Matthew

I remember when life took on the unexpected. I wasn’t looking for love and companionship, but there it was, right in front of me one day. My life was good, and I was pretty happy, or at least I thought I was until then. It’s remarkable how a person can go through life without realizing something is missing. Maybe that’s just how we’re programmed—to adjust to whatever circumstances we’re in. To make normal what is abnormal.

I was the youngest of four girls, raised by a single mom. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with one bathroom. Yes, with five females. Imagine that. It was a daily struggle to get ready every morning. We all crowded into the bathroom, with one person in the shower, one person on the toilet, and two or three (if my mother was in there) in front of the mirror, brushing their teeth or putting on makeup. I grew up learning how to squeeze into small spaces to reach the sink. When I look back on it, I don’t think I ever went to the bathroom by myself. Or if I did, certainly someone would enter during my stay. There was no lock on the door.

Have you ever seen a bunch of puppies eating or nursing on their mother? There’s always a fight to reach the food. Puppies stepping right on top of each other to gain access. Well, that’s what it was like at our kitchen table when our mother would put food out. We’d wait patiently until she sat down before grabbing the closest dish. We acted like puppies, and since I was the smallest, I ended up eating a lot of things no one else wanted.

When I was young, on the weekends, the whole family went “treasure hunting,” as my mom called it. We went to yard sales and thrift stores looking for clothes and things for the house. It was a positive experience. Our mother made it fun. She’d bring packs of candy, and the person who found the best deal or treasure, as my mom called it, would win. Sometimes, more often than not, everyone won. Mother made a full-blown presentation around it. She would give a small speech after we were all back in the car, and we would clap as the candy was being presented to the winner(s).

Our mother made us feel important. She’d talk about how we were doing our part in saving the planet by recycling things instead of buying new. Of course, later I realized all of this recycling was also due to a lack of funds.

All of us girls lived at home while attending college. Two of my sisters attended the local community college and got their bachelor's degrees online. Those were some tense years. Having teenagers and young adults in the same house became combative. Eventually, when a sister would announce she was moving out, my mother would throw a party. She called it a fledgling party. “My little bird is leaving the nest,” she would say. I could see she was putting on a brave face. There was a sadness in her eyes. But as for the rest of us left in the “nest,” we were happy to see the bird exit. More room for us.

After I finished college locally, I moved out and got a studio apartment. At first, I didn’t have any furniture to put in it, but with my mom, I went thrifting and found everything I needed. Cheap.

Sometimes in the evenings, after I got home from work, I sat at my kitchen table and looked out the window. The view was a lovely backyard with several trees. I sat there until darkness took my view away. After, I would sit and drink tea and listen to the quiet. There were others living in the building, but they must not have been home very much because the silence was overwhelming. Not in a bad way. The absence of sound nourished me.

Space. I had lots of space, maybe not for others, but compared to what I grew up in, it was expansive. Sometimes I would dance around my small apartment and swing my arms out to the sides. Looking around at everything, I would think, and sometimes say out loud—mine, all mine. I was content with this life.

I had several boyfriends early on who were pretty compatible with me. However, after a short period, our relationship always reached a point where the guy would suggest we move in together. Not into my studio, as it was too small, but usually in their apartment or somewhere new. After the suggestion, my view of the guy would completely change in an instant. The man of my dreams would no longer be, and I would break up with him. After the second time this happened, I thought perhaps I would remain single for the rest of my life. Don’t tell my mom, but I was okay with that.

Ever since I moved out of my mom’s house, I've had odd digestive issues—no need to go into any details. Let’s just say that sometimes my intestines felt like they were twisting and turning out of control. I asked my doctor about it, and she told me to change my diet. I did, but it didn’t help. Eventually, I was referred to a gastroenterologist. They ran a few tests, and when nothing showed, they scheduled me for a colonoscopy. Geez, I was only twenty-seven by then. Way too young to go through something so gruesome. Anyway, they found nothing wrong, so I was just sent home with paperwork. I would have to learn to live with whatever it was.

Then my life changed. I remember the first time I met Matthew. He was perfect. I knew it from the start. He had the most beautiful brown eyes. Can there be love at first sight? Yes. We would spend time together during the day. He made me laugh, and as soon as we parted, I longed to see him again. I took pictures of the two of us, and sometimes, in the evenings, I’d spend countless hours staring at them. I was in love.

Eight weeks after meeting Matthew, he moved in with me. I had already run it by my landlord, and it was approved. It was perfect, and I found the isolation I had guarded so fiercely was not missed. We did everything together, and I loved sharing my life with him.

Ok, now this is the part that gets a little weird. After Matthew moved in with me, all my digestive issues disappeared. Not at first, but about four months later. Now, don’t judge Matthew for this, but around that time, he insisted on accompanying me wherever I went, even to the bathroom. I joked with him that maybe all of my digestive issues were because of growing up and never being alone. Maybe now that he was in my life, in my bathroom, my body was feeling “normal” again. They say the gut is the second brain after all.

It’s been sixteen years now since Matthew and I met, and I’m driving him to the hospital today. His health has deteriorated, and I can’t take care of him at home anymore. I’m frightened at the thought he may not be coming home again. I’m beside myself with grief as I drive. I look over at him, and he’s sleeping. Those beautiful brown eyes are closed.

Once admitted, the doctor says she’s going to give him a shot. It will take away all of his pain. She asks if we want to be alone before she administers it. I nod, and she leaves. Wrapping my arms around him, I bury my face in his body. “I love you,” I say. “You are my best friend. I’m going to miss you so much.” After a while, the doctor returns. I’m there for his last breath. I keep him in my arms for a long time after he passes, my big, beautiful Matthew. My big, beautiful Golden Retriever.

It’s been two months since that day, and all my digestive issues are back. But now I know what to do. No need for a doctor’s appointment. I need another fur baby.