Missing Elvis

On that hot August day in 2009, when my mother died unexpectedly from a pulmonary embolism, I remember coming home from the hospital and logging on my computer. My company was having a major event the following day and, as the public relations person, it was my responsibility to email media alerts.

And so I did.

You might wonder how could I do this? How in the world could I have even thought about work when, hours earlier, I had just suffered the most significant, painful and traumatic loss of my entire life? At first I wondered too. At the time, I remember feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience, watching myself sitting at the computer and typing away like everything was normal.

But with hindsight comes wisdom. Only later did I realize that on the day my mother died, I was--in the truest sense of the word--in shock. I recall shifting into autopilot and feeling numb, with an odd buzzing in my brain that felt like a steady low-level jolt of electricity. Looking back, I don't remember much else about that horrid day or the blurry weeks that followed.

This surreal experience was repeated on Wednesday when I said farewell to my beautiful boy, Elvis. I came home from the vet, logged on the computer, and dived into work. When my manager received my email advising what had happened, she immediately phoned and told me to take time off, as much as needed.

"No, I'm okay," I insisted. And I was. I worked from home all day and went into the office the next. I was fine. Really. Fine. Co-workers and friends observed that I was handling the loss unusually well and, to be honest, it even struck me as odd. How could I feel so deadened, so unemotional over losing my beloved Elvis?

But here's the thing about shock: you don't recognize it when you're in it. Instead, you really do believe you're coping well and doing fine.

Working and returning to some semblance of normalcy made it easy to ignore what had taken place that morning. Instead, Elvis was downstairs lying on his La-Z-Dog recliner, gnawing on his stuffed alligator, and that little scene in the vet's office hadn't really happened, right? Everything was hunky-dory, zippity-do-dah, same as always. Right? Fine, just fine.

But with the silent tranquility of Saturday morning came a blinding clarity. And with it, a wave of grief that slammed me with the force of a tsunami. Gone was the numbness. Gone was the weird buzzing in my brain. Gone was the ability to work or socialize or eat or breathe or do anything besides crumble in a ball and cry. And I realized I was not fine. Far from it. All I could think about was Elvis and the shocking awareness that he was gone. My faithful companion for 9 1/2 years. My boy, the dog I called my canine soul mate. Gone.

The shock--that comforting cloak of self-preservation and denial--had lifted only to unleash an ache of unbearable depth. A penetrating, palatable ache that mirrored the sentiments of a Facebook post by a friend who reached out when she heard about Elvis.

"Only from such great love can come such great sorrow."

Indeed. Because with each day that passes, I am overwhelmed with love for Elvis and grieve for the dog who is no longer here. And I cry all the harder, missing my lovely, loving boy.

Every Picture Tells a Story

You've heard the joke about the elderly person who reads the obituaries to catch up on his friends and acquaintances. Well, I read them too, but for the photos. Those haunting, grainy, black and white pictures that accompany heartbroken prose. Each photo draws me in, nips at my curiosity and often tugs at my heart.

Obituary photos usually feature the deceased in their prime. Eleanor may have been 91 when she died, but her image captures a saucy young woman wearing a pearl choker and fashionable bob circa 1939. She had laughing eyes and full, bright lips that were, no doubt, painted fire-engine red. And, I'm guessing, toenails that matched.

William, whose obituary is featured two columns over, passed away at 87, but his photo depicts a cocky young lad with a square jaw and determined grin. He wears a dapper fedora tilted at an angle and, although you can't tell from the photo, I'm sure he flaunted a tweed jacket flung over his shoulder.

I'm intrigued by the vigor and vitality expressed in these faces. They look like women I'd befriend, men I'd date. Each picture puts a life behind each name and suddenly, each death feels a little more personal. Even though their passing warrants but a brief, formulaic mention, their image makes me ponder the loss of someone who was once very real.
Love stories and heroic deeds. Travel adventures and business ventures. Maybe this person was a lifelong resident of their community, now missed by neighbors who once enjoyed weekly potluck dinners. Perhaps mention will be made of their brave fight against cancer or AIDS. Sometimes family history is included and I learn that their parents emigrated from Italy and started the bakery I frequent on Main Street.

I might discover that they met their spouse on a blind date while attending my Alma mater decades before I was born. Maybe they returned to school after raising a family and got their degree alongside students half their age.
Dates on an obituary merely suggest an aged, wizened person whose time had come. But photos remind me otherwise. This was a parent, friend, co-worker, lover, jokester, athlete, activist. Someone once loved whose absence others now mourn.

And with their lively, vibrant, half-inch face on newsprint beaming before me, I too feel a twinge of sadness for the passing of someone I never knew.

The Best (snort) Year Ever

So the year is already half over. Thank God, I say. Not that I've held any particularly high expectations for 2009, although I have to confess I was just a wee bit hopeful it might be better than previous years. But I’ve discovered that harboring such a desire is akin to wanting a new hairdo and trading in your blow dryer for a blow torch.

Both leave you burned and wondering what the hell just happened.

The economy's still tanking, the unemployment rate is at an all time high, and inflation is going through the roof. Now, to add fuel to the fire, people all around me are dying. Especially unsettling are the ones my age that are dropping dead from undiagnosed heart disease. This leaves me paranoid every time I so much as burp after gulping a Pepsi.

Besides, I can't afford to die just yet. There are still six months left in which to make 2009 my Best Year Ever. It has to be.

My horoscope said so.

Yeah, I scan my horoscope every Sunday, but with my usual horoscope attitude: If it's bad, I ignore it and if it's good, I believe it. Fair enough, dontcha think?

So here's the thing - every single Aquarian horoscope in 2008 predicted things like:

• "...if you ever wanted to make changes in your life, this is the time."
• "...your already well-known communication skills will be showcased..."
• "...the best year of the rest of your life takes off..."
• "...something wonderful is going to happen, but you don't know what."
• "...Better believe that you'll be in a very difference place come 2010."
• "...the next 10 months are a cosmic gift."

So far the first six of these ten months have been less a "cosmic gift" and more a cosmic kick in the pants. Like discovering Ex-Lax in the brownies.

But I remain hopeful that 2009 will redeem itself. This might explain why one friend always refers to me as Pollyanna. I'm an eternal optimist, she says, always seeing the good in things. I wish that were so, but know better. I'm really a closet pessimist who is always expecting the worst, like a burp turning into a heart attack.

Still, I can hope that the second half of 2009 holds something bright and happy. After all, "the new moon is shedding a light of opportunity...."

My horoscope said so.