the bed when he firmly announces to me, “I’ve made a decision.”

I stop in my tracks. “You have, eh?”

“It’s time for us to get another puppy.”

I almost drop whatever it is that I’m holding. “Seriously? You’re serious?? You want two dogs at once? When? What kind? How is this going to work?”

He shrugs and shoots me a crooked smile.  “Start looking.  Didn’t you say you wanted a black Lab next?”

Yeah, I had said that alright. We already had our beautiful yellow Lab, Mason, and I had determined that my next dog would be a black Lab named Mabel – so named for the express purpose of allowing me to hang out the back door and yell, “Hey, Mabel! Black Label!!”  I don’t know why that image enticed me so, but there it is.  I also knew that I would call her Mabelline and sing the catchy question, “Why cantcha be true?”

The search was on.  Phone calls, classifieds (those were the days!), breeders and litters and small towns so remote I thought we might not make it back from them.  But there in the heart of Castor, Louisiana, were three 10-week old lab pups. One was a black female.  Stacey went with me and Dom to pick her up.  Mabel wrapped her little paws around Stacey’s arm as she held her, and we all fell in love.  The breeder said we needed to name her right then and there so she could tidy up her AKC records, and that she would appreciate it if we included Rose in the name, on account of the numerous Roses in the bloodline. Fine.  Whatev.  I had no intention of ever calling this pup Rose, much less registering her myself, so what could it hurt? Mabel Lena Rose Mainiero, it was.  A few signatures and $300 later (the first and last time I paid for a dog!) and we were headed back to Shreveport with an adorable surprise for the kiddos. 

Mabel on the day we brought her home, November 2008.

Mabel was sweet and docile that first night, as one could only be with Mason slobbering his welcome all over her. Mabel enjoyed being kenneled when we weren’t home, and thankfully so, given the amount of damage she did when we were present. I’ve written numerous posts about the things Mabel has eaten, the embarrassment she has caused, and the times she has worn my patience to its last tiny thread. I have said countless times that she was our wild-child dog. In her early and middle years Mabel cared only for her own entertainment, and let me tell you… if life was a car, then Mabel drove it like she stole it!

Mabel, all up in the camera! 2010

Mabel was known for eating and/or destroying absolutely everything that caught her attention. Her favorite things to “love on” until they were obliterated were Webkinz stuffed animals. She started with only the birds, which always cracked me up. Once the kids were out of bird Webkinz, she moved on to the other Webkinz toys and finally to any stuffed animal she could find until the entire line was extinct. With all of her antics throughout puppyhood and beyond, Aaron disowned her at least twice. Once, for chewing up one of his Lego Bionicle masks. I still remember the renouncement. “Vic!!!!” he yelled to his sister as he balled his fists up at his sides, “You can HAVE her!” I looked from my red-faced little boy to Mabel. Despite having just been declared dead to him, Mabel showed not even an ounce of remorse for having destroyed Aaron’s toy. In fact, I was pretty sure she was sitting on go to do it again. Remorse, regret, repentance…these three R’s were forever absent from Mabel’s vocabulary.

Who, me?? 2014.

Mabel was the quintessential pesky little sister to Mason.  She used to bite and tug on his neck to the point that I would feel sores under his fur when I’d snuggle with him.  Her favorite thing to do was be the first to run outside when the door opened, and immediately spin around to attack Mason as he stepped over the threshold.  I honestly don’t know how he tolerated her.  At one point when Mason was getting on in years, Mabel decided she would hide behind the wall at the top of the stairs and attack him each night as he came up for bed.  What a brat she was!

Ready to pounce, 2012

I spent many years of Mabel’s life calling her “Dom’s Decision,” as in, “Hey, honey, your Decision ran off down the street again,” or “your Decision brought a locust into the house tonight,” and my favorite, “your Decision stole a pound of candy corn from the kitchen and puked it up in the living room.”

The public shaming, 2013.

Life with Mabel was never dull. Fiercely independent and rocking her need for no one, Mabel tried to live on her own terms. Several years ago we nicknamed a large field near our home “Mabel Acres” in memory of the day during Sunday lunch when she took off out the side door and down the street to cut circles in the grassy field while the entire family tried to catch her. But Mabel had her sweet side, and though she preferred to act like she didn’t need our attention, she never seemed to mind when we lavished love on her.

Vic and Mabel, my brown-eyed girls, 2010.

Like me, Mabel loves sunshine.  She would often lay in the yard as her black fur soaked in the warmth.  She enjoyed the porch swing with me on many Saturday mornings. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure the time she spent with me wasn’t all about the coffee.

Stealing my joe, 2009.

Mabel changed when she became an only-dog in 2014.  She mourned Mason for a couple of weeks, not wanting to be alone outside, needing to know where Dom, the kids and I were at every moment.  She became gentler and more loving, and sweetly earned the famous phrase on her dog tag, “Mischief Managed.”  Her nickname morphed from “Dom’s Decision” to “Daddy’s Baby Girl.” She knew who was responsible for her sweet and easy life. 

In Daddy’s arms, 2014.

Mabel was none-too-thrilled with the introduction of Maximus to our home.  But she did eventually adjust to him as he grew and she realized that annoying little thing with the big ears was, in fact, the same species as her. 

“Someone get this dude off my back!” 2016.

Max took on the role of pesky little brother, paying Mabel back in spades for all the torture she showered on Mason.  Despite my best efforts to keep it sized properly, Mabel’s collar got stretched so that it ended up looking more like a red necklace draped around her shoulders.  I can’t think of a time they played together that Max wasn’t gnawing on her collar. 

Always with the collar! 2019

Mabel earned herself many nicknames over the course of her life. Mabelline, Mabellini, the Vixen, the Vixenator, Mablet, Mabel-Label, the Leine, Leinie-poo, the Bottomless Pit, the Unfillable Belly, Dumpster Diver, Teeny Weeny Mabellini, Baby Girl, and finally Grandma. I especially loved calling to her in an Italian accent: “Ciao, Mabellini! Andiamo, Mabellini! Why-a do you-a bark-a so much in the house, eh?!”

Helping me study, 2014.

Mabel became a diabetic in 2018. Diabetes for dogs is much like Type 1 childhood diabetes in people, meaning that you can’t “diet-and-exercise” it into submission. Even with the prescription dog food and the twice-a-day insulin injections, Mabel’s blood sugar levels would not normalize. We did the best we could for three years. We spent many weekends running blood glucose curves on her and charting her progress. I spent approximately two months right after her diagnosis chopping, measuring and packaging precise proportions of meats and vegetables to feed her a completely raw diet, and then cooking it for her, and then realizing I was cooking more for the dogs than for the humans before throwing in the towel and signing up for prescription dog food.

Mabel with Walter, 2015.

Mabel went completely blind this year, but she could still hear me come home in the afternoons and would know it’s Wine-Time – that’s when she and Max get to run in the front yard while Dom and I sit on the porch and chat. Sure, it took a little extra effort to get her in and out of the house, leading her through the forest of lilies in the flower beds because she couldn’t go up steps anymore.  But who could resist how happy it made her?  

Wine Time in the jungle, 2021.

I have said for the past few months that as long as she still enjoys Wine-Time, she still has life to live.  There is nothing we won’t do for our fur-babies.  But eventually we realized there’s nothing more we can do.  And that’s where the heart breaks. 

Mabel with another fuzzy, September 2016.

I remember seeing a poster on the wall at the vet’s office when Mason was just a puppy. It was a life expectancy poster and it showed the various breeds of dogs with their approximate life span in years. Labs were marked at 11 years. We were fortunate that both of our pups lived longer than that – Mason at 14 and Mabel, just a month shy of 13. As we realized Mabel’s age and illness were wearing her down, it was devastating to make that final decision. Ironic, that the first decision was so easy, and the last one so hard.

Loving on Aunt Stacey, Thanksgiving 2012.

I hate goodbyes. I hate this part of being a pet owner. There is never a “good” time to say goodbye. We always want one more day, one more chase, one more trip around the water bowl. We took Mabel to the vet for the last time today. The goodbye was just as hard as I thought it would be.

Christmas pup with her stogie, 2016.

The Book of Proverbs tells us that “a righteous man has regard for the life of his animal,” and this is the only thing getting me through this. Caring for them, even to that last day’s decision, is loving them. Mabel has so much more than our regard. She has our undying love and gratitude for the marvelous and mischievous ways in which she brightened our days and enhanced our lives.

Mabel claims all the decorations, 2009.

Take now to that “far green country under a swift sunrise,” sweet Mabellini, and run like somebody left the gate open. We will miss you terribly and love you forever.

Sunning in the backyard, August 2021

Mabel “Mabellini” Mainiero
September 17, 2008 – August 20, 2021

Three Women

Foreword: Today I was one of three women comforting a co-worker in her hour of grief.  Later, when reflecting on the day, I realized the significance of three women and was instantly honored to be one of them. The essay below was my personal Thank-You note to the three beautiful ladies who got me through one of my darkest hours. It was written just days after Pop’s death in 2018.  Today’s events made me reflect on this, and I post it now to honor the friends who love beyond measure.  

On the last day of March I interviewed for the first time with OIB, after which I went back to my office at the Catholic Center, certain that I had not made the impression necessary to land the job. I reasoned that I could find peace in that fact, that God would place me where he needed me, even if it meant staying where I was.  An hour later I was sitting at my desk when a call came in with news I almost couldn’t bear.  My father-in-law’s upper GI that morning revealed a tumor in his esophagus.  A biopsy had been performed, but even without full results doctors knew it was most likely cancer.

I recall sinking into my chair and putting my head on my desk as tears threatened. We had just come through the darkest night with my mother-in-law’s cancer.  Her healing had been the miracle we dared not expect. Her illness had been tumultuous, and I had taken her care as my personal responsibility, though in fact it was shared by many. The news of Pop’s tumor burst the bubble of hope and ease, the promise of brighter days, that I had allowed myself to seek comfort in for almost a year.

When I raised my head from my desk, three women surrounded me. They were the family I chose, the friends who would stand by me through any storm. I burst into tears as one held me.  All I recall saying is, “I don’t think I can do this again.”  They each assured me that not only was I strong enough, but that they would not leave my side.  And they didn’t.

Leaving the daily presence of those friends whom I love so dearly was not easy. I feared for a long time that I might not enjoy relationships that close, that near to my heart, in my new work environment.

I was wrong.

Last week when I answered the phone call that told me of Pop’s exit from this earthly life, I felt the weight of a sadness I have never known. As a family we have not sustained loss this close.  Dom and his brothers, their wives and I all have our parents, alive and well.  I was wading into territory none of us knew how to navigate.  Fear and hopelessness closed in on me and I could not contain the emotion, regardless of my preference to remain wholly dignified in that moment. I laid my head on my desk and tried to breathe through the sobs that simply would not be silenced.

When I raised my head I was at once moved by the sight of three women surrounding me. Three beautiful women whom I have grown to care for quite deeply in the short time I have known them.  Three women who held me and assured me that I could weather this storm, and that they too would be by my side.

When I consider the parallels of the journey I have taken over the past year, I am struck by God’s truly amazing grace and the constant reminders of his love. His joy shines through you daily and gives me courage to press on through all things. His love poured out through you three on Wednesday and in the days that followed.   For everything you have done and everything that you are, I love you immensely.  Thank you.

Not All Who Wander…

I said some day I would write this down.  Figure it all out. Make the story make sense.  Because I am a figurer… and a planner… and a puzzle solver.  It’s what I do.  I may do it on a small scale, but I do it whole-heartedly.  And often.

It was 2014 when I said to Dom, “What if I went back to school? What if I wanted a master’s degree? Would you be cool with that?”

I wasn’t asking permission to expand my horizons, mind you; Dom would never hold me back from what I felt called to do with my time. But we are a team, and I needed to know if he could sacrifice some dinners or pitch in with the housework while I studied for the next two years. I knew this would not be easy on any of us.   I would publicly state two years later, “If I ever say that I want to go back to school for a  third time, someone hit me in the head with a rock.” It was an adequate statement, and I sensed it before I even began.

So there I was, rocking along toward an MBA.  Dinners were still relatively on schedule.  Dom was becoming a laundry KING. I was stressed out and stretched too thin, but I was killing it, or so I thought. And then the bottom fell out.

October 2015.  I’d been in school for a year. One down, one to go.  Mid-way through Halloween decorations and smack in the middle of terms, my mother-in-law was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer.  We live right next door to her, and of the six of us “kids” (her three sons and their wives) I had the most flexible work schedule.  So I rose to the occasion.  I managed to balance school and work and doctors’ appointments.  Against all odds, Mom lived.  Hell, she was outright cured.  I fell to my knees in gratitude and when I rose I danced and cried and danced some more.  I had plenty to be thankful for and I was ready to shout it from the rooftops.

Six months after the doctors looked at my mother-in-law in astonishment and I thanked God and every saint I could name, I finished that dang program and got my MBA.  The trials were over; the dust had settled.  There was light at the end of our tunnel.

I thought the achievement of the degree would satisfy me, but a desire to do more started murmuring in my head and wouldn’t shut up.  What good was that degree if I wasn’t going to use it? What had all the struggle been for if nothing was going to change? Why did I pay that tuition if my family would never see some return on the investment?

So I said to Dom one morning, standing at our bathroom sinks, “Among those companies that your company works with, if you hear of any job opening that I might be good at, let me know, okay?”

I don’t know how much time passed between that statement and a certain phone call.  “Hey, remember when you said for me to keep an ear open for jobs?” he asked.  “OIB is looking for a credit analyst.”

“A what?”

Seriously.  That’s how this journey unfolds.  The next thing I knew, I had an interview.  I’ll never forget it – March 30, 2017.  My father-in-law had a doctor’s appointment that morning at the same time as my interview.  After two years of my accompanying them to every appointment and my helpful ability to recall dates and details so that I was almost a walking medical file on my mother-in-law, Pop wanted me there at his appointment.  “That’s alright,” I remember him saying. “They’re just going to look at my esophagus and figure out why I can’t swallow. It’s no big deal.”  That wasn’t self-pitying sarcasm; he genuinely meant it and I believed him.

I had my interview and came back to my office at the Catholic Center to tell my co-workers, “Y’all, I bombed that thing! There is no way I’m getting that job.”

Within an hour my phone was ringing.  Remember that light at the end of my tunnel? Turns out, it was another train.  Dom told me that Pop’s appointment that morning had taken a morbid turn. Esophageal tumor.  A biopsy had been scheduled, but it was most likely cancer.  No. Just, no.

Sometime in the next three weeks, Pop’s diagnosis and treatment were confirmed, and I got the job.  It was bittersweet, to say the least.  In a new work environment with entry-level vacation time, there was no way I could attend all of Pop’s appointments as I had attended Mom’s.  Everything felt upside down and I felt guilty for so many things –  for being happy about new opportunity when those I loved were so distraught, and also for not being available to my extended family when they needed me.

I cannot imagine that I was much good those first six months of my employment at the bank.  My family was going through some tough stuff – scary, and yet too familiar all at the same time – and I did not have my same confidantes and supporters in my day-to-day world.  I had new people. Wonderful people, but not those onto whom I thought I could dump all my crazy and still keep my job.  I held it in, for the most part.  I only let out the little bits that I thought wouldn’t send my new coworkers running for the hills or searching for the nearest straightjacket.  I know now that I did not give them nearly enough credit.

As 2017 drew to a close I experienced my first series of working holidays. Switching careers from the Catholic Church to banking is culture shock, to say the least.  We work on Christmas Eve?? Are you kidding me?? Perhaps I would not have been as selfish with my holidays if I were not watching Pop dwindle in strength and spirit with each passing day.  I managed to take some time off after Christmas that year, and I vividly recall taking a phone call from my new friend and supervisor as I stood in the backyard on a partly cloudy, cold December day.  She was informing me that our community bank was being bought by a larger bank. Our merger would be complete in February.

I spent that last week of December mentally willing myself to see the silver lining in our merger.  Maybe I would start to grow into my position and gain some confidence. I had not been with the community bank long enough to feel credibility in how I did my job; maybe that would change.  I don’t know if I was tricking myself, but I managed to feel hopeful about the whole thing.  Maybe this was why God led me into banking. Perhaps I would find my footing after all.

Three days into 2018 Pop succumbed to the cancer we could not beat.  I don’t have to tell you how badly that hurt.  I started comparing the timelines and sizing up his cancer journey and my OIB journey.  Both began on the same day. Both ended within just a few weeks of each other. Both turned my world upside down.  Both were beautiful and painful. Both would leave permanent marks on my heart.

The following month I spent my birthday in training for the new bank.  My heart was still heavy, my body was still tired, and my head hurt with too much new information. While I had only six months of procedures to re-learn, my co-workers had years’ worth. I was quite surprised (and somewhat ashamed) at the relief I felt as more and more people joined me in my unsteady little boat of The Unknown.  I finally felt like we were all on the same ground, rather than me being in a pit while everyone else stood far above me. To be fair, some days we were all above the pit, and some days we were all down in it, but at least we were together.  Misery does indeed love company.

It was somewhat similar at home.  Some days we were all smiles and some days we were just weepy messes. Oh, I could talk a good game – God’s plan for our lives, waiting patiently on the Lord, no need to worry about tomorrow, blah blah blah.  I was saying it, but I wasn’t instantly buying into it even as the words were passing my lips.  Okay, yes, my heart knew the truth.  But it was like my brain had just been through a war-zone video game that it couldn’t shake even though the game was over.  There were no winners in that game, by the way; it was all just destruction and shambles – programmed blood and pixelated gore that I couldn’t unsee.  There was real loss that I couldn’t unfeel.

I recall one particular Spring day when I was feeling especially down and I was complaining to Dom that making new friends at work had not been easy, that I missed terribly the sisterhood I left behind at the Catholic Center, and that I didn’t know if I’d ever have that level of emotional camaraderie again.  His response gutted me. “I know how you feel,” he said. “Think of who I hung out with, who I shared everything with when I wasn’t with you. Daddy was my best friend; we did everything together. If I wasn’t with you or at work, I was with him. I don’t have that anymore.”

The realization stung as it sunk in.  I had been so laser-focused on what I was missing that I failed to see the innumerable layers to Dom’s loss.  My selfishness had known no bounds.

I wasn’t willing to ignore our feelings at home, and fortunately neither was Dom.  We began to set aside time every night just to be together and talk about our day with no distractions. We tried to make sense of where we were, both personally and professionally.  Did we want what we had? Did we like who we were? Were we simply too scared to change? The answers varied, depending on the day’s events, but ultimately we realized that we had been changed by our experiences, not ruined by them.  The question that remained was simply, “What now?”

In the midst of our grief-filled year, we had some pretty significant events – Aaron graduated from high school and we dropped him off at college. I managed to distract myself from the additional changes in our home by focusing on travel, crafts and holiday party plans.  But December found me at my lowest point. For the first time in memory, my favorite season of all was not filled with hope and wonder and peace. I had no spare vacation time and was working through Christmas. I came home one night in tears and vowed to Dom, “I will not do this to another Christmas season. I have to have a different job before this time next year.”

As 2018 became dust and shadows I realized that we had been to Mass approximately four times during the year, not counting Pop’s funeral.  How had I been such an idiot?  No wonder the year had been so hard.  I prayed still, but my prayers were more akin to venting sessions with the hopes of a magic eraser.  They lacked gratitude.  I began to see that as a general rule, I lacked gratitude.  This had to change.

“We gotta go to Mass,” I finally told Dom after the year anniversary of Pop’s death.  “We gotta get our butts back in a pew or we are never going to recover from this.”

He nodded.  “I feel it too.  We need a major change, though.  Maybe a different church.”

I could be on board with this.  I understood the sentiment.  We needed a drastic enough change that we could see and feel a fresh, new start. “Okay,” I said. “But, can I ask one thing?  When we change churches, can we still be Catholic?”

“I’m not gonna quit being Catholic!” he exclaimed, and then we both laughed – he with amusement and I with relief.

There were so many issues with changing churches that my stomach soured at the thought of addressing them all.  Victoria was in the middle of her Confirmation year; I served on the church finance council; our church had a new pastor whom I deeply respected and whose feelings I did not want to hurt; we had grown to love so many of the congregation members, and all of those people had supported us and loved us through the highs and lows of the previous twelve years. There was no way leaving wasn’t going to be awkward.

I decided to start with the pastor of the church we would attend: the church where it all started – where I fell in love with Midnight Mass, where I became Catholic, where we were married, where our children first learned how to sit still in a pew. In other words, home.  I called Father Tim, whom I know from my days at the Catholic Center, and said, “I need confession and consultation.”  He came to my office and we talked about all my issues. There wasn’t a single problem I brought up for which he didn’t have a reassuring answer. It was not official, sacramental “confession,” though I did share with him all the ways I had gone wrong in the past year and my general state of discontent.

“You need to come back and work for the church,” he said.  I laughed.  He didn’t.  “Why not?”

It was the question that would start the healing I needed.  The next time I saw him, he outlined a job description for a new position he was creating. I didn’t tell him right away, but that description was exactly what I had decided I wanted to do – a little HR, a little insurance, budgeting, facility management – basically, managing a small business.  I just never thought that business would be a church.  But, if I’m qualified for anything, it’s a church job. We touched base with each other several times over the next two months while he fine-tuned the position and took applications and I prayed for direction.

“You still interested?” he’d ask.

“Yep.” I handed him my resume. “You still hiring?”

“Yep.”

It became official on April 17, 2019, just a few weeks past the two-year anniversary of the kick-off of my journey. I got the job.  I’m back in the fold.  I’m going home.

In The Lord of the Rings epic, Tolkien wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost.” It feels like I have wandered for two solid years, and I frequently felt lost. Hindsight is 20/20, and only now I can look back and see that I may have lost myself but God never lost me.  Even when I let go of his hand, he still had my back.  He blessed me with new, dear friends and a bank “family” who consoled me in my loss and lifted me with their daily presence for two years. Perhaps he blessed me with a little darkness so that I could appreciate the light. And he blessed me with opportunity – to sacrifice, to grow and to love.  My mental image is of me as a child, toddling away toward something shiny while God gently reaches out and holds a belt loop to keep me steady. The toddler, oblivious to everything in the periphery, is only aiming for what’s ahead, and what’s ahead is always going to be unknown to us.  But we learn when we wander.  We learn so much.

 

** Since this post contains Dom’s feelings as well as mine, I had him read it to be sure he was okay with my sharing and required no edits before this was published.  He said he had only one edit from my original draft: that I share my mental image of God as Henry Blake from M*A*S*H. It’s true.  From the time I was little, I envisioned God with Colonel Blake’s quirky hat and fishing vest, complete the the pinned lures. I have no idea why I made that association at such a young age, but there it is.  Since Henry Blake was always smiling and happy, yet still Large-and-In-Charge, I suppose it’s fitting in its own way.  I can definitely picture him corralling a toddler by the belt loop.  And that’s good enough for me.

The Process

We all grieve.  We grieve things, circumstances, pets, people. It’s a process.  It’s long and it’s messy. I hate messy.

Sometimes during the process I realize all over again the finality of the situation. The bus just pulled away from the station without me. The person I love is on the bus. Gone.  Just like that.  Can’t call him.  Can’t go visit. No more last minute Hey-would-you-mind or How’s-your-day-been.  The imaginary line just buzzes, or worse, I get that upward ringing tri-tone and the voice that annoys me even though it’s pleasant. “We’re sorry.  The person you are trying to reach…”

I know, I know. He’s gone. I get it.

For the last two nights I’ve dreamed about Pop. They’re perfectly normal days and circumstances in the dreams, except that I’m aware Pop is supposed to be dead.  I’m glad he’s not, but I’m confused.  He awakes from his chair, round faced and wide-eyed. “Hey!” he says as he gets up and walks outside.  The family follows. He chats ‘em up.  I hear him laughing. That laugh.

I’m staring dumbfounded after him. I turn to my sister-in-law. “They embalmed him,” I say. “How is he walking and talking?” She shrugs.  And then she smiles.

“Where are the groceries?” Pop asks as he throws his arms around a grandson. Groceries are dinner. Pop’s ready to eat. What in the world is that doing in my dream? I don’t know, but there it is. I hear him laugh again.

I think of cooking, and suddenly remember that my food-prep knives are dull.  Really dull.  Pop always sharpened them for me.  I’d send them next door and he would bring them back, five deadly weapons wrapped neatly in newspaper. “Wash those before you use them,” he would advise. Hey, maybe Pop can sharpen my knives while he’s here.  I’ll ask him after dinner.

Pop moves to stand beside me and I examine his profile.  His hair is not the white I expected.  It’s black, peppered with a little grey, I notice. He’s younger than when I last saw him. How is that possible? I reach to touch him and he moves away.  If he’s aware of my confusion, he doesn’t let on. I let it go. Food. Pop was hungry.  I need to get food made.  I turn toward a kitchen I do not recognize and wonder why my legs are bound. I can’t move as freely as I should. I look down into nothing.

My eyes open and I’m staring at my bedroom ceiling. My legs are bound by the sheets, comforter, and a Siberian Retriever. Move over, Max.  I gotta go help fix dinner.

Except that I don’t. There’s no dinner to fix. No Pop to eat it. The realization brings back the heaviness. Ding, dinng, dinnng… “The person you are trying to reach…”

This sucks.

When the Sun Shines Again

It’s been ten days since Pop left us.  So many people have offered consolation and wisdom for what we face.  They tell me it will get easier, that time and memories will see us through.  I believe them.  I have certainly found reasons to smile and laugh in these past days, but I also find that I cry over the smallest things now.

I think it’s the moments in between the moments that get me the most.  The quiet moments when my mind is still.  That’s when I think of the little things, just out of the blue.  Like lunch, and how every day when Dom and I would meet at home for a lunch of leftovers from last night’s dinner, we would be stirring or re-heating or pulling plates out of a cabinet and he would casually ask, “Want me to see if Pop wants any?”

“Of course,” I’d say. “There’s enough.”

A few minutes later Pop would come striding through the side door into our kitchen, tea glass in hand. “Hello, hello,” he’d say, quickly followed by, “Get back!” as he admonished our dogs to stop greeting him with such enthusiasm.  He would stroll around the island and take a seat at one of the middle barstools before launching into a lively conversation about something on the news that day, or a chat he’d had with a friend that morning. Many conversation topics began with Pop waving his hand in the air as a means of pointing our attention in a certain direction as he stated, “Dominic, we need to…” followed by a task or chore that he wanted Dom’s help with somewhere on the property.

Pop would eat with us, compliment the meal, then lean back in his chair with a satisfied sigh before saying, “Alright. Let me get back to your mom. Thanks for lunch. It was delicious.”

“Alright, Pop,” Dom would say. “See you tonight.”

I’d chime in with, “You’re welcome, Dad. See you later.”

And then Pop would walk out the door with one last, “Thank you.”

Pop thanked us every time he saw us, even when I didn’t feel like we had done anything to be thanked for. Each time I told him goodbye, he would answer with, “Good night, now. Thank you.”

The last time we spoke he thanked me. I truly feel like it should have been the other way around. Of course, I didn’t know that was to be our last conversation. That night, it should have been me thanking him – for unbridled laughter, for raising his boys to be perfect gentlemen and showing them how to be great husbands and fathers, for being an amazing father-in-law, for letting me see his own strength as well as weakness, and possibly for leaving that strength behind so that each of us who miss him can use it to get through the hard times without him.

I imagine it will always sting when I think of the things we won’t get to do again with him. But I will be forever grateful for the time we had and for the gifts of his love and laughter, which he shared with all who knew him, holding nothing back. I will remember to say “Thank you” every time I think of him, and I will smile at the memories. One of my favorite Rose Kennedy quotes reminds me that it’s okay to find joy even after loss: “Birds sing after a storm.  Why shouldn’t people feel as free to rejoice in whatever sunlight remains to them?”

You know me.  I’ll be looking for the sunshine.

Robert Joseph Mainiero
October 27, 1942 – January 3, 2018

 

 

 

The Vaulted Files: Pop’s Eulogy

This is the eulogy I wrote and read at Pop’s funeral vigil, January 7, 2018. Some of my most treasured essays are on this blog, so it belongs here, late though it is. I am backdating it to fall in line with other essays from the same period.  – LSM 12/28/19

On behalf of our family I want to thank each of you for being with us tonight.  Whether you personally know just one or all of us, we have felt and have been lifted by your kindness, your concern, your love and support, and most importantly your prayers.  You have fed us, held us, laughed and cried with us.  You have allowed us to lean on you and have given us strength. When we cursed our darkness, you lit a candle –  with a phone call or a text, or a simple Facebook message. Some of you quite literally lit candles, and I love you for it. You let us know we weren’t alone, and you shared our pain as much as you could.  We are forever grateful.

For those among you who don’t know me, I’m Lori, the middle daughter-in-law. I belong to Dominic.  I call Charolette and Bob “Mom and Dad” and they call me their daughter. Melissa, Kasie and I are fortunate to have been embraced by Mom and Dad so openly – so completely – that they do not distinguish between the children they birthed and the children they acquired.

I don’t remember the day I actually met Dad, but I do remember the first time I ever saw him.  Mom and Dad came to our college campus to watch an intramural soccer game. Charolette sat in a lawn chair on the west edge of the field while Bob stood a few feet away on the sideline with Dominic. I was positioned a good distance behind the men, where I could bear witness to the physical similarities between them. Dominic and Bob stood side by side, each with one hand hanging on a hip or a pants pocket, one leg bearing most of the weight while the other leg bent just slightly at the knee.  That day on the soccer field I felt as if I was looking at two versions of the same person, brought together by a thin fold of time, as if past and future were somehow overlaid and allowed to coexist in the same space for a single moment.  I thought to myself, “I must really like this boy. I mean, I can see what he’s going to look like in thirty years and I’m still interested.”

As the pages of our days turned over and new chapters were written, I learned that nothing put a smile on Dad’s face like his grandbabies.  With the patience of Job and what I can only imagine were built-in noise-cancelling eardrums, he paced the floor with gassy, screaming infants; tolerated the most obnoxious clanging toys; and remained unphased by temper tantrums.  When my daughter announced at age three that she liked Papa best and I inquired why, her answer confirmed what I had suspected all along: “Because Papa never tells me ‘no!’”

If you knew Dad personally, then you know how he loved to help people.  If you were ever on the asking end, you could be certain he would not turn you down.  Need twelve cords of wood split?  Here he comes.  Need something welded? Bring it on over.  Need extra hands digging trenches, cleaning gutters or serving meals? Make room for Bob.

In addition to saving stockpiles of random lumber, PVC and metal pipes, Dad was known to salvage every nut, bolt and moving part from every machine he or his boys ever owned.  In fact, they are all in his garage right now.  I affectionately call Dad’s garage the Rusty Home Depot because if you needed anything that Home Depot sells, and you don’t mind a little rust on it, you can get it from Dad’s garage for free.

Dad lived happy and could laugh about almost anything (and frequently did, much to Mom’s annoyance.) In all the years I knew him, I saw Dad get angry maybe three times.  I saw him cry.  None of us likes to cry in front of people, but Dad was never ashamed of it. I saw him break, fully and wildly, only once and that was because one of his sons was in danger.  I learned in that moment that nothing – not recent triple bypass or a seventy pound table in his way – would keep him from holding his boy.

When I began to write this I had two goals in mind: to honor Dad and to comfort my family, so I will address this last part to the first few rows.  This is not the end.  Papa’s life is not over. He has gone where we cannot follow, but only for now.  There will be moments when our minds will naturally expect to see Papa, and our hearts will break again when we remember that he is not here.  For me, it will be every time I look out my kitchen window and expect to see him tinkering in the well house or watering his plants, with Lady wagging her tail beside him, faithfully following wherever he goes.

This will be hard, but we have each other.  We will cry together; we will hurt together.  And we will still gather for Sunday lunch, even when we don’t feel like eating.  Our hearts are broken but they are not empty, and none of us has to bear this pain alone.  Papa loved each of us deeply, and it is our job now to nurture that love among us and pass it to the next generations.  His joy for life will live in our memories.  His laughter will echo in our hearts.  We will see him in each other, and one day, after we have lived a life as full as he did, when we arrive on the other side, we will hear that booming laughter again, and we will know we are home.

This Is the Day the Lord Has Made

It’s funny, the things you remember once your brain gets past bad news.  I’ve been in a funk lately.  Duh, right? No, it was more than a sick-family-member funk.  It was a why-is-the-world-like-this funk. A what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this and how-will-I-ever-get past-this funk. I was run down from emotion and circumstance and the general 2017-ness of it all.  I’d had enough.

To be honest, I recall many details of the past year, but it flew by.  Seriously.  Wasn’t it just last month that Pop was diagnosed? It was April.  Has it really been eight months? No.  Where did the year go? I’ll tell ya where it went.  It spiraled down a swirling vortex of suck, flinging out tiny moments for my memory to hold on to. Little snapshot photographs.  A conversation here.  A milestone there.

Until yesterday.  Yesterday I decided to get my spirit back on track.  I threw myself a little pep rally right there in front of my computer at work. The day was decent.  Baby steps. I held another pep rally this morning in the car on the way to work.  It’s not my car, actually.  It’s Pop’s truck.  After my van was totaled a month ago we decided not to replace it right away.  Pop’s truck had been sitting dormant in his driveway for the better part of the year. Suddenly the truck needed a driver, and I needed wheels.  We seemed a perfect match.

Can I state for the record that I am sooooo not a pickup truck driver?  There it is. But back to the pep rally.

I turned the wheel of Pop’s truck and literally said to myself, “You’ll never get past this if you can’t be grateful. It’s time to move on.” It’s a whole new year, I reasoned.  And, as much as I miss the comfort and convenience of my van, at least Pop’s truck has heated seats.

Although I’m usually having these conversations with God, today I was talking to myself.  He answered anyway. As I straightened out onto another street, a verse lodged in my head. “This is the day that the Lord has made.  Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Be glad in the day.  Not hard, right? Be glad that we have this day. I’ve said repeatedly over the last few months that God only gives us one day at a time and that’s all we should concern ourselves with.  So what’s up with all my moodiness lately? It serves no one, least of all God. I’m his child.  I’m the daughter of a King, I reminded myself. THE King. Whatever today brings, He and I can handle it together.

The call came in just after 2:30 this afternoon. Pop was gone.

Twelve hours later I rolled over in bed, aware that Dom was up, aware once more of the events of our day. I closed my eyes and instantly saw Pop’s steering wheel and the ridiculous half-patched bump in the road I take to work, the sun blazing down on me as I drove in freezing temperatures. I recalled my conversation with myself and God’s interjection. I can see now how He was preparing me. Be grateful… Take one day at a time.  I thought I was preparing myself for a good day.  He was preparing me for a hard one. “This is the day the Lord has made.”

I will rejoice and be glad in it.  Even as my heart breaks.

For the Love of Country

Tags

country music, Country Music Festival 2017, Las Vegas, Route 91 Harvest

For the love of country music, for the wounded, the grieving, and the taken…

I awoke from an unsettling dream in the middle of the night and rolled over in my bed, shoving my feet underneath Mabel for warmth and, admittedly, security. My mind replayed scenes from the dream in an effort to dissect the more disturbing parts of it.  And then I heard voices from outside myself, suddenly aware that we had fallen asleep with the television on.

A reporter’s words vied for my attention: “shooting,” “concert,” “dead,” “wounded.” When I blinked my eyes and focused on the context, I heard a gentleman explaining what it was like to have his buddy shot in the chest right in front of him at a country music concert.

Dear God.

In the wee hours of the morning we had confirmed 20 souls taken and 100 injured. I watched throughout the day as the numbers climbed to unfathomable levels. This afternoon, I paused in the kitchen of my office building to absorb the information that we now knew of 58 people who had died, with a staggering 515 injured.

I hurt for the people injured and for the families of those whose loved ones won’t come home from that concert. I hurt for the country music family. People had gathered to have a good time, and their memory of that event, perhaps even their love for the music itself, will be forever scarred.  That breaks my heart in ways I cannot even begin to express.

Last call, last chance
Last song, last dance
Sometimes you just don’t know when that’s gonna be
Hold me baby, give me a kiss
Like tonight is all there is
‘Cause there’s a last time for everything

I do not know what makes a person want to hurt, much less kill, someone they have never met.  Seriously, if you want to hurt someone who has never wronged you in any way, then a large part of you is quirked up far beyond my meager understanding.  But I will say this: hiding behind a gun for fame or acknowledgement is the pinnacle of cowardice. Those who shamelessly kill innocent people are the biggest cowards, perhaps even the very weakest among us, whether due to a blackness in their souls or a sickness in their minds. I cannot say what medical, security or domestic policies – if any – can address this deficiency in our society.  Smarter people than I will have to figure that one out, and I pray they can.  What I do know is the people suffering the most from last night’s tragedy were just trying to chill, to sing and dance and to have a good time.  But we are Americans, and only if we have the courage to band together beyond all of our differences will we rise.

I’m a riser
I’m a get up off the ground, don’t run and hider
When pushin’ comes to shovin’, I’m a fighter
When darkness comes to town, I’m a lighter

I am so over the recent discussions that have divided our nation because quite frankly I think these subjects have been protested to death and gnawing on them has yet to bring us to better action. Do you want your neighbor to succeed, to truly be “equal?” Then lift him up. Want inequality to be a thing of the past? Then teach your children that all are equal, regardless of race, income or religion. Want both our leaders and our children to be respectful of all people? Then we ourselves must model that respect in our homes, in our workplaces, in our congregations, and even on the road in our minivans and SUVs. Reach out your hand and shake the one of the person next to you, no matter where you are.  It is so much harder to hate someone when you look in their eyes and admit they are just like you.

Raise ’em up
Fist black and blue, fight for the truth
It’s what you do
Hand on your heart for the stripes and stars…
Raise ‘em up tall and strong
Raise ‘em up right from wrong
Raise ’em up so damn high they can hear God singing along

As a Christian I know that this life is not meant to be the easy one.  Lately, I am reminded of that daily because the good Lord gave me a thick head and only He has the patience necessary to put the same message in front of me day after day after day. Sadly, I will have the privilege of singing along to a Jason Aldean song on the radio a year from now without being jolted back to the horrific events of last night.  Not everyone can say that, and my prayers are infinitely with them.

May we all do a little bit better than the first time
Learn a little something from the worst times
Get a little stronger from the hurt times…

To the artists who make the music, and the people who are held together by it, my heart is with you all.

(Apologies to Brad, Dierks, Keith and FGL for the lifting of your lyrics, but they have always lifted me.)

 

Lady Bird

There’s something special about Yellow Labradors.  Obviously, I would think this.  I am intentionally and understandably biased.  I’ve known only two such creatures up-close and personal, but that’s enough to solidify the belief.

It was the summer of 2005 and Pop was ready for a new puppy.  We learned of free ones by way of my mom who worked for a local animal hospital. I don’t recall the reason this litter was free, but they were, and that was enough to make us load up the kids on a hot June day and drive miles out into the country to pick out a puppy for Papa.   My kids were 3 and 4; my nephew, Lucas, was 2½. And, as they say in poker, these kids were “all in.”

Aaron, Lady and Dom. 2005.

 

“This one. We want this one.” (p.s. I love those pigtails!)

Victoria had the privilege of choosing the pup, which she did with wholehearted enthusiasm.  She picked out a fluffy, short-legged, ivory female and we all passed the pup around to inspect her cuddle-worthiness. Lucas got the honor of naming her, a task he performed with equal dedication.  Victoria recalls vividly that without hesitation Lucas declared the pup’s name would be “Lady,” in honor of his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine train, a purple locomotive that Lucas “carried with him everywhere,” according to Vic.

Lucas and Lady on the car ride home. June 12, 2005.

Victoria and Lady, June 12, 2005

This next picture makes me wonder if Lady, on that first day at her new home, was looking at Pop’s feet and knowing she would follow them all the days of her life.  For all the love and attention she got from the members of our family, she was – first and foremost – Papa’s girl, and she knew it!  When we built our home next door to Mom and Pop in 2012 we were already accustomed to Lady following him wherever he went.  They seemed to be joined together, so loyal was Lady to Pop.  Any time I saw Lady wandering the property without Pop in view, I would ask her, “Where’s Papa?  Take me to Papa.” And she would.

Over the years Lady earned more than a few nicknames.  “Lady Bird” was the most common in the early days, though that sometimes just got shortened to “Bird,” and then “Bird Dog” was the next natural progression. But our favorite nickname of all was the one she earned while our home was being built.  Lady and Pop would walk next door to see the progress each day, and Lady was comfortable enough with the various people on the property that she allowed herself some exploration time while Pop visited with our builder.  One morning on her daily building inspection, she wandered out to a pickup truck whose door had been left open.  She jumped inside and stole the breakfast burrito of one of the gentlemen who was working on our house.  That move earned her the name “Burrito,” and ensured that all workers on our property kept their car doors closed.

Lady loved trailing Pop on new adventures, and she left her sweet little mark wherever she went, even in the cement of the pad of my front steps.

Lady’s pad prints 9-12-12

Bird Dog prints at our construction site. 2012.

I used to love looking out of my kitchen window to see Pop watering his plants in his front yard, with Lady wagging her tail faithfully beside him.  If Pop drove away, Lady waited patiently at the driveway, eyeing every car that drove down the street to be sure she didn’t miss the very moment Pop would arrive home.  I remember the day I drove Pop’s truck somewhere, and Lady ran at the truck with unbridled joy when I returned with it and pulled into the drive.  She was noticeably disappointed to see me emerge from the vehicle rather than Pop.  I tried not to take it personally; I knew who her favorite person was.

Sometimes when I would pull my own vehicle into my driveway at the end of the day, Lady would come to greet me.  There was more than one occasion on which I opened my door without knowing she was there, only to have her lunge in at me in a tail-wagging welcome.  It was our custom to greet her and love on her for a few minutes before saying, “OK, Lady, go home.”  She would wag her tail some more and then head back toward her own house, stopping several times to look over her shoulder at us, as if providing the opportunity for us to change our minds.

Lady loved being a part of any adventure, so when Pop chose to be indoors she would often come check out the activity at our house.  One day she decided to help Dom with the yard work and climbed up on the riding mower with him.

Lady helping Dom mow. 2013.

Lady loved to be close, and if we offered to pet her while visiting with each other in the yard she would lean into our legs, rest her head in our lap and raise one paw up to place on our knee. Mom was forever telling her to put her paw down.  For the promise of more ear scratches, Lady always obeyed.

Dom and Victoria were Lady’s beauticians.  They would pull up a lawn chair and brush her whenever she started looking too scruffy, which – considering that she was an outdoor dog – was pretty often. One day last summer we commented that it was time for another brushing because the fur on her haunches was collecting like cobwebs.  Three days later, we noted that Lady was looking finely coiffed and I complimented Dom on the brushing he had obviously given her.

“I didn’t brush her,” he replied.  “I guess Vic did.”

So we complimented Vic on the job well done, and she replied in a similar fashion.  Wasn’t her.  Must have been Papa.

Pop claimed it wasn’t he who brushed her, and the mystery remained for the rest of the week.  On Saturday we were tinkering in Pop’s garage when we noticed Lady was not in her usual spot at Pop’s heels.  After searching the property and coming up empty, Pop got on the four-wheeler and Dom and I got in the truck to go looking for her.  We turned separate ways at the end of the street.  We searched for about twenty minutes before Pop called us.  Lady was home again.  He had found her walking toward home, away from a large pond about a quarter mile away.  She was soaking wet and happy as she could be.  We determined that she must have taken up bathing at the edge of the pond where the water rushes down a bed of rocks, fueled by what I think is some sort of fountain system for the subdivision that edges it. The speed of the water must have provided her a good brushing, not to mention some relief from the summer heat.

Leading the way back home, March 2016.

When Pop got sick this past Spring we started noticing Lady really showing her age.  Right after Pop’s third chemo treatment a couple of weeks ago, Lady had taken to laying around in the garage and not doing much socializing.  I sat down next to her and loved on her a bit, thinking that she was sad because she hadn’t seen Pop in several days.  He just hadn’t felt like coming outside.  As I rubbed her ears, I thought of the 80’s movie E.T. and the potted geranium that wilted as E.T.’s heartlight began to fade.  “Are you and Papa connected that much?” I asked her.  I heard Mom over my shoulder say, “I think they are.”

Lady tried to bounce back a little for a couple of days once Pop was feeling better, but her appetite waned.  Then yesterday, she wouldn’t get up at all.  In what seemed like a matter of mere days, her eyes aged and grew tired; her body withered.  We made an appointment with our veterinarian today, and even though I hoped for good news and a treatment plan, my heart knew the truth my mouth could not speak.  It was time to let Lady go.

At Mom’s request Lady is buried in our backyard next to Mason.  Together they are the two most generous, most loving big yella dogs this earth will ever know, and I am honored to have had them in my life.  I thumbed through a list of quotes today that I selected when Mason died, but as I remember how little our kids were on the day we got Lady and how she has been a part of every day since, I think Luke Bryan’s 2015 song says it best:

And I thought we would be together
Go on and on just like that, forever
But I was young back then, I guess I just didn’t know
Little boys grow up and dogs get old.

Rest in peace, sweet Lady Bird.  And please give Mason our love.

Pop and Lady, April 2017.

Dumbledore and McGonagall

When I first stumbled into Harry Potter lore, the characters sprang at me from the pages, just as they did for many of you. After reading Book Five I began identifying pieces of the characters in people that I knew personally. Some pieces larger than others…

He was the tall, strong and gentle headmaster. The professor of professors among our small Hogwarts community. Our leader. Our anchor. He even had a funny hat to wear with his position.

She was the ever-present and ever-protective right-hand professor. She ruled the school with as much tenacity as any Minister of Magic ever could. She didn’t wear a hat. She didn’t need to.

He was the grandfather-type who entertained and educated us with every conversation. She was the no-nonsense matriarch who kept everyone on task, including him.

She stood by his side through the ups and downs of forging a new frontier. She dutifully gathered the brooms and arranged the class schedules. She loved us and mothered us and admonished us when necessary to make sure we could stand on our own someday. She quirked an eyebrow each time he cracked a joke.

Both were icons in my early adult years. They were there when the rest of my life stretched endlessly before me. They carried with them an immense respect for each other’s spirit and space. Always keeping their propriety, they were a dynamic duo, a hardworking team.

I will never forget the first time I heard her address him as anything other than the title by which we all called him. “Bill,” she said simply, as unassuming as the stoic voice that began quiet conversations with, “Albus…”

She retired just before he did. A lady always knows when to leave. Neither has been at our little Hogwarts for close to ten years. Students and professors have come and gone in the years since. Yet we can never deny the lasting impact of these two stately figures on who we were and who we are now.

As they placed his wand in his casket and prepared the White Tomb, we learned that she, too, had slipped quietly through the smoky veil. We mourn all over again the end of an era that was already in the annals of our history. The closing of the coffins echoes the closing of Book Seven. And the rest of us are left to write the next series without them.

Rest in peace, professors. We’ll see you in the portrait frames.