You Have Your Whole Life Ahead of You

And other heartaches

I couldn’t find Agatha this morning. She usually keeps to the same routine everyday, as dogs tend to do: wake up, go outside, come inside for breakfast, go back to bed in one of the dog beds dotted around the house for use of any of the four dogs in case any of them are suddenly overtaken by the need for a nap and can’t quite make it to any of the other nearby dog beds.

We aren’t a messy household, but there is certainly a surfeit of dog beds, in addition to plush oriental rugs near the fireplace, hardwood floors with their sunny parallelograms, chilled marble tiles in the bathrooms, flagstones baking outside in the sun, and lounge chairs with cushions that the dogs aren’t supposed to jump up on…which means that of course they jump up on them all the time. You would think we had narcoleptic dogs, but really we’re just pushovers. My husband has two larger dogs. My mother had a King Charles, which we have just inherited. And I have my little plucky miniature shih-tzu, Agatha.

She was not in the little princess bed here by my desk. She was not in the kitchen dog beds. She as not trapped in the laundry room. Or the pantry. She was not on the rug by the fire. She was not tangled in the drop cloths draped and puddled all over the living room (another story). She was not inside. She was not outside.

I called her name in rising degrees of urgency, while trying to sound welcoming and fun so she wouldn’t think she was in trouble and hide. I phoned my husband to see if he knew where she might be. I ran around the outside of the house, and I ran around the inside of the house, and then I did both again, and then I ran upstairs and found, in the bedroom, a little shih-tzu looking at me with eyes heavy from her morning nap, and wearing an expression that she has only worn once or twice in her usually oblivious, disinterested, and adorably unempathetic little life: “Mom, are you okay?”

(You will think: why didn’t you check upstairs first? Agatha has been weak for a few years from a bad blood disease and the meds that go with it, so I carry her everywhere. Everywhere. She has trouble with curbs. I have no idea how she made it all the way up the stairs.)

So I scooped her and held her tight and I thought, “I’m okay now,” and I also thought, “No, I’m not okay.”

My mother, you see, is nowhere in the house. It’s her house, and she’s not here. I’ve been everywhere, and I can’t find her. I’ve organized the pantry, and the laundry room. I’ve gone all around the gardens, checked in the old pump house overgrown with jasmine, peeked around to the alley behind the garage. I’ve looked in closets, under beds. I’ve quietly opened the door to her bedroom in case she’s still sleeping, and then I’ve quietly shut it behind me, so as not to disturb anything for when she comes back. But she’s just not here.

I go to tell her things, like that the fridge is leaking again, or that Lucy has finally learned to go potty outside instead of on the Oriental rugs, or that Mike has learned how to prune the roses. I want to tell her who was at the funeral, and how lovely the ceremony was. I want to ask her where such-and-such a photo was taken, or whatever happened to so-and-so.

Most of all, I want her to pat my hand when I’m feeling sad for whatever reason and say what she would always say (no matter what happened), “You have everything going for you,” and (no matter how old), “You have your whole life ahead of you.” But hearing it in my head isn’t the same thing as hearing her say it, with conviction, out loud. It all happened so quickly, and we weren’t really able to say a proper goodbye, which was good for her, but it has left me….here. And I can’t just go all the way upstairs to find her. At least not yet.

So I’m feeling very sorry for myself. And more than that, I’m feeling sorry for her, that she had to go through so much, and that she can’t be here to give Lucy a treat when she wiggles proudly back to the house, or smell the roses that have burst forth in a riot after such a long winter. She would have loved this beautiful summer, and the beauty of it just makes my heart ache all the more.

When things got tough for her, she would focus on the small things: a cup of coffee in the morning, sitting outside in the sun.

I’m trying to do the same. A cup of iced tea with a sprig of mint. A bubble bath and a good book. Bouquets of roses brought inside. Chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. Books shelved in chronological order. Meticulously organized cabinets. Painting in the soft morning light. And most importantly, dressing up little dogs in ruffled collars…..

Of course, losing parents is “common”, and I always think of Hamlet, “But you must know your father lost a father. That father lost, lost his.” But it never seems common, does it? I’m just writing this to somehow connect with those of you who have lost loved ones too, and to say: I’m so sorry.

Oh, and here is Agatha, back to being completely and beautifully oblivious (until dinner, of course!)….