Vegan

life

A letter to Mum…

stanley & bear

It’s 0730, around the time I normally call, and knowing I can no longer continue this mutually enjoyed ritual of ours, one week after you passed is surreal.

In the few weeks leading to you leaving, I knew something wasn’t right: and it was as if you somehow knew your time here was coming to an end. You didn’t speak in a negative voice, for you never complained about your life, on the contrary, you were so happy, particularly these last 7 months. But I believe you somehow knew your stroke was pending, and you were at peace with that. You had completed your journey and now it was time to start another. And as I held your hand last week, I knew you struggled knowing you would soon leave me. I told you I would be ok if you needed to go and my words, I believe, gave you peace.

I didn’t want you to leave, but you were so frustrated at not being able to communicate or move your body. Yet you maintained your humour: pulling faces, poking out your tongue, albeit sideways and we could see the joy in your eyes at knowing those who truly loved you, were there, holding your hand.

You said many times how happy you were. You spoke of your happiness at being so close to me, the boys and the pups. You spoke of how you were now free of fear. Fear that came from worrying if they would find you. Once reassured they couldn’t & wouldn’t, your fear dissipated.

You did not harbour hatred for what they did, rather, you released them from your life without bitterness. We both did. We released those you trusted for deceiving and stealing from you. Yet whilst you were at peace with the deceit, you didn’t forget. Didn’t forget how those who were once family, used your money at whim and depleted your once healthy bank account. Your anger centred more toward the fraudulent use of Dad’s credit card and how they had used his card and spent over $5000. This discovery was painful because we knew Dad felt little for them in his final years. Their lack of communication and lack of visits fuelled his feelings – it hurt him, yet Dad did not allow that hurt to define him. Yet when we were heard ‘S’ claim she was the only daughter who received all his love – oh how we laughed at that Mum, for we knew differently. As he, like you, had released her from his life. Yes, on the rare occasions they were spoken of, their audacity, stupidity and hypocrisy gave us endless entertainment.

Yet we took their deceit for what it was and found their blatant audacity in leaving their digital fingerprint across countless transactions the epitome of stupidity. Such ignorance made it so easy for detectives to find and create a fraud investigation. Pages and pages of transactions showed over a period of 3 years, $30,000 was spent without your consent or knowledge. We wondered why you spent so much on cigarettes when you didn’t smoke, and found it highly amusing that you bought sperm from Seattle. We figured that was for when you found that man your searched for with the E Harmony account you somehow created without internet access. Yet what intrigued and amused us most, was the fact you spent thousands, at age 89 years old, to undergo IVF.

Oh how we laughed at that IVF discovery Mum, we laughed at their blatant ignorance at believing their expenditure of your money would not be discovered. And we rejoiced at knowing it had, knowing they were exposed. Rejoiced that one day, their time will come. You won’t see that now, but it will, even if it does take the detective’s estimate of 8 years to come to court, I will see it through for you.

Most of all we rejoiced at being free, being together and being so, so happy. We forgot about them and simply lived happily. You, just as Dad did, would speak of having 2 daughters and 4 grandchildren. You were not sad at seeing their evil words in emails and how they had stated they wanted nothing more to do with you, conversely, you were at peace with that. Just as Dad had been at peace with their lack of presence in his life.

Whilst sorting through your clothes yesterday, I found a t-shirt you wore often. It reads; No Regrets. You definitely did not have any regrets and I love wearing that t-shirt as it smells of you and that makes me smile.

I’m so grateful for our relationship, so grateful that I was always there for you and so grateful you were always there for me. I’m so happy I took you to Europe, Bali and many other destinations we found ourselves in. So grateful we spent the afternoon of Christmas Day watching the world go by at Mooloolaba beach from the comfort of the car. Dogs on laps, we laughed as you did a running commentary of people strolling by. You loved that. You loved it when we took many leisurely drives through the countryside. We would stop many times to take in the quiet, and simply to be.

Mum, I could write for hours about all the things we did together, and I love that only we shared so many crazy, laughter filled moments.

‘Slipping’ on rainy streets in Singapore, crazy ‘mattress rides’ in France, being the ‘pied piper’ on Austria’s winding roads, sipping vin chaud in quaint bars, and feeling like fugitives in Switzerland. How could we forget Delphine throwing cooking oil on unsuspecting drivers in Germany, then the laughter filled snowmobile rides on France’s glorious snowfields. At home, those endless hours chatting downstairs, whilst Dad sat snoring happily in an adjoining chair. How we laughed when in unison, we would say, ‘Ken/Dad, go to bed…’.

I am so lucky to have so many memories and so many photos of our life together. Ironically, they are now requesting my images – maybe if they’d spent more time in yours and Dad’s company, more frequently, they would have their own images to reflect upon.

I won’t pretend to say I’m not sad, I am, I’m heartbroken knowing I can no longer create memories with you. Yet despite my sadness, I know you were so happy these last months and that replaces all my sadness with joy.

Mum, you were my greatest support.

I will miss you forever…

dogs, life

So broken, so sad, so empty…

stanley & bear

On clearing drafts, I came across this unpublished post. It speaks of the pain I felt after losing Oscar. It was written 3 months after he died. Nearly 4 years have passed now, and whilst I no longer feel this intense anguish and loss, I am posting this to remember how far I have come:

There’s an old adage: time heals all wounds. For the most part it’s true.

I wish I could say that now. But time is not healing. Time is simply intensifying the emptiness of loss.

Everyday tears are shed, Everyday the emptiness grows.

I simply can’t bear it. I cannot seem to function, or see any light in this darkness. And I’m trying so hard to ‘pull myself out of this dark place’, but without Bear, everywhere is dark. Stanley is lost too, I can feel it. I can see it. He misses Oscar as much as I do. He is as lost as I am and he is equally as broken.

I know many would not understand and I don’t care, honestly I don’t. I’m trying to understand myself and I can’t. My world feels so empty, so barren. I’m so lost without my beautiful Bear. Nobody sees the real anguish, the raw emptiness.

I don’t want to be around people, I don’t want to sit and pretend I’m ok and I don’t want to tell people I’m not. Besides, when I have, I’ve been told I’m self-absorbed.

I don’t want to answer the phone, I don’t want to reply to messages. When you isolate for long enough, when you cry for too long, soon people stop asking, stop trying. That’s ok. That works for me as if they don’t reach out, I don’t have to hang on. I don’t have to pretend.

Bear Dog

So it’s easier to retreat.

Sometimes I feel I want to leave. My life is as barren as my heart. I know I won’t, as despite my anguish, I would not place my pain onto those I love.

I can only hope time will heal, yet 3 months has passed and I still miss you so much.

I know it was your journey, you had to cross the bridge.

But my journey now, without you, is meaningless.

So broken. So sad. So empty.

dogs, life

For Bear Dog…

stanley & bear

In life, there is loss. It is painful and it is at times, grossly unfair as some experience great loss while others experience very little. It’s just the way it is.

And if I’m to be honest, thoughts of unfairness hijack my thoughts as of late, there has been many losses, in many forms.

But please understand I’m not writing this from a ‘poor me’ or self-absorbed perspective, quite the contrary. I’m writing this because I find writing to be therapeutic and consoling. I guess in some ways it’s my own personal therapy session. Tapping words onto a screen seems to somehow ease my grief as I discovered the hard way that internalising pain is not conducive to the healing process.

Many years ago I experienced immense loss and rather than express my grief, I internalised it. I wept in private, I didn’t speak of my grief, rather, I spoke of Meg’s death in clinical phrases. I could explain in detail the intricacies of her heart defects and the consequential operations. If you asked, I would tell you. Yet if you asked how I felt, the wall would immediately build. Feelings were off limits.

After keeping my true grief private for 16 years, a small issue sent me spiralling into a breakdown, which thankfully forced formal counselling. From that, I now know internalising grief or pain is detrimental and if you can find a way to unburden if you will, only good things can result.

So I write. And now, I write about the despair and all consuming grief at having lost again, and this time he was one of my best friends and my soulmate.

There are many who may baulk at that last sentence, for my best friend and soulmate was a dog. But to me Oscar aka Bear Dog was my best friend and my soulmate, and his loss is immeasurable for me. And this grief I feel is real, it is intense and at times, it hurts so much, and is comparable to the loss of Meg. That may be hard for some to understand, but that’s okay. Views differ and always will.

But Oscar’s loss has truly broken me.

The following words were written a few days after Oscar’s spinal surgery. I believe a part of me knew I was losing my friend. I tried to fight the negative feelings. I tried to tell myself that he would not be in that 5% who would succumb to myelomalacia, following Grade 5 IVDD, but like Meg, I somehow knew. I knew goodbye was looming on the horizon. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but in my heart, I knew goodbye was coming. And it did.

For Bear Dog

Your morning ritual of waking, shuffling over to the carpet, having a big shake which made your collar jingle, then you’d roll for ages and make your bear sounds:  ah kar kar, before leaping onto the bed, and onto me and showering me with your unique ‘chin chews’.

At breakfast you’d always come into the kitchen and make more Bear noises, voicing your impatience at the time it took for me to make your breakfast. They were unique and so you. Arhharhhh

After eating you’d walk around and check the other bowls, then often you’d go onto the verandah and look at what was happening on the street.

You’d shuffle over to the bean bag and make a leap, it would take a few shuffles before you got your spot.  Then you’d sit like a human and look sideways at me with those beautiful, brown eyes.

The moment I sat down on the couch with my coffee, you’d rush over and ask for help to get on the couch.  You would sometimes do little half jumps and your front paws would tap, tap tap on the floor. Once up, you’d often snort at me if I’m in your way, or if I am in the ‘best’ spot. Yet you always, always would sit directly beside me. I could always feel your gentle breath against my leg.

You would come into the bathroom, peer around the door, see me in the bath/shower and give a short, loud snort before leaving. As if you’re saying pffff, guess I’ll go out here.

You would sit like a human in the front seat of the car, and the joy you’d get from having the window down was pure bliss.  If I put it up, you’d shuffle and the turn your head to look at me and give me the white eye, downward look.

The soccer fields was one of your favourite places, besides the car.  All I’d have to say is run and run and run and run…  and you’d run, then you’d find the best place to roll. The cricket pitch with its fake grass was a favourite.  But if you’d find bird or kangaroo poo, that was the best place for a roll.

You’d always want me to share my breakfast, that was a given. None of the others do, just you.

Down in the backyard you’d always help Stanley search for lizards, then if you got bored with that, you’d find a good digging spot for eating dirt.  If I pulled out the piece of shade cloth, you’d run over, step on it and try to bite it as I pulled you along.  When I stopped pulling, you’d roll and roll; the look of joy on your beautiful face was priceless. It was one of your favourite games.

If I mentioned the car, your ears would prick up and you’d start your Bear noises, and if I put my runners on, well that that was pure bliss and signalled more intensive Bear noises.

You are the one who loved cuddles the most, and I loved running my fingers through your shoulder hair, it was so full and fluffy. And you loved your head being scratched and if you wanted more, you’d raise your front paw, look at me with those eyes and head cast downward and demand more pats.

 You had a funny way of eating.  You would curl your neck, so your ears flopped forward, then you’d sniff, walk around the other side, sniff again, then begin eating. Your way of drinking was unique, I always knew it was you drinking even if I couldn’t see.  There was a rhythm, lop lop, – lop lop lop, – lop lop.

You were and still are one of my greatest loves Bear Dog. You are my bubba, my Bear, my best friend.

Oh Bear, I’m broken, truly broken.

My Bear Bear, I love you so much and I will miss you forever…

https://videopress.com/v/jyH8ikrE?preloadContent=metadata
life

Saying goodbye…

stanley & bear

How do you say goodbye ?

We can rationalise, question, rationalise and question again, but we’re never prepared to say that final goodbye.

Then you realise it is his journey, not yours. Realise you have to let go. Realise it’s time to say goodbye. But it’s okay.

It’s called grieving. It’s called love. It’s called loss.

Bottom line though, my heart is breaking. Breaking into a million pieces. Breaking as though its never been broken before.

You’d think it’d get easier. But it dosen’t. Hurt is hurt, pain is pain, grief is grief.

And there was so much hurt, pain and grief at being told 8 weeks ago that our beloved Simon has a highly aggressive cancer. In the 8 weeks following, we have seen our beautiful boy succumb to this ferocious disease.

Our beautiful Simon aka Big-bigs came into our lives 6 years ago as a happy go lucky 9-year-old dachshund whose attitude was simply divine. He was in need of a new home following a divorce, and from the moment he set his furry paws on our doorstep, we became one and our family was complete.

Over the last 6 years we have been so lucky to have shared our lives with this beautiful, quirky, funny soul. He has lit up our lives and given us so much more than we have given him.

And now it’s time to let him trot, as only Big-bigs does, across the rainbow bridge where his soul will be forever free. Free to dig for bugs hidden deep within the dirt. Free to grumble at any other souls who try to take a favourite toy. Free to bark as loud as he can when playing in the pool.

We will love you forever, special soul. We are broken, but we are so blessed to have shared our lives with you.

Sweet dreams Big-bigs …

life

Home…

stanley & bear

We all know the old saying; home is where the heart is, and I’ve always found those words endearing as home can be wherever your heart is happy, irrespective of geography or material possessions.

My heart has been happy living in many spaces, but right now, it is happiest simply being in the space I’ve created over the last 10 years.

So in light of Co-vid19 and its restrictions, spending time at home without visitors has not been a concern. As an empath, I find being in my own home with only my dogs & family as company, gratifying and empowering.

Yesterday restrictions were lifted slightly, allowing up to 5 people to visit your home. These restrictions came at the perfect moment for it was my youngest sons 22nd birthday the previous day. And unlike me, he often prefers the company of his friends, rather than time alone. So with the combination of a birthday and lifted restrictions, he invited 5 of his friends over for a few celebratory beverages, to be shared in front of a fire on a cool May evening.

As twilight descended, I stood for a moment and took in my surroundings.

And as my son’s friends arrived, their joyful chatter and laughter filtered through the garden and the sound warmed my heart. A little later as they settled around the fire, I decided to capture this moment in time, for being a silent observer to that beautiful moment made my heart happy.

Yes, home is definitely where the heart is happy…

life

Stay home, be grateful, and embrace this new way of living…

stanley & bear

Today I had to go to work. But today was different, very different, as along with 4 of the most amazing, beautiful and honest women I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with, it was our last day.

Me, Proooo, Tanya (manager extraordinaire), Merrin & Grace

The company we worked for, like thousands of other businesses, has closed as a result of the economic downturn brought on by Covid19.

Sadly though, we have not been asked to take paid and or unpaid leave with the hope of returning in the future. The company went into Voluntary Administration, and along with all stores Australia wide, our store has been permanently closed.

And whilst I feel immensely sad that I’ve lost a great casual job and I’ll no longer share my working hours with those fabulous women, we all still have our health and our families, a sentiment countless thousands of others around the world cannot share.  

Unfortunately, this scenario is being repeated, not only in Australia, but throughout the world.  So many people have lost their jobs, and as I walked through Sunshine Plaza with my son today, to drop off my shop keys, the reality of those job losses was evident.

The massive shopping plaza that houses over 340 stores, was deserted. Over 95% of stores were closed.

Yet, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. From a financial perspective, I am able to comfortably stay at home and share this difficult time with the best family anyone could ask for. I am not alone; I have food on the table and an abundance of love from human and canine family alike.

So please, whilst it may be difficult that we cannot travel, go on holidays, see friends or simply do what we took for granted, be mindful of what you can do.

You can simply take the time to embrace what is really important. Time. Time spent with those you love and who love you in return.

Stay home, think about those not as fortunate, and embrace this new way of living…

life

The colour of leaving…

stanley & bear

Recently I wrote a short post titled, The colour of leaving & the importance of being present.

And last night, long before the clock struck midnight heralding a new decade, those words reverberated in my mind. Maybe because outside, my son [the inspiration of that post] and his friends were celebrating the end of 2019.

From the sanctuary of my room as I readied myself for sleep with my beloved dogs nestled beside me, I could hear the laughter and the somewhat incomprehensible [and loud] chatter that often partners an over-indulgence of alcohol.

I smiled at this cacophony of celebration and felt immensely grateful, yet also, melancholic. Grateful for being able to listen to life being celebrated in the present moment and melancholic because I was witness to the colours of my son’s life, moreover, witness to hues changing and present colours leaving forever.

The colour of leaving is of course a metaphorical statement that evokes a myriad of interpretations. And for me it is about how the hues that once coloured my son’s life are now awash with vastly different shades.

This is not a negative statement, rather, as every parent will attest to, witnessing your children become young adults who are no longer dependent is a little melancholic.

For when the colours associated with infancy, toddlerhood and teenage years fade, leaving in their wake, colours representing vibrancy, maturity and growth, it is bittersweet and melancholic.

And as I witness certain colours leave, I feel comfort as I bask in their receding light knowing those unique, magical colours are now blending with the new, and will shape the colours exclusive to my sons’ lives.

Yes, the colour of leaving and the importance of being present…

life, travel

A little Italian flavouring…

stanley & bear

As the road I travelled carved through France’s Auvergne region, the landscape was a blend of lush, green meadows, where terra-cotta roofs dotted the landscape, sprinkling the scene with a little Italian flavour.

And as Lyon drew closer, ragged cliff faces framed narrow roads that led to bridges that spanned across vast valleys, where cows grazed and richly coloured poppies peered across fields.

In the distance, mountains stood tall against the horizon. Scatterings of past winter snowfalls glimmered in the spring sunshine.

Europe: always a celebration of colour, culture and diversity.

dogs, life

A walk? No thank-you, I’ll take the car…

stanley & bear

FOR those of you who love your four-legged friends, particularly of the long dog, sausage variety, I hope you get a giggle from this little anecdote.

It’s dedicated to my very first wire-haired dachshund, Kiri aka Sausage. She was a precious soul who came into our lives when we rescued her from a puppy farm at age three.

She was a joy and made us laugh every day with her funny, quirky and wondrous ways, particularly when it came to ‘walkies’.

For most dogs the rattling of a lead, or the mention of the word walk sends them into a wild frenzy. Some do circles, some bark excitedly, while others run for the front door before you get a chance to change your mind.                         

Not Sausage.

The mere mention of that filthy word was enough to send her high tailing it back to her cave bed, slip through the opening, bury herself and not be seen. We’re sure she believed that if she couldn’t see you, then it was very obvious you couldn’t see her.

I tried in vain to get her excited about a walk, even tempting her with a piece of cheese, one of her great loves. This small act of bribery was mildly successful as whilst she munched excitedly, I slipped her lead on and got us both out the door.

It was highly possible that remnants of cheese lingered in her mouth and as such, put her into a cheese induced dream, which in turn, allowed us to walk for approximately 50 metres or so. But once the spell broke, the brakes went on, and no amount of pulling, dragging and kind loving words would budge her.

As I was in fear of the neighbours reporting me to the RSPCA for cruelty at seeing me pull, albeit gently, a small, grey, fuzzy and extremely stubborn little dog down the road, I resorted to carrying her.

Once in my arms, the demonic dog who only moments before had obviously been on the end of the lead, was replaced with my loving Sausage. As I’d obviously rescued her from an horrendous and traumatic experience, her immediate action was to thank me amorously by showering me with smelly, gag -inducing, slurps.

And whist the idea of a walk sent chills down her long, wiry spine, she still loved to get out of the house, provided she didn’t have to use her legs.

Remember I mentioned about dogs’ who go into a frenzy at a mere rattle of the lead?

For Sausage, the mere rattle of the car keys saw her go into a frenzy, and trust me when I say her short legs could cover some serious ground, with lightening speed when the mood suited. Before I’d finished putting on shoes she’d be at the door, patiently waiting for me to it so she could race to the car.

Once at the car, there was a perfectly choreographed ritual of getting herself inside. For some reason she’d only get in through the driver’s side door, and as she was short, getting in was a two step process. Firstly, a few moments of rocking back and forth on her haunches, similar to a high jumper working up to the big jump was performed. This was followed by swift forward leap onto the floor and as she’d become quite good at this manoeuvre, she always avoided injury on the pedals by ensuring her landing was precise.

Once there, another few moments of rocking preceded a deft leap onto my seat then one final leap over the centre console saw her finally sitting proudly on the left hand passenger seat, a place she felt was hers, and hers alone.

If my sons’ had friends in the car and happened to sit in her seat, she’d throw herself on the floor and as a mark of disgust, pant her fish-infused breath in their direction. But the madness in all of this was that once we reached our destination, she’d run for cover and hide under the seat. There was no way would she get out and walk anywhere.

Here’s a perfect example.

One sunny afternoon we decided to head to the beach, my sons were teenagers at the time and keen bodyboarders. As mentioned above, the moment the car keys were rattled, Sausage was at the back door before the rest of us had even made it down the stairs. Having settled into her spot, she looked quite smug during the 15-minute drive to the beach.

When we arrived, she eyed me suspiciously and when I reached for her lead, she swiftly launched herself under the seat. This action meant I had to then try and manipulate her firmly wedged little body out from under what she probably considered her safe from walking spot.

I finally won the battle, attached the lead to her collar and we set off to the beach, although not as you may be picturing. Rather than being accompanied by the sound of little paws walking alongside me, she was in my arms, and if dogs could actually smile, I believe hers would have been wider than the Grand Canyon.

After finding a spot under the trees to watch the boys’ surf, I think she quite enjoyed lazing on the towels, watching other dogs walk along the beach.