Awake

So I am awake. It's 2:30 am. The tapping on the keys of my phone brings me comfort. My phone's blue light is like a candle guiding me. Into my subconscious.

I am in a weird place. I feel unmoored. Lost. As if I'm drifting in the ocean barely holding on to a piece of driftwood. 

My husband was so sweet after Chewbacca passed, even though I know he was hurting too, telling me gently that I can't fall into a deep depression. I'm trying not to. Really I am. 

I went to work and I managed.  I thought I would be out for weeks when Chewbacca passed, but life and work moves on. I had way too many cases on to stay home. But it's not bad. I had a victory in court. My client and his mom were happy. 

After court, I didn't break down. I made small talk. My friend put flowers on my desk. I sat in my car at lunch and listened to the podcast I recorded of me interviewing my friend whose book just came out. I need to have the podcast edited. I have so much to do this weekend. But no energy. 

I am numb and don't feel much of anything to be honest

I go downstairs so Adrian can sleep. I've already woken him up with my tapping on keys and he's super sensitive to blue light. 

I miss my dog. I so miss my dog. I look at Chewbacca's empty bed and I breathe in deep. My tears come out slowly, one at a time. I'm keeping it together. I think. 

I think of Chewbacca's face right before he left me. He looked at me. Golden eyes. He even wagged his tail. And then he put his head on his paws and went to sleep. I whispered to him, "I'll miss you so." And I do.

Duckie

This one is just for you my blog friends and dedicated to my shih tzu Chewbacca. 

Duckie

You didn't quack

You barked

And you followed

I was "duck mommy"

Your golden eyes

watching my every move

But now the house echoes. 

Damn I miss you so 

And even though I know 

It wasn't fair to make you stay 

This loneliness abides, it abides

Without my Duckie 

A shih tzu named Chewbacca

 I had to let Chewbacca go this morning. He's over the rainbow bridge, and here's something I wrote for him in my MFA class. Sleep my darling. 

A love letter to my shih tzu 

He sleeps next to me on the futon downstairs. It's been months since he was diagnosed with heart failure and chronic bronchitis/COPD for dogs. Just so you know, this caramel colored shih tzu is the closest thing to a child I have.

Don't roll your eyes (you "non dog people"). You see, Chewbacca is sixteen years old and he and his recently (by "recently" I mean a year and a half ago as I'm still grieving) deceased shih tzu brother Frodo saved me when I couldn't have kids. 

I remember sitting with Frodo and Chewbacca and weeping after a horrible miscarriage. We had decided not to try in vitro again. Tears ran down my face and hiccuping my tears, I patted their heads and snuggled them close to me. They lifted up their faces looking at me with their soulful eyes asking in their doggie way if I was okay.

I watch Chewbacca breathe. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. His breathing is heavy. He's struggling. With the fires in California last week, it's been rough. Plus he has little eyesight and is going deaf. Sometimes, I peer into his eyes and I know he can't see me very well, but he can sense me and he licks my nose. My husband calls Chewbacca my duck because he follows me around and is very codependent. He sits at my feet when I work from home. 

I never thought I would revolve my life around my dog but I do. If we go away without him, I get a dog sitter. He's been certified as a therapy animal but traveling is hard on him. 

On the futon, he moans in his sleep. He breathes again, this time rougher. It's scary ragged this breath.

I think of how Woolf writes of life that "It is of lying half asleep, half awake, in bed . . . It is of hearing the waves breaking, one, two, one, two, and sending a splash of water over the beach; and then breaking, one, two, one, two, behind a yellow blind." (Sketch of the Past, 64)

I feel the waves breaking in my mind. One, two, one, two. I watch Chewbacca breathe, in and out. His chest rises and falls. He jerks awake and paws at me to get off the futon. It's midnight. I have court in the morning. 

I take him outside, then in. He cries. He pants. He paces. He might have doggie dementia. The nighttime kind called sundowners. Or perhaps, Chewbacca is just wrestling with his own mortality. I love him so. I wonder if I will really ever be able to let him go?

I'm going to have to let him go soon I know this, but I'm trying to get just a little more time with this creature whom I adore so deeply. I read a book by the late great writer Caroline Knapp about the bond between dogs and humans and she said that with our dogs, we secrete the same hormones that we do with babies and children. (See Pack of Two: The Intricate Bond Between People and Dogs (1998))

I pick Chewbacca up. I sing to him. I kiss his nose. I cradle him gently. I whisper "coo coo" in his ear as I rock him to sleep. Right before I nod off, I think to myself that I hope that there are dogs in my heaven. There has to be right? God couldn't be so cruel as to deny us our dogs.  

I cross myself and go to sleep. If only for a few hours until Chewbacca awakes again. 

504 am

I often title my blogs after what time it is when I start writing. Writing has become such an ingrained part of my life. It's like breathing for me or wait, maybe more like drinking water. I know I should do it more because when I do, I feel amazing.

Most people know that I started writing seriously when my dad died. I had to get the stories out. But I had actually started writing poetry when I was a corporate lawyer. I would stare out my law offices' high rise window, one looking out at the Houston skyline, filled with skyscrapers and twinkling lights, and write. I still have many of those pieces. They're not perfect but they capture something. 

Here's one and the theme is interesting, especially after now being a public defender for years and years.

Habeas This Corpus by JEM

I want to be free. 

Not sitting in a small room a mere 

drone at her keyboard typing briefs 

which are anything but brief. 

I wanted to make a difference, but

instead I have created myself my very own 

custom made cell included are pretty framed 

diplomas on the wall. What Hell! 

Think of before, bartending, slinging hash. 

There was some beauty in that. 

I went to school for years 

to sit in this office and dream 

Of freedom.

330 again and again

So I'm up. It's 330 am. Again. 

Chewbacca had been doing okay until the fires which have really exacerbated his breathing issues So the last few nights have been very difficult to say the least. 

Yesterday, I had court and a big motion due. Chewbacca had kept me up all night. I slept a couple of hours max and when I left for work, he was doing better and was dozing quietly. As I walked out the door, I looked at him and said, "Now you fall asleep?" He didn't answer except with a snore. 

I made it through the court and work day on a combination of caffeine and determination. I even finished my motion and put it together for filing (my paralegal will file it today) a little after 5 pm. It came out pretty good, on a complex issue, probably because I was just so focused on getting it finished. It was as if whatever gas was left in my tank kicked in and I got it done. 

But I came home from work, a bit after 6 pm due to traffic, and I was bone tired. I was so exhausted that I almost started crying with relief when I crawled into bed snuggling under my Laura Ashley comforter. Okay I did tear up a little. And yes, Chewbacca was whining but I didn't care. I just said, "I'm sorry buddy, but I gotta sleep." 

I slept until 3 am. Now I'm up again with Chewbacca but at least I feel human again. I can do this. It's hard, but he needs me. Right now, as I was writing this, Chewbacca perked his head up and gave me a nuzzle on my cheek. 

I know he can't talk but I can write and I'm sure he knows I'm here for him. Yes, he's just a dog, but damn I love this little caramel colored shih tzu. We will get through the night and the sun will rise. As it always does. He just started snoring so I'm going back to bed on my futon downstairs so I'm here if he needs me. Night. Thanks for listening. 

The muse

Today, I have an event with a Latina writer named Julia Amante. We are talking about writing stories with a cultural Latina perspective. And reading aloud. It's being moderated by a writer/journalist named Minerva Canto who is also president of the Inlandia Institute. 

Lately, I'm moving toward less "reading" and more performance. I will try only to use my notes when I need to. It is stressful to try this out, but I think it's more me. I've always revised my stories when reading them aloud. And I like to challenge myself. 

And tonight I plan on trying to "perform" my story about my sad attempt at making flour tortillas. Last night, I practiced. I stumbled a bit because I've never read the story aloud. It was first performed on a radio show read by a voice actress. So it's not easy. I cut out 5 minutes to get it within time. 

You never know where a story will end up. Some of my stories end up in newspapers or literary journals or anthologies or perhaps, in a future book. Some end up here. But all of my stories start with an idea. A memory. An inkling where I think to myself, I should write about that. That's the beauty of memoir. It's taking your true life and turning it into art.

For some, making tortillas very badly can just be an event they'd rather forget. But for me, it's literary inspiration. It says something about who I am. And who I want to be. So I will continue to write on.