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 

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.

Crying

Chewbacca cried all night. At some point, I yelled "go to bed" in a frustrated loud voice from the futon. 

This is all bringing back the last week of my dad's life. My dad wouldn't cry, but my dad would see strange things, he called them "passers by". 

Later, I found out that when your organs are shutting down, the toxins can cause delusions. At one point, my dad saw his daughter Barbara (who passed away when I was in high school) by his side. 

I like to think that my dad's vision of his departed daughter's image was not a delusion but instead, that maybe she was helping my dad transition. 

It's 4 am and Chewie is wheezing in his sleep. I need to wake him up to give him his medicine which helps with the wheezing, but I don't want to wake him up. He's snoring and I want to pick him up and cuddle him. There's not much time left. I know this.

So even though I am so tired. And so exhausted. And not my best self, I know there is a beauty to this time. I know I will miss even this. And just like my father, who I would give anything to see alive for even a moment, I also know it will break me apart when Chewie is gone. Into pieces. 

Another

So I'm sitting here. In the bathroom. Waiting for the steam to do its work on Chewbacca's lungs. He woke up hacking. At 445 am. It was so loud that it echoed in the house and woke me up. 

I'd snuck upstairs last night to sleep when he started snoring. I got a good six hours, maybe seven. He sits on the rug looking at me with his big brown eyes then walks to the bathroom door as if to say, open it I'm done.  

He looks at me again. I shake my head knowing he can't see me or much of anything anymore. "Lay down Chewbacca", I plead. He lies down and lays his head on his paws and sighs. 

The room fills with steam. I breathe in deeply. He's stopped coughing. I'm buying a nebulizer today. I have to make sure he sleeps with it. His meds really aren't working anymore and he hates taking them although I force him to by placing them in caramel or sometimes chicken. 

Chewbacca moves to the tile at my feel. He hasn't coughed since the steam filled the room. I know the end is near but I'm just trying to get him some more good times. His quality of life means everything to me. Chewbacca has been my devoted companion for 16 years. Frodo lasted fifteen years and the end was quick. But I miss him so desperately at times. 

Chewbacca has fallen asleep. He breathes in deeply no coughing. I remind myself that times like these are everything. It may seem taxing to get up and do this, but really (except for the fact I left my espresso at the machine this morning) it's not. It just is. We just are.

So I take another deep breath. And another.