"What Song Shall We Sing?"
Every night, as I tuck the three younger children into bed one by one, we sing together. At first, I would choose the song, but after they had learned several, they started picking what we'd sing. If they don't choose quickly enough, I sing my favorite, "Edelweiss," which they now avoid since they've heard it so often. If the day has been especially good, like a birthday, we sing two songs together. And on rare occasion, we'll do three songs, like the day we visited their first theme park (Six Flags in Virginia).
As we approach holidays or unusual days, they often ask for a song that's thematic. Some are easy--Christmas, Easter, birthdays, New Year's ("Auld Lang Syne"). Others are harder. Either I don't know all the words, or worse yet, I can't think of a song at all. More than once, I've made up a song on the spot, although the kids are getting pretty good at calling my bluff.
How many songs do you know for Mother's Day? I finally decided that the Magnificat would work. Misha asked for a "David's Song" (his English name), and Psalm 23 filled the bill. Well, this week, the kids have been asking for Halloween songs. And to make it harder, we'll need two of them, since Halloween is THE BEST holiday in the year. (When else can you dress in a costume, get loads of candy, and wander the neighborhood for hours? At least we're not persuading them, as was necessary in 2005, that gifts for us and their teachers are not part of the celebration.)
The Halloween songs I found will suffice, but they stretch the point:
"We're off to see the wizard!" and "Itsy-Bitsy Spider"
It helps that the children like the hand motions that accompany the second song!
My Teacher
"Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand;
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.
Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light.
Take my hand, precious Lord; lead me home."
Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 739, st. 1
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Friday, October 19, 2007 (4:00 am)
A small thin dog stands vomiting at the base of our giant oak tree. Wind whips through the branches, and the angry sky spits a light rain. Dakota stands nearby, gazing at her, his tail quivering. I stand with the porch door open, just five feet away. A moment later, I carry Alabama back up the steps into the house.
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She had gotten weaker and thinner over the last year. First she chewed on her back feet, which were probably tingling. Eventually, she lost feeling in them, which we discovered when I accidently cut the quick on two nails and she didn't even notice. She, who had been starving as a puppy, ate slower and slower, and eventually only picked at the dry food she had always eaten heartily. In her last month, she began to lose muscle mass, and on October 15, the vet told us she had lost ten percent of her weight in just two weeks. He diagnosed her with diabetes, and we scheduled an appointment for Saturday, October 20, to discuss the possibility of insulin shots. In the meantime, he told us she needed lots of water to flush the extra sugar out of her body.
But despite it all, she didn't seem to be in pain, as long as we gave her arthritis medication that allowed her to move more freely. On Thursday, October 18, she ate well at both noon and 6:00 pm, since we had now switched to mostly canned dog food, which she loved. But at 11:00 pm, the vomiting started, and continued most of the night. We got her into the vet's office by 8:15 am on Friday morning, and she was so dehydrated that he hospitalized her to give her fluids by IV.
I took Dakota with me everywhere that Friday, both for me and for him. I had my own doctor's appointment across town that day, and my blood pressure, although still normal, was the highest it's ever been. Before heading home, I walked Dakota for several blocks, which felt like an incomplete version of old times. We had to stop our walk early when the rain started again and the wind blew quite strongly.
When I telephoned the vet at 1:00 pm, he told me Alabama wasn't doing much better despite the IV fluids. I asked him if he could give her enough insulin so that we could bring her home for the weekend to say goodbye. I knew that she was old and that her life, like everyone's, must someday end, but I didn't want to let go just yet. The vet told me that he thought that her liver was also failing, and I knew that the arthritis medication had probably made her weak liver even worse. She was too sick to come home, and we were to telephone the next morning at 10:00 am for an update.
Arriving home, I had 45 minutes before the afterschool whirlwind would start. Something told me that I should go see Alabama, but I couldn't find my car keys. I was apprehensive that they were locked in the car, and I knew that if they were, my window of time to see her would be gone. Suddenly, I found my keys and was able to drive quickly to the vet's office.
They walked her slowly to an empty examining room, with IV in tow. Shutting the door, we had fifteen minutes together. She paced the floor the whole time, not able to relax. I wanted so much to help her feel better. (She hated hospitals. As a puppy, she had been in one for three days, and upon coming home had buried her head in Jonathan's lap for minutes and minutes, and then remained mute for days.) I knew that her life was coming to an end soon, and I took the opportunity to say goodbye to her. But she was not herself, and could not be comforted.
When it was time to go, the technician gently tried to walk her away, but she resisted. Alabama looked up at me, and for a moment her eyes cleared and she looked young again. But her eyes were pleading, "Don't leave me here. Take me home with you!" I knew that I could not take her home--she was too sick--and that my presence made it too hard for her to follow where she needed to go. As much as I wanted to continue watching her, I left first, knowing that my departure was what she needed to stop her struggle.
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Saturday, October 20 (4:00 am)
I awaken in the night, torn between two questions. How, Lord, could I ever give permission for my Alabama to be euthanized? Yet, how could she go on living in such obvious pain and discomfort? I had prayed all day Friday, "Lord, please do not make me have to decide to kill her!" Now, I tossed and turned, thinking of her all alone in the hospital. "Lord, I've taken care of her for over 13 years. I am not able to do it anymore--it's beyond my ability. Lord, you must take care of her now." Suddenly, I felt at peace. I had given her over to him. Now I could sleep again.
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Saturday, October 21 (7:30 am)
The new day was bright and clear. The storm was past.
The phone rang. It was our vet calling--Alabama had died sometime during the night.
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"Lord of all gentleness, Lord of all calm,
Whose voice is contentment, whose presence is balm:
Be there at our sleeping, and give us, we pray,
Your peace in our hearts, Lord, at the end of the day."
Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 738, st. 4
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We all handled our grief in different ways. The younger children wanted to say goodbye, and on Saturday afternoon Jonathan took three of the children and Dakota to see her body. In the next few days, some of the children drew picture books of her. (Since they have no photos from their years in Ukraine, they are in the habit of drawing things they want to remember.) One of Misha's picture books is titled "The Jomping Alobama" and contains drawings of her with arrows showing motion. I asked him what it meant. From the mouth of babes: He had seen us lift her into the car or onto our bed in the last weeks, since she was so weak. Now, in heaven, she could jump again!
I saw my counselor last week, and she helped me understand why I am grieving so much. Alabama's death raises pain for me from the distant past. As a third-grader, I experienced death for the first time when I lost my beloved grandfather and was unable to say goodbye to him. The loss affected me deeply for years, and still comes back at times. In addition, Jonathan and I had found Alabama in the midst of our infertility journey. For eleven years, I mothered her instead of the biological children I could not conceive and the adopted children that I waited so long to bring home.
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Thank you, Alabama, for teaching me about both life and death.
My Teacher
"Lord of all kindliness, Lord of all grace,
Your hands swift to welcome, your arms to embrace:
Be there at our homing, and give us, we pray,
Your love in our hearts, Lord, at the eve of the day."
Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 738, st. 3
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After eleven years of life with Jonathan and me, five children suddenly entered her home. Even for us, in the prime of life and with years of preparation for parenthood, it was an almost unimaginable experience. For an elderly dog, set in her ways, with no possibility of mental preparation, it was a whirlwind and earthquake combined.
Yet, despite of everything, in her last years Alabama became more gentle and loving. Maybe the kids just wore her down--being caressed by seven sets of hands instead of two has to help. Her sphere narrowed, too, since we had no more time for daily walks in the neighborhood. I always hoped that the increased activity in the household gave the dogs at least some level of exercise.
To keep them mentally stimulated, I often took the dogs along for short car trips to the school or store. They joined us, too, on longer journeys, with Dakota in the back seat between the older boys and Alabama on blankets between Jonathan and me. One of my favorite memories is when all nine of us visited the Indiana Dunes, and Alabama ran endlessly from wave to wave, trying to drink all of Lake Michigan.
I've written more details about the adoption's changes in her life in a previous posting on September 10, 2007 titled "My Story." She managed to adapt, despite everything.
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Thank you, Alabama, for showing us your love.
My Teacher
"Lord of all eagerness, Lord of all faith,
Whose strong hands were skilled at the plane and the lathe:
Be there at our labors, and give us, we pray,
Your strength in our hearts, Lord, at the noon of the day."
Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 738, st. 2
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I always think of my brother, a carpenter and home builder, when I sing these words. But if one looks at this stanza in a more general sense, it is about devotion to one's work. Alabama was devoted to her work, which was devotion to us.
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One of the most wonderful things about dogs is their unconditional love for their owners. No matter what happened in my day, when I returned home, Alabama and Dakota would be there at the door, wagging their tails and gazing at me with their beautiful eyes. Several years ago, Dakota went blind for a time, and the loss of his gaze was much worse for me than I ever imagined it could be.
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It's summertime in Texas--very hot--and Jonathan and I take our new puppy to the lake. I'm standing about twenty yards from shore, watching Jonathan and Alabama. He puts her down at the water's edge and swims quite a distance into the lake. She becomes agitated, feeling very alone (she doesn't realize that I'm standing close by). Suddenly she jumps straight into the water and swims toward Jonathan--a tiny puppy determined not to lose her master. She was ready to swim the whole lake for him. When she reached him, she clawed her way up his bare chest to his shoulder and hung on for dear life. Their special bond, which he told me was unexplainably strong, continued for the rest of her life.
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The house was her domain, and it had to be protected. The invasion of the mailman each day required a special measure of ferociousness. One time I saw her bite the mail as it entered the mail slot, sure that the mailman's very arm was entering "her space." Early on, she was also suspicious of the television. Those little people inside looked unusual, and she walked behind the TV looking for them.
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I spent several years upstairs in my office, writing my dissertation. The dogs kept me company in what would have otherwise been a very lonely pursuit. They took turns, one sitting at my feet and the other on the couch downstairs, protecting the rest of the house. They were always sure who should be where, and Jonathan and I have yet to figure out how they communicated this to each other.
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Before the kids came, Jonathan and I walked the dogs every evening. Otherwise, they couldn't settle down for the night, which was important since we four all slept together. In Texas, we let the dogs run off leash, usually on campus. Alabama was always careful to know where we were, and it confounded her no end that Dakota would often get lost. She was constantly running between him and us, trying to keep the group together. She was also very aware of her surroundings. One time a garbage can on campus had been moved about ten feet to a new location. She was now very sure that it was alive--it had moved, after all!--and she barked at it with all her might.
But her curiosity often overcame her fear. She saw a life-size statue on the Baylor campus, and carefully snuck up on it to smell its out-stretched hand. When her nose touched the stone, she jumped as if she'd been shocked--it wasn't alive! That contrasted with another occasion when she went face-to-face with a curious cow. They touched noses through a fence, much to the surprise of both of them!
On another walk, this time in west Texas, she surprised an armadillo that took off running. When she was young, she could run very fast, and before long, she had pulled up side-to-side with the armadillo. Even as they barreled along at breakneck speed, she looked back at us with a look that said, "Ok, Mom and Dad, what do I do now?" Unlike Dakota, our hunter, she never killed another creature. That wasn't her job.
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Thank you, Alabama, for teaching me about devotion.
My Teacher
"Lord of all hopefulness, Lord of all joy,
Whose trust, ever child-like, no cares could destroy:
Be there at our waking, and give us, we pray,
Your bliss in our hearts, Lord, at the break of the day."
Lutheran Service Book, Hymn No. 738, st. 1
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August 1994
A tiny puppy plays with children in a yard, racing from one to another and nipping at their heels. She has a twinkle in her eye, and the cutest brown eyebrows I had ever seen. Jonathan and I continue our walk, coming back to the same house fifteen minutes later. The children are gone, and the puppy is sitting in the street--a very busy street--at the curb. I try to shoo her away back into the yard, but she walks straight to us, wagging her tail and looking up at us with those beautiful eyes. We scoop her up and try to return her to the backyard, through a hole in the broken fence. The owner of the home drives up and tells us that she is not his dog. We take Alabama home with us, for the rest of her life.
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Jonathan and I had just returned from living overseas for three years. That journey was ending, but our journey through infertility was still in its early stages. We had not yet started treatments, with all their medical, emotional, and financial implications. But by 1994, I had gone through one major and two minor surgeries to keep my "plumbing" free from the effects of endometriosis. Within two years, I would have three more surgeries, one of them requiring a month at home to recover. Between these medical challenges, a dissertation to write, and a job to help pay the bills, starting a family seemed very, very far away. And for other reasons, too involved to describe now, August 1994 was the lowest point in my walk to motherhood. It was no accident that God gave us Alabama when I most needed her.
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She was tiny--only four pounds and about six inches long. When we first fed her, she ate so quickly we thought she would get sick. I picked up the dish, and she grabbed the edges with her paws, rising in the air with the dish. Before I could disengage her, she had stuffed her cheeks chipmunk-style with as much food as she could hold. At her first visit to the vet, he told us that her teeth gave her age as three months, despite her diminutive size. The vet gave her deworming medicine, and later that day she passed a tapeworm more than three feet long. Now she could actually receive the food she ate, and grow and flourish.
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Puppies, like children, have endless energy. When they aren't sleeping, they're running. One time she escaped through the door into the yard and barreled full speed around the entire house--twice--with Jonathan in hot pursuit. Once I overcame my fear that she'd veer off into the street, I revelled in her
joie de vivre.
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Discipline seldom worked with Alabama the first time. She was proud and defiant, and refused to budge. I learned the Spanish word for "naughty" from Jonathan because of her. But she was so embarassed at being scolded that she did all she could not to repeat the humiliation. For most behavior issues, therefore, it only took one very difficult encounter to teach her to mind.
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When her puppyhood was past, she became more suspicious, especially of men she didn't know. We lived for a while near the entrance to a college campus, where scores of people walked to their classes. If some poor man on crutches came by, she vented the full force of her displeasure through the fence. He MUST be the man who, when she was little, beat her with a stick and left scars that still marked her legs. We would chuckle sometimes about our politically incorrect dog, but there was a great lesson in this for us. Jonathan and I learned not to fear her difficult behaviors resulting from the abuse she had received. She was still our beloved Alabama, and we could love her, and work with her, to overcome the scars she carried both inside and out.
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Thank you, Alabama, for teaching me how to parent.
"Punch Buggy Seal"
Translation:
While driving, the child next to you sees a VW Bug. He/she punches you in the arm, saying "Punch Buggy Seal." Since they "sealed" the game, you are not allowed to punch them as well for the VW. If they want to emphasize the seal, they add the phrase "No punches back."
Ruslan punched me four times yesterday on the trip home from confirmation class. It's a good thing I ordered the magazine _Car and Driver_ for the kids during the latest fundraiser at their school, since Ruslan is certainly more observant of cars than I am.
The Dreaded Question
There are several things about motherhood that are much bigger issues than I ever expected. One of the prominent ones is finding places for the myriad papers and things that now enter our house. We didn't used to store rollerblades, toys, school papers, artwork, etc. It takes time and imagination to process all this stuff, especially since I prefer to recyle and not throw things away.
The children's artwork, for example, is voluminous from "sermon drawing" alone, let alone all the other sources. (I sometimes wonder if Pastor Rogers gets distracted, since our family sits in the front row on the pulpit side!) While waiting in a doctor's office, I got a good idea about processing artwork from a parenting magazine. After collecting the children's artwork for the whole school year, I put it out on a table, and they choose their ten favorite items. I sort through the rest for any ones that Jonathan and I want to keep, then the rest gets used as gift-wrapping paper.
While the artwork problem is now solved, the master bedroom serves as the dumping ground for all the things that don't yet have a permanent home for storage. And whenever something enters the house that I don't want the children to see, like gifts in the mail, it immediately goes into our bedroom. Pile by pile, I'm tackling the overflow, but it's slow going.
We've been cleaning our house the last few days, since Jonathan's parents will be visiting us soon. Tonight the kids must clear their bedroom floors enough for me to vacuum. Cleaning is especially hard for Misha, who as our biggest art-lover, has the largest collection of "projects" (mostly from the recycle bin) in his room. He also has trouble parting with anything, probably since at one time he lost all his material possessions.
It finally happened--the question I've known would come sooner or later. Misha asked it--
"Mom, if we have to clean our rooms, why don't you?"
Election Results
According to news reports from Kyiv (available at
www.kyivpost.com), the election yesterday appears to have been conducted fairly and peacefully. That is very good news. Mikola's orphanage is a long five-hour drive from Kyiv, so I do not fear for his safety. But political turmoil would not be good for the progress of his adoption, so I'm pleased that so far the election looks like it took place smoothly.
About 70% of the returns are in, and it appears that the two largest pro-European parties have won control of Parliament.
I'll continue to watch the news via Internet, since there wasn't even one story on the election in the Chicago Tribune today! As things develop, I'll keep you informed.
