April

APRIL

1,625 words

The terrifying visions were particularly vivid at night. I didn’t even remember the nightmares the next morning; someone conjectured that my brain was protecting me from reliving the pain and I accepted the explanation. I wanted to obliterate the memories of that morning. But the aching was there even during the day. Truthfully, traces still linger all these years later. Now it reassures me that he was real, he lived his life, and he died at peace with the world.

The days before my son died are a blur of robot-like activities, decision-making, compromise. I knew I could not let him go without a fight, but I understood that he was ready to give up the six-year battle. During all those years it sapped all our strength while the disease flourished in its unwilling host. But just one more try. Move out of state where organ transplants were easier to come by. On that I would not compromise, and he complied, reluctantly.

Six weeks later we knew it was too late. He died despite dialysis, transfusions, intravenous medications hanging on the pole, poking and injecting more potential treatments. It was over. The nurse handed me the watch she took from his arm and I put it on. It flopped around on my wrist, too big for me but somehow comforting. That afternoon I flew home alone.

I came home to funeral arrangements, notifying family and friends, and the sight of his empty room. My daughter picked up more of the responsibility than I should have asked of her. But nobody else was there. My husband disappeared into his own world and silently watched his disrupted life changing forever.

When I stopped long enough to think, I could feel that the space in my heart previously occupied by worry was now filled with overwhelming sorrow.  Everything reminded me of him. I couldn’t turn on the radio in my car for fear of hearing something we had shared and breaking into tears. The grocery store held reminders of cereals he liked and his favorite snacks. Each turned the ache into a stab before it subsided back to the usual pain. I had no interest in friends, entertainment, books, music, life.

Several months later the ache had become a familiar accessory as I went through my life appearing perfectly normal to the world around me. My job kept me busy during the day and my family was always there when I got home. They apparently had decided that avoiding the topic would make their grief go away. Not that they avoided speaking about him. His name came up often during family conversations, but nobody acknowledged his absence.

I’m not sure whose idea it was, but I welcomed the thought of having a dog around the house. I had always been a dog-lover and dog-owner, but things had been hectic when my previous dog died within months of my son, and we didn’t think to get a new dog until almost a year later. “I’ll do some research,” I volunteered, and I started my search.

With two young grandsons living in my house I included in my criteria a dog with the ability to cope with occasional bursts of energy and rooms full of middle-school-aged boys. There were usually several pair of very large sneakers just inside the back door, and the dog would have to resist the temptation to steal and trash one or more while the boys played on the computer and ate everything they could find in the pantry. Which brought up another challenge for this dog: staying away from the bags of chips or peanuts within its reach. This would have to be a very special dog.

Golden Retrievers came up first, but they were too big. I had had a Golden several years earlier, and she was a sweetheart, but I needed a dog I could pick up if necessary. Chihuahua? Too delicate and small for my household. The AKC had expanded the number of accepted breeds since I last perused their list. I learned all I could about each breed that seemed to fit the parameters I had set. I considered a rescue or a shelter dog, but was discouraged from what had seemed like a good idea when someone told me that dogs that might have suffered abuse could be frightened by the chaos that often overtook my house. It could even cause a dog to panic and bite someone. I couldn’t chance that.

After several weeks of research, an activity that I looked forward to every evening, I decided on a Havanese. They were very cute and they had all the qualities I needed. But I was shocked at the price of a puppy, more than I was prepared to pay. Then someone gave me a magazine that featured a Shih Tzu on the cover. When I looked at the picture I had to laugh. There was a little dog with hair down to the ground and a big pom pom on its head. She looked silly and high maintenance. I wanted an easy going down-to-earth pet. Before I threw the magazine in the trash I turned the page, and my destiny was set. Behind all that fancy styling lived a cute little dog in a puppy cut. I read the description and decided it was time to find a breeder.

The story of my search for a breeder adds nothing to this tale, but I found someone only about an hour from my house. When I called, she told me that she had two puppies left from a litter of five and she asked if I was interested in an older puppy – about five months old. “Sure,” I told her, “That’s still a puppy.” We set an appointment for me to meet the two little girls she had. I was getting excited. I needed a dog in my life.

One of my grandsons came with me to meet the dogs. The more social of the two boys, it would be his friends and their large sneakers that the dog had to deal with. I made up my mind that I wanted whichever of the puppies was smaller, but it would be fun for both of us to meet Jean, the breeder, and her pups.

Both puppies were predictably cuddly and sweet, their big eyes shining, said “Take me, take me.” I knew I wanted the small one, but Michael, my grandson, stepped in. “I like the other one,” he said. “She’s friendlier to you.” He had a point. The larger puppy seemed more outgoing and responsive. After some consideration, and a wonderful time sitting on the floor playing with the little fur balls, I decided Michael was right. And that’s how April came into my life.

Her adjustment to our home was almost instantaneous. She was equally content with after-school chaos or the peace that came after the boys went to bed. She ate the food Jean recommended, and she was thoroughly housetrained. From the first, she was my dog. She followed me around the house, went to sleep when I decided it was time, and woke up just in time to greet me as I got out of bed. I had never owned a small dog before, and I loved it. It was easy to love her. She was a happy girl, never fussy and always there for me when my ache of grief over my son got the best of me. She went in the car with me and I carried her into some of the stores that permitted it. She visited and received guests with grace and enthusiasm. She loved running on the beach near my house, but sometimes wanted to be carried home because she had used all her energy chasing sea gulls. It was fine with me even when the sand on her transferred to me and we both needed a shower. She rarely barked, saving her voice for occasions that truly called for it. And did I say she followed me around the house? Always and everywhere. When I went out, I told her where I was going and gave her a general idea of how long I would be out. She was always standing at the door when I came back. I put up doggie steps at the dining rooms windows so she could sit on the top step keeping track of what was happening in the side and front yards. She appreciated that.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew April. I sometimes complained that nobody ever noticed who was at the other end of the leash, but I couldn’t blame them. She was so darn cute and always friendly. April was a family member, so when, at 12 years old, she started showing signs of aging, I tried to ignore it. She had come along at a time in my life when I was destroyed, and she put me back together again. She was my perfect girl. But my perfect girl had a liver tumor and a heart murmur.

I knew it was coming. I had often voiced my belief that dogs should not have to be “put out of their misery” but should be permitted to go with dignity. So on a cold day in March, during the week that she turned 14, April’s life came to an end. I knew it was the right time, and my veterinarian, whose judgment I had come to trust, agreed. April had helped me beyond measure when I needed it, and now I was returning the favor.

If there is a heaven, my son and April are enjoying each other’s company there, free from disease and happy together. They make a great team.