Beau

Dad with the camera-shy Beau, Jan 2009

Beau is my mom's dog, and that's how he seems to be known.  Although I did help pick him out, I've never lived with him and can't call him *mine*.  Last year, when Dad could still walk and I would  bring Beau to visit, Dad would parade him around on the leash and tell everyone, "This is Beau.  He's my mom's dog," because that's what he heard me say.  When I talk to Mom's neighbors, they ask me, "How's your Mom?  How's Beau?"  They're a package deal. 


My childhood dog, Rusty, made it to the ripe old age of 16 before we had to put him down.  I was living in Chicago at the time, but came up to hold him at the end.  While is was sad for all of us, he suffered very little and led a happy, if slightly neurotic, life.  Mom made it four months before deciding she needed another dog- she missed the companionship, the greetings at the end of the day, and the discipline it took to get him out for walks.  We drove down to the Anti-Cruelty Society, where we had gotten Rusty years  before, and surveyed the dogs available for adoption.  What we found was a Goldilocks situation- some were too big, others were too small, some were too old, others were too young...but there was one, a 4 year-old golden retriever/cocker spaniel mix named Bear, who was Just Right.  However, it seemed another family thought so, too- Bear's kennel had an "Adoption Pending" sign on it, and we weren't allowed to take him out.  Disappointed, we walked around again, and Mom considered a few others, but I kept insisting that Bear was the right one for her.  When we got back to Bear again, the sign was gone- the other family had decided not to get him!  On the car ride home, Mom decided to change his name to Beau, and he's been her companion, ally, accomplice, and friend ever since. 



He really, really hates cameras!

Beau, however, was not four years old, like the shelter told us.  After a thorough exam and review of his files, the vet assured us that he was a fit and healthy eight year old.  Ideally, Mom had been looking for a younger dog that would be around for longer.  It was too late, though- he and Mom had already fully bonded.  Dad calls him a Momma's Boy, and I've never seen anything like it.  He follows her around from room to room, and stares pathetically out the back door when she goes out without him, which is rare.  He is welcomed on all her usual errands- the cleaners, hardware store, bread store- and everyone on Central Street seems to know him.  They give him treats at the bank and send me home with one if I go there without him.  I've tried to take him for a walk while she's home, but he's slipped out of the collar and trotted back to the house so many times I've all but given up.  I've dog-sat for him on two occasions while Mom was away, and he was just distraught.  They are regulars at the unofficial Doggie Park a few blocks away, and while Beau can't keep up with the puppies running around he does enjoy sniffing his friends Pablo the labrador and Ashley the male pug.

Now that he's almost 16, he's slowed down quite a bit.  He sleeps 21 hours a day, but for those other three he is full of life.  No matter how many times he goes in the backyard, there seems to constantly be something new to explore and there's always the possibility of finding a squirrel to chase or a bird to bark at.  Most days, Mom gets him out for at least one walk, which is great for both of them.  I'm thankful for the socialization and exercise it provides, and she has to test her finger mobility to attach the leash and pick up his droppings.  As a worried daughter, I do feel a sense of ease knowing he's there with her.  He's a constant in her life, and a source of unconditional love and companionship when so many other things in her future are scary and uncertain.  Last week there was a little panic- Beau had blood coming out of both ends- and Mom took him to the Animal 911 on Saturday night.  He turned out to be okay, but it shook both of us up quite a bit.  If ever there was a case for canine cloning, it's Beau.  In my perfect world, Beau would either live forever or Mom would be able to get an identical, younger version of him when he drifts off to doggie heaven.  Since that's not likely to happen, I'm going to have to accept that Mom will be *okay* without him.  It will be hard, and she will have to adjust and grieve.  And in the realm of things, he's *just a dog*, but anyone who has ever had a pet knows that's bullshit.  Beau is family.  I love him for being the best possible second dog we could have found.  He's been the perfect companion for the past seven years, and has helped Mom in ways I can't.  For that, too, I will always thank him. 



A Thousand Words

When I first heard about the party Dad's nursing home was hosting, I was really excited.  The Harvest Ball sounded like a great way to bring joy to the residents' often mundane schedule, meet their family members, celebrate the tireless work the staff does, and just have a good time.  The invitation said it was a "formal event", and with the help of the secondhand store owner I picked out a dashing outfit for Dad.  When I showed him the clothes he nodded in approval, and I told him he would be my special date at the party.  He agreed that an evening of music, dancing, food, and celebration would be fun. 

When my friend and I arrived last night, Dad was already dressed and in the main room.  For a brief moment I had tears in my eyes- he was cleaned, groomed, and more dapper looking than I had seen him in over a year.  It was quite a change from the usual sweatpants, drool, and stains from lunch that greet me.  Even at 85, he hasn't lost any of his handsome charm and he looked more elegant than ever.  As I walked over to him, however, I realized he seemed to have tears in his eyes as well.  At first, I thought maybe he was just overwhelmed by all the people and excitement, and I assured him that I would stay and we would have fun.  The band was playing some of his old favorites- Bye Bye Blackbird, Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, and a stream of Sinatra classics- usually songs he enjoys.  Suddenly he muttered under his breath, "I can't stand the music", and then he said it louder.  I started singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," his reliable favorite, and he calmed down.  Although he still seemed irritated, I asked if he wanted to leave and he said no. 

We continued to sing along with the band, and I danced with some of the other residents and staff.  Picture a room full of octogenarians in their Sunday best doing the Funky Chicken and drinking O'Doul's, and you get the idea.  Although Dad wasn't smiling, he wasn't really complaining either, and except for a few brief spats of profanity he appeared less agitated.  He looked confused, perhaps perplexed, but not really upset, and insisted he didn't want to leave.  At the end of the night, I brought him back to his room and he thanked me for visiting.  The nurse said they would change him and give him his evening meds.   



The fear and confusion in his eyes is evident

 All day today I've been filled with guilt and uncertainty.  I'm questioning if I did the right thing by bringing him, given the bittersweet reaction he had.  He can be incredibly combative, and I'm sure it was a struggle for the staff to get him dressed, not to mention distressing for him.  Part of me wishes I had gone there earlier to help get him ready, but I know I can't be there all the time and need to set boundaries.  Although he said the music bothered him, he also was able to sing along and I want to think that the recognition was comforting to him.  I want to think that getting dressed up and having a distraction from his usual routine of dinner at 4:30p and spending the night in front of the television was stimulating, but maybe I'm wrong.  Was hearing the old music traumatic for him?  Was watching other people dance too much of a reminder of his own deterioration?  Was seeing his neighbors surrounded by loved ones difficult, given that he hasn't seen most of his family in years?  Should I have not taken him out of his regular routine, or challenged him to adapt?  Did I naively and selfishly think in some way that he would settle in and everything would be like "old times"?  He looks scared and perplexed in all the pictures we took, and I fear that maybe the evening did more harm than good.  Try as I do, I am having more and more trouble interpreting his words and actions and am scared that my good intentions sometimes don't come through.  I am left with knowing that my efforts will often not be enough, and it's distressing to try to accept. 

The Back Burner

When I started this blog, my goal was to update it every 3-4 days.  I'm not sure why I picked that number, but it seemed like a feasible task.  I didn't want it to seem like a burden, because writing in here is something I enjoy immensely, but I needed a little push and incentive to take time out and do it.  The first month or so was easy- maybe my schedule wasn't as busy, or the excitement of something new made it a priority, or my brain was feeling particularly creative then.  Whatever the case, I somehow got distracted and realized it's now been two weeks since my last post.  Yikes. 

It's not that I haven't had ideas- I write in my blog in my head when I'm driving or lying in bed at night or swimming.  But that kind of defeats the purpose of a blog- the idea of sharing your ideas.  Why haven't I written?  I HAVE been busy.  I HAVE been distracted.  I've been working, juggling paperwork and visits and phone calls for Dad, attending to out-of-town guests, going to meetings and appointments, spending time with friends, enjoying the beautiful fall weather...doing laundry, er, um, surfing the web...



The "before" picture

 While all valid, those are all excuses.  The truth is that I didn't make it a priority.  There are 24 hours in each day, and I didn't choose to put 15 of those aside to do this.  Consequently, it built up in my head as this *big thing* I had to do, and I felt guilty about not doing it, which started to almost make me dread it.  There are so many nagging tasks that we put off- things that are on the "to-do" list but never quite make it to the "Done" list.  For me, finally taking care of them is an incredibly rewarding feeling, no matter how small the task is.  I went two weeks once without putting the windshield wiper fluid in my car, even though I had a gallon of it rolling around in the trunk.  Every time I tried to clean the windshield, I was reminded of "one more thing" that I haven't done.  When I finally took the 2 minutes to do it, I felt so much calmer.  It seems silly, but those little things really do make a difference. 

I had three items on my List that I kept putting off and finally realized I needed to make them a priority.  So this morning, I set aside an hour and a half to write the long overdue thank you card to a dear friend, go through the huge pile of paperwork that had been building on my desk, yes, update my blog.  So far I'm 2-for-3.  My desk is cleaner than it's been in months, and the card is addressed and stamped.  Now I just have to write it...

Dancing Lessons

Much to my disbelief,  I took up bellydancing in June and love it.  It came about kind of haphazardly- I started doing PR and writing work Malik Turley, a casual acquaintance who was opening a  studio, and she suckered me into trying lessons.  Four months later, Hip Circle Studio is thriving with Zumba, bellydancing, parenting, and fitness classes, in addition to a number of special activities, workshops, and charitable events.  It has the perfect community feel for my South Evanston neighborhood- Malik has something for women of any ability level and her mission is to foster confidence, health, and joy through all stages of life.   I've certainly grown in all of those areas since starting, and I know scores of other women are getting similar benefits. 

I knew nothing about bellydancing before starting- I always thought of it as a sort of a mystic ancient form of entertainment and had no idea it was such a big part of Middle Eastern culture and history.  I'm fascinated by the subtle movements and rich traditions, and am starting to appreciate the different styles.  While I don't see myself as a dancer in any sense of the word, for the hour-long class I am carefree and exhilarated and it's a thoroughly restorative experience.  I love sharing the challenge and self-expression with the other women- I think doing a physical activity brings us closer on many levels. 

There were only three students in class last week, which gave us a lot of time to improvise following our warm up drills.  Malik said that after having a chance to get a feel of the music, we would perform a short solo for the rest of the group. We were both excited and trepidacious as we practiced on our own, as we weren't used to doing unchoreographed moves.  When we were ready, we were asked to come in front of the group one at a time and dance for as long as we felt comfortable.  It was an intriguing exercise, as we all had contrasting styles and came up with different moves.  When we were done, Malik highlighted a few strengths in each of our performances- smoothly transitioning between moves, identifying with the music, smiling and having a great time.  She then asked us to dance again on our own and try to integrate some of the other strengths into our moves, while at the same time keeping what we already were doing. 

While this was an effective visual exercise for dancing, I thought it was a great way to approach any situation when you're looking for improvement.  Don't downplay your existing strengths, but identify specific ways you want to grow or change.  Observe what's around you, and when you need help, look to others for guidance and feedback.  And don't be afraid to show off a little!  Leaving class that night, I felt confident and energized, and inspired by finding lessons in fortuitous places.