What my dead dog taught me about therapy

My sister Emily regularly suggests I go to a therapist.

Before Chester, I may have entertained the thought. But rarely since.

“Go to a therapist?” I now counter. “I shoulda been a therapist.”

I love hearing the intimate details of people’s lives and invalidating the distorted views they have of themselves. I delight in learning that my amateur advice saved a soul, solved a problem or empowered a change. I can listen to the sordid details of other people’s lives for hours on end and never get bored.  

I have friends who tell me that my opinions carry more credence than those for which they pay $150 an hour, mere acquaintances who have unburdened their bursting consciences and perfect strangers who have unleashed lifelong secrets over far less than a bottle of wine.  

People talk to me. They think I am perceptive. They know I am honest. And they admire my strong moral compass. But, I don’t know anything the rest of the world doesn’t know.

I just base all my worldly wisdom on three little things:

Respect yourself. Be kind. And don’t let anyone take advantage of you.

Now, I’m no Patron Saint of Simple Solutions when it comes to my own life. It took me until I was well over 50 years-old to stop disrespecting my body. I let a bully posing as a friend continually tear my heart apart for a good dozen years. And I’ve spent a lifetime tossing barbs around solely for the sake of soliciting a chuckle.

However, I fully understand all of my issues. I am probably the most self-aware human on the planet. I lay my life out on the line, exposing my quirks loudly and proudly before someone does it for me. There’s not an action I take that I don’t analyze. A word spoken that I don’t rehash. A mistake I don’t apologize for. I am acutely aware of why I do what I do. Why I don’t do what I should. And exactly which not-so-traumatic childhood events molded me into the weirdo I am today.

There's nothing a therapist can tell me that I don't already know.

Our first dog, Chester, was in desperate need of a therapist.

He was a rescue dog who wagged his tail warmly within the confines of his cage, and as so many are trained to do, hid his true colors until we had signed the papers, sealing the deal that made him irrevocably our own.

He loved to bare his teeth and scare young children, unsuspecting adults and friendly mailmen. He was unpredictable. Untrustworthy. And unlovable.

At least by me.

I tried to get rid of him, I really did. But returning a dog to a shelter is a whole lot more complicated than taking back bath towels to Target. The mere utterance of canine contempt sends animal rights advocates swooping in, making you feel like you committed, rather than just contemplated, full-fledged cruelty, thereby nixing any remote thought of returning to the pre-pet happiness you once knew.

“Would you get rid of a child just because you didn’t like it?”

Uh, yeah. If I coulda. I woulda.

Instead, I called Donald the Dog Trainer to deal with Chester’s aggression issues. Six weeks, several boxes of biscuits and hundreds of dollars later, I was informed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my dog.

It was me.

The dog was simply following my lead. Reacting to my reactions. Trying to love and protect me. I was confusing the animal. Ruining his life. All I had to do was change my behavior and everything would be just fine.

I am ever-so-aware of my liabilities. I share my shortcomings. I advertise my inadequacies. I take ownership of my failures. But, I didn't raise this stinkin' dog. I adopted him halfway through his adulthood. Could it really be MY fault?

Chester is long dead and we've moved on to Griffey, who is crazier, but cuddlier. The kids are all pretty well launched and our house is calm and quiet.

It would be a perfect time to reconsider my stance on therapy.

But then I got to thinking about the dear, dead dog.

And that's when I had the palm-slapping-forehead moment. 

Uh, duh. Of course it was my fault.

It's always the mother's fault.

Even when the dog's got bigger issues than the both of you.

Toothless, Chinless and My Daughter's Future Husband

I promised Penny (aka Patty) that I’d find her a husband if she'd only bite the bullet and book another vacation.

I really thought we were in this cruise-or-two-a-year thing for life, but she was balking (some nonsense about work and money and leaving her dog, three things that would never, ever deter me from doing anything). Once she conceded, I convinced her that she'd be more likely to find love on a Norwegian Cruise Line jaunt to Bermuda than on a third-consecutive trip to the Caribbean on Carnival Cruise lines.

It all began forty-some years ago when Penny showed up at Springfield High School, as a short-skirted, exotic-looking, adventure-seeking Catholic School transfer. Despite my jock-loving, Lacoste-wearing, country club WASP-ishness, we successfully wove our way into each others' worlds.

After college we were inseparable, sharing season tickets to the Phillies, tiny staterooms on massive cruise ships and lopsided bar stools at the local Fireside Inn. Penny tried her best to guide me in the ways of love, encouraging a little more cleavage, a little more liquor and a lot less rules. And then, still nowhere near married, she up and left for Florida leaving me floundering behind while she became a reputable member of society.

Penny is the most creative person I know. She is smart and stylish and pretty and personable. Sadly, she got saddled with a not-so-smart or stylish or pretty or personable spouse. But we eventually got rid of him so we could become traveling companions again.

We had absolutely no trouble meeting men aboard the Love Boat last week. 

The first handsome gent we met was Ken. He was a seasoned cruiser who split his time between Long Island and Charlotte and shared our common interest in baseball – with his wife Betty. Betty also was fun and friendly and it was immediately clear that theirs was an impenetrable marriage. 

Next came Dave. We met him up on the top deck as we passed the Statue of Liberty, pulling out of New York Harbor. He engaged us in conversation but had no interest in a real engagement. He was on the ship on a casino scholarship along with his lady friend (another Patty), who got to zip around in a motor-coach since she was recovering from back surgery. 

Will from New Rochelle was a nice guy. But then again, so was his wife Michele. And their two daughters were way too cute to contend with.

After announcing to our room steward that we needed to find Penny a husband, and preferably not a crew member, we took to our beds, exhausted from day one of our search.

The next morning, we spotted the perfect companion. His name was Steve and he was handsome, fit, tan and a retired NYC police captain. He even sent a private investigator over to our lounge chairs to find out what our story was. 

"Are they married? Where are their husbands? You mean the one who is married is allowed to travel without her husband?" 

Sadly, the private investigator was his adorable wife of 31 years. Steve and Mel became our very favorite friends. So, that nipped that romance in the bud.

We met Zeke (aka Michael) as we boarded a Rum Swizzle Harbor Cruise while in port in Bermuda. He had a kind face, a nice mustache and listened to us when we talked. He was on his first cruise. With Julie. Who was not only pretty and blond, but befriendable. They were staying in one of those fancy rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows that oozed champagne and chocolate-covered strawberry romance. We weren't going to get too far with that.

Jim was perfect. He was a lawyer from New York who had no trouble keeping up with our banter. And banter we did. We bantered back and forth until he mentioned the word “girlfriend” more times than we could count. I assured him that he could dump said girlfriend for Penny, but when she showed up at the bar, young, pretty and glowering, we knew we it wasn’t going to happen.

And then we met Chinless. But first we met Toothless.

Toothless had one long tooth. Just one. He wore a John Deere baseball cap and announced that he could never, ever go on a cruise without his old lady by his side. She was his anchor, his compass, the one who told him what to do and when to do it.

“Have another drink, Hon.”

Chinless was a good-looking guy, but for the lack of a strong jaw bone. He drank Bud Light’s in blue aluminum bottles and unleashed his sordid story with pride. He had multiple children and had multiple affairs. He spoke of his multi-million dollar businesses, offering Penny some priceless advice.

"You want a guy? Wear a ring. I would never go for a woman without a wedding ring. Ringless screams, 'I'm desperate!'"

And so, Penny became Ringless and he was dubbed Chinless.

While docked in Bermuda, we visited the town of Hamilton for an authentic Dark & Stormy (or three) at a pub called the Pickled Onion. While Penny befriended a pink-shorted lad to her left, I pounced upon the cutest boy I'd ever seen (except of course for my own ever-loving spouse). 

When he told me he was twenty-three years-old, I immediately tossed Penny to the curb and started looking out for my own best interests.

“Would you marry my daughter?” I asked, in all sincerity.

He agreed. And I swooned when he messaged her with the proposal.

I know it's going to work out. Even though he lives in a different country.

Well, Penny didn't meet the love of her life, nor did she meet her next ex-husband. But I have no doubt that she will one day find love again. And when she does, I plan to be there to make sure it's someone who is as accepting of me as he is of our vacations without him.

Sailing Away

One day when I have the time I’ll get my bone-on-bone knees replaced. I almost did about five years ago, but then decided I had better things to do with my life. In the meantime, I ache, I throb, I creak, I cringe, but I still manage to eke out a very happy and active existence. On any given day I can walk five miles, ride my bike 30 miles, swim 50 laps and lift the middle-sized Styrofoam weights in my water aerobics class.

However, I can’t run. I can’t jump. I can’t stand for hours on end and I have to be ever- conscious of my movements. But, I’ve learned to deal. Like when I am pedaling away through Saddle River Park and a floating piece of something gets caught in my knee cap, I simply dismount, put my left leg up as high as my right and left arms can lift it, drape it over a park bench, massage the floater back into place and get back in the saddle and ride another 15 miles. I can’t skip down the stairs so I just do the senior-citizen, same-foot shuffle, one step at a time.  I can’t weed the garden without my old-lady bench and haven’t been able to get on my hands and knees to scrub a floor since the kids hit middle school. I can’t jump off my roof if I have to escape a raging fire like I did in college, but the odds of that happening again are slim.

All in all, I have my aching bones pretty well under control.

Or so I thought. Until I tried stepping from a dock into a dinghy.  

In the beginning of August, my ever-loving spouse and I went on road trip to Maine. We hadn’t traveled together in the same car at the same time to the same place for selfish purposes in quite some time. Years of being pulled in opposite directions with opposing children put us out of practice. But when we got the invitation to spend a weekend with my spouse’s favorite cousins at the wedding of one of their lovely children, we didn’t blink an eye before booking our room in the inn overlooking Sheepscot Bay.

The wedding was as perfect as we knew it would be. The weather, guests and family members all collaborated in cheerful jubilation. The bride was beautiful; the groom was dashing. The parents were proud; the buddies were beaming. The food trucks were awesome and the dogs were well-behaved.

After blueberry pancakes on Sunday morning, we bit adieu to the newlyweds and their entourage and headed north to Rockland to meet my college roommate, Betsy, and her husband, Tom. The plan was to go sailing for the day, then drive south to Higgins Beach to Betsy’s family’s house and stay for two nights

Betsy and Tom are ruggedly efficient outdoorspeople. My spouse is one of those robust and resilient Outward Bound alums who excels at anything remotely athletic. And then there’s me. I’m sporty. I like nature. I appreciate beauty. But I have my limits. I’m kind of a priss when it comes down to it.

I've spent my fair share of time on the water. I've canoed, kayaked, ridden in speed boats and been on more cruises than I can count. But I'd never been sailing. And while it was not on my bucket list, I knew my spouse would love leaning precariously over the side of a sailboat as he learned the basics from master mariners. And I knew that Betsy and Tom would be the ultimate sea dog hosts, enthusiastically sharing their love of the sea with someone who could appreciate their passion.

And I could come along for the ride. 

Betsy has known me long enough to simply shake her head at my intense aversion to sand, and to play into my need for knowing exactly what I was getting into.

“Don’t worry. There’s no sand at the marina,” she told me. “Wear sneakers, bring a jacket, sunscreen, a hat, maybe a beach towel and that’s it. Leave your phone in the car. You can help sail or just enjoy the day.”

I did exactly as she told me, except I broke two rules. I didn’t bring a hat. I have never worn a hat in my life and wasn’t about to start. And, I opted to bring wear my flip flops and bring the sneakers along to put on if and when I needed to. Because, despite how often I get cold feet, having hot feet can drive me to drink.

When we reached the marina I grabbed the canvas LL Bean bag that had been packed up as my sailing day bag for over a week. We parked the car and headed to the dock where Tom was waiting in the dinghy.

Tom and Betsy share a sailboat with Tom’s siblings and consider cramming together in close quarters a vacation. They had just finished a week-long sail up the coast of Maine and for much of the time had other human beings eating, sleeping and peeing on the boat.  

 Tom tossed my spouse the week’s trash and asked him to take it up to the dumpster, instructing me to get in the dinghy while he was doing that.

Now, the dinghy is a little wooden boat named Sandy. It has a little wooden seats and little wooden oars. And a little wooden bottom. Tom was pulled up flush to the dock, but it was a step down. A big step down. For someone with two bad knees and a fear of the unknown. 

I clutched my carefully-packed canvas bag and asked Tom what to do.

“Just get in the boat,” he said. “Just step in the middle.”

And, so I did. Or I thought I did. But whatever I did, I did it wrong.

Because, there I was, spread-eagled with my right leg in the dinghy and my left leg on the dock. The dinghy tilted and tipped and water splashed in Tom’s face. He didn’t yell. He didn’t laugh. He simply grabbed the dock to steady the boat. And I took the plunge, knowing I had a split second to keep from a landing a full-out split. I leaped into the hull of the boat, landing on all fours, one leg twisted behind me under the little wooden bench seat, the other in praying position. I turned my head in time to watch the little canvas bag go bobbing away in the bay.

A quick-thinker, Tom grabbed the bag with an oar, saving one of my favorite blue Nikes, orthotics intact. The other sneaker floated off, under the dock.

Meanwhile, inch-by-inch, I managed to right myself. I wasn’t scared of broken bones or bruised egos, but just that I’d capsize the boat completely. But somehow that didn’t happen.

“Let me take you out to the sailboat and then I’ll go back for your spouse,” Tom suggested.

I climbed red-faced up into my college roommate's warm embrace, a task infinitely easier than getting down into the dinghy. Betsy cackled as I told her about my traumatic take-off. But,efficient first-mate that she is, when she saw the soaked specimens that I had so painstakingly packed, she got right to work wringing out my wet belongings.

“I did bring sneakers like you told me,” I promised.

And with that, the boys rowed up, soggy shoe in hand. In a life-defying maneuver, Captain Tom was able to rescue the runaway, and unsinkable Nike from under the dock.

I settled in to my seat on the sailboat, vowing not to make a move for the rest of the afternoon. My spouse got right in on the action as I knew he would and learned to do whatever it is they do on sailboats when the captain yells, “Hard-a-lee.” 

I sat in my corner, holding on for dear life as we glided across the picturesque Penobscot Bay. 

And eventually, the serenity of sailing got the better of me and I bravely made my way to the front of the ship, sitting on the point which I’m sure has a real name, with my dear old friend. Two Betsy’s, as different as can be, watching the world go by while our ever-loving spouses sailed us around on a picture-perfect day.

Tomorrow I am heading out on my yearly cruise with Penny (aka Patty). And while she's been a wreck about the impending hurricane, I'm way more concerned about the excursion we have booked in Bermuda. 

We're going sailing on a catamaran.

But maybe this time I'll have an umbrella drink or two before I board.

And they're off...

 

They’re going fast and furious, the college-bound.

We read about them on Facebook as they take off for parts unknown. Logan leaves for Arizona, Danielle shakes it up in San Francisco. And Isabelle shuffles off to South Carolina. Juliette jaunts out to Morgantown, Daniel moseys off to Massachusetts and Jordan makes his way to Maryland. Raquel drives down to Delaware and Alex flies to Dublin. As in Ireland. 

One by one they’re going. And parents across America are so distraught that they completely forget all the times they prayed to gods they didn't believe in to make this day come quickly and quietly.

And when the day comes, you're a mess. You hoped to be happy, but you find out you're sad. You expected to be tearful, but instead you're ecstatic. There's no accounting for the emotions swirling inside your head and your heart and the only sure bet is that you'll be blindsided, one way or another.

It’s easy for me this year. I don't have a freshman so the only pain I'm feeling is financial. Leo, as the two others before him, convinced me it was way more economical to live in an apartment than in a dorm sophomore year. After many trips to IKEA, I realize I've spent more on his apartment than my parents spent on my tuition. 

But I remember. 

Last year at this time I was facing what I had both longed for and feared for twenty-some years. An empty nest.  I had great plans. Candlelit dinners, European vacations, clean closets. But I blinked an eye and it was Thanksgiving. Then the very, very long winter break. And then the interminable sixteen week-long summer about which I wrote fourteen weeks ago. And yes, it went just as I expected.

Just a lot quicker.

And here we are again, that time of year when parents are posting precious pictures of their kindergarten-turned-college-bound children.

“Where did the time go?” they lament. And their friends respond with heartfelt advice for surviving the semester.

I sent three children off to college and experienced a totally different emotion with each.  Unadulterated joy. Overwhelming sadness. And unfamiliar emptiness.

When I dropped my first-born and favorite daughter in North Carolina, I fist-pumped the air and let out a whooping whoo-hoo! 

She did the same.

She had gotten into her dream school and I knew that her dreams were going to come true. I had no doubt that she was going to have the time of her life and meet lifelong friends and learn life’s hard lessons along the way. It was exciting. It was joyful. It was life. It was time.

It had been a very long eighteen years.

When Max transferred to the University of Southern California, I felt no joy. It’s possible that the price tag on that education usurped any feelings of happiness I could possibly have mustered up, but I think there’s probably more to it than that.

Sending your child to college in California and expecting to ever see them again is kind of like sending a kid into a room full of puppies and hoping they say, “No thanks, Mom. I don’t really want one.”

We flew out to LA together, spent copious amounts of money at the local Target and had a ball tooling around town for three days before school started.  I woke up on our last day together feeling rather out of sorts but bumbled through the day swallowing hard when I thought ahead.

When it came time for me to leave for the airport, Max walked me to the garage where my rental car was parked. We hugged hard but I held it together until I saw him saunter away in the rear view mirror.

Then I really let loose with twenty years of stored up sobbing. The heaving, can't-catch-my-breath, passion-filled, exhausting type of tears.

Until, Tap. Tap. Tap. I looked to my left and there he was, witnessing my breakdown. He had come back to say goodbye one more time.

When Leo left for college last year, I thought it would be a piece of cake. After all, he was only going 40 miles away and I had been through this before. Twice. I knew just how quickly time goes and how easily we adjust to life without uneaten meals and overflowing laundry baskets and left-up toilet seats. I knew that life goes on and attacks the void with a vengeance. 

But still.

Leo had never been a talker. I used to joke that he had only said 18 words to me in 18 years. But when the two of us made a 500-mile overnight drive to get him home for a high school baseball game after his sister's college graduation, I said, “You better talk so I don’t fall asleep.”

He talked the entire way home and still hasn’t stopped.

Leo become my pal that summer before college, something I was kind of bitter about. It would be a whole lot easier to say goodbye to someone who still just grunted. Instead, it was like I had just met a fascinating friend who was moving away.

The days leading up to his departure were filled with kids. Slamming doors. Blaring music. Empty pizza boxes. And lots of laughter. Yet my house and my heart had never felt emptier. 

I watch and grin as university names show up on Facebook profiles and college stickers make their way onto back windows of family cars. Some are crossing the country and some just crossing the county. They're going to Penn State and Pitt. Temple and Towson. UT Austin and Colby College. Arizona and Georgetown. Notre Dame and Northeastern. McGill and Montclair State. Dominican College, Becker College and Post University. Rutgers and Rowan and College of Charleston.

I get misty-eyed thinking about all the hope that's wrapped up in those last parental hugs. All the dreams. All the possibilities. All the expectations.

I laugh out loud as I imagine what's running through the freshman brain in the midst of those stronghold hugs. All the freedom. All the adventures. All the beer.

And then I gulp, thinking about what's to come. My first college graduate moved halfway across the country and isn't apt to return to her attic bedroom anytime soon. But, the next is graduating this May.

Would he, could he, move back home?

Well, if nothing else, it will give me something to write about.

Here's hoping all you freshman have an absolute ball. And, don't forget to call your mothers.