A new year: Time for change

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . January 2, 2010 . 5:11AM

With the new year, there inevitably come some feelings that propel change. The major one that I think affects most people is the feeling of loss. Generally, I would say that the loss of time is the one they feel most keenly. Hence, the influx of weight loss agendas and new year’s resolutions. People experience the feelings of time ill-spent and the terror of one less year to accomplish what they expected from their life and from their self.

A new year can be a blessing or a curse. For some of us, myself included, a new year is a chance to white the slate clean and start anew. A time for cleaning out the old issues and opening doors to something new seems to be a fresh start in what feels like a time of old hat dilemmas. In the last year, loved ones have been lost, children have been added, jobs have been lost/gained/relost/regained, personal misfortunes have been overwhelming and the kindness and generosity of others has been a beacon of light for those who are feeling lost.

This year, I wish for kindness. For all of you. In whatever form you may find it.

Hard to find the words

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . December 12, 2009 . 2:13PM

Last night, I lay in bed for a long time and tried to think about writing this post and all the things that I wanted to say. It rarely happens, but the words aren’t there. 13 years ago I lost someone that was special on many levels to me. I thought I was ready to talk about it, but clearly it’s not the case because I’m generally quite open on here and this is something that I feel the need to hide and protect.

So, instead of telling you how I feel, I’m going to show you the pin he gave me a long, long time ago. It was important to him and through over 10 moves, it’s one of the few things I haven’t lost. Sometimes the heart has trouble letting go. I held the pin for hours last night trying to decide what to say to all of you. Instead, I said it to him.

Your Lucy still misses you so much. I'm still not able to let go.

All dogs go to heaven

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . November 30, 2009 . 11:02AM

For Christmas, the year I turned 11, I got the surprise of my life. I’d been waiting for a dog for years. I hadn’t had one since I was little and living on the farm.

The last gift I opened said “This certificate redeemable for one puppy of your choice!”

Oh, the excitement and joy! I knew exactly what I wanted: a blonde cocker spaniel. My mother, who tends to hate animals, stipulated “this is an outdoor animal” while I cajoled and begged and pleaded.

On New Year’s Eve, we finally found him. The most beautiful blonde cocker spaniel puppy there ever was. He hid from everything and because of his introversion, I called him my little “Shadow.” Later, I realized that it was a name mostly reserved for black animals, but I was 11. Cut me some slack.

In a rule that I still think was completely moronic, I was required to spend an hour a day with Shadow. I didn’t mind the hour, but there were days it was freezing outside and this was not an easy task. When it was at the freezing point or raining, I could bring him into a shed we had in the back yard or into the garage. I remember holding him in my lap and stroking his long, soft ears for so many of those hours and, though he was an incredibly hyper dog, he let me.

My time got shorter as I got older and became more involved with school and work. I took my first real job at 15 and I had to “make up” the time on the weekends, when I could. This led to some days where I would attempt to entertain Shadow for four hours at a stretch and he grew weary of me.

As he grew older, the gate in our backyard did, as well, and he grew more mischievous. He began to break free of his jail more and more frequently and somehow, no one had enough time to fix the gate. I spent hours searching for him and thankfully, because he had a collar, we always managed to find him.

Until early one morning over the summer of my 18th year.

The phone rang and woke me out of a sound sleep. It was my grandmother and asked me if my dog was missing. I had no idea and looked out the backyard where I could see the gate standing wide open. We’d had a storm the night before and I had no idea how long it had been open. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said that yes, I thought he might be.

Her voice quivered and said that her neighbor had called and said a dog had been hit in front of her house. It had been grazed by a car and was still breathing, but it wasn’t going to make it. It wasn’t bleeding, but the collar had my name on it. Was it mine?

I couldn’t speak.

My grandmother said that animal control had been called to come get the dog and not to bother coming to see him. He wasn’t going to make it.

I still regret not coming to see him. I was such a coward. He lay there alone.

30 minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. A tall man stood there and gently removed his ball cap. His eyes filled with tears and he said, “I got your dog in my truck. He got hit by a car. He didn’t make it.”

I nodded mutely and stared at the words forming at his mouth.

“He ain’t bleeding or nothin’. He looks fine. You can see him if you want to.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks and I shook my head head softly from side to side.

“I’ll take good care of him, miss. They don’t always take good care of these dogs, you know, but I knew he was special, this one. You took real good care of him and groomed him and everything, didn’t ya? I’ll take care of him, myself. I’ll make sure he’s ok, miss.”

I tried to smile and croaked out a thank you as the tears continued to roll from my eyes. He nodded slightly and backed down the concrete steps. He took one last look to the back of his truck, where I knew my dog lay.

I couldn’t close the door until the truck was out of sight.

All dogs go to heaven. I can’t believe in a heaven that doesn’t have them. They are the most pure hearts besides children and if there is an all-encompassing creator, surely He loves the pure hearts. If He doesn’t, then what kind of heaven would it be? I don’t want to be anywhere that doesn’t have my dogs.

Sometimes I dream of petting long, soft ears…

As the child grows…

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . November 11, 2009 . 10:49AM

When AJ was little, he had mad empathy. When other babies would cry, he would wail like crazy. This has never left him and I’m inclined to believe it’s part of his temperament. He’s always been the caretaker in this house, and I think it’s because he sees that when one of us is sick, we all take care of that person. It is how we handle sickness or sadness or stress. Since he was very tiny, he would play the nursemaid when Leon or I was sick. I still remember him fetching me lukewarm water in the bathroom cup when I was nursing a migraine because he’d seen Leon bring me water for my aspirin. I believe he was as young as 3 when he started.

When Leon or I am sick, he hates to go to school and when he is here, he will bring ice packs, aspirin, wet washcloths and as many hugs, kisses and cuddles as we will take. There are many nights that he went to bed on a Friday night at 7:30 because I was sick with a migraine and laying there. He would lay next to me, patting my hand, and would eventually drift off.

There is a certain sense of guilt that comes with having chronic pain–that burden that you place on the people around you. The feelings that you may have of feeling like less of a person some days often express themselves at the weakest moments and not always in the best of ways. They often present in anger, misery or irritability. AJ is immune to that when someone is sick.

This isn’t to say that he doesn’t have his egocentric “me me me” side, because he certainly does, but it has never been as strong as I expected. And I’m watching him shed it rapidly and sooner than the developmental scales predict and I wonder about the kind of man he’ll become, and how quickly it will happen. Will I ever be ready for it? People keep telling me to have more children. My guess is that they recognize that there is so much love within me for this little guy that it breaks me.

I worry less about it when I see that I haven’t done an awful job and that my health issues haven’t affected him so dramatically. As he was going to bed tonight, he kissed my cheek, hugged me tightly and said, “I hope you feel better tomorrow, mama.” Then, he gave me the dimpled grin that melts my heart and he and his hoppy little weiner dog went to sleep.

Somehow, I think we’re all going to be alright…

Friday Confessional: I don’t know how to let him go

by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . October 2, 2009 . 9:19AM

I don’t know how to let him go. He’s not a baby anymore and it’s becoming more and more apparent that he’s growing up.

I remember the terror I felt the first time I realized that he no longer had the baby scent.

And then the first time he smelled. I mean really smelled. As in “go take a shower you smell.”

And the first time he actually met my mouth instead of my chin or my nose when he gave me a kiss.

And all the small things that I find myself now terrified of losing: his hand when he crosses the street, the goodnight kisses, when he falls asleep in our bed–his little hand searching for my shoulder and the sweet smiles in his sleep when I say his name and tell him I love him, the first time he’s embarrassed when I tell him I love him in front of his friends, or the first time he doesn’t rush to greet me when he comes home from school.

Every stage of his life has been my favorite. He’s my favorite. He’s always been my favorite. No one makes me laugh as hard as him. He has my sense of humor. Of course I’m going to think he’s hilarious. He’s thoughtful and serious and sensitive and laughs at fart jokes because they are hysterical. They are. I don’t care what you think. THEY ARE HYSTERICAL. Prudes.

I don’t know how to let him go. But I will because I love him with quiet desperation and care. And the day will come when he has to let me go, too. Loving someone means that you will eventually feel the loss that comes with letting go. And I’m scared to death.