Hey, life? Are you kidding me?

The Grace of God and Tea with a Stranger

I don't know how many of you read my writing, or even blog for that matter. But if you do, you might realize with my stories there is usually some truth in it mixed in with some fiction. It's not so much to make it more interesting (well, sometimes it is - depending on the story), but truth be told, it's to keep it from being "too real" for me. It's like even if one thing is changed, I don't have to deal with it on any dee3per level, or show myself completely to anyone else. I suppose it's a silly way of keeping an invisible wall up.

This won't be the case with this blog. In fact, what happened this morning deserves to be its own essay or story, but I know I won't have the stregnth to reread it, much less proofread and edit it.

Eight days ago, my dog, Bella, died very unexpectedly. Now, I know not everyone is animal people, and to be fair, I've had quite a few pets I didn't care for. Come to think of it, in my 42 years on this earth I can only remember one other pet that I felt this type of connection with. Even if you don't enjoy animals, please read on because you may learn to appreciate people.

When Bella passed, I didn't cry, I sobbed. I didn't feel like I could ever quit. But looking at the helplessness on my 14 year old son's face, reminded me I could not do this to him. It's just been Reese and I since he was 6. He's very protective of me. Something I sometimes worry is too much for a kid.

Most of the time I"m strong, not just because I have to be, but because I feel I should be. Usually (okay, almost always), I'm fine being a single parent. But I admit I resented being alone at this time. I don't know who I resented, but it pissed me off to have to deal with the decisions while I was in such pain. That I was the only one who could come to my rescue. And then I was pissed for feeling that way. As strange as that sounds I'm sure many of you understand.

Well, this moring I was walking in my neighborhood. Perhaps it was because I was alone with my thoughts or it was all the neighborhood dogs barking as I passed, but the tears began sliding down my cheeks. For the first time I didn't hurriedly wipe them away.

As I turned a corner, I saw a familiar face heading my way. I don't know this man, but I see him all the time, and we share the customary neighbor wave. He's a large man confined to a wheel chair. I don't know if he's confined because he's large, or he's large because he's confined. It doesn't matter. But I always see him in his wheelchair taking his dog for a walk. It doesn't matter if it's 100 degrees or 4 degrees. (Oklahoma varies in temperature quite a bit.)

As he passed me smiling, his dog came to sniff my feet. I bent to pet it, and the tears rolled faster. I don't know for sure if I was thinking of Bella, or I was mourning how this man would ever feel if he lost his dog.

The man looked at me. "What's a matter, Hon."

Normally, I would have said I was fine, or my allergies were killing me, you know how high the pollen count is.

But for some reason I didn't. I said, "I recently lost my dog."

I didn't apologize for crying. Again, a new thing for me. Heck, I apologize for crying even when no one else is around to see it.

He didn't tell me he was sorry. Instead, he asked if I'd like to share a cup of tea.

Normally, I can make up about 25 nonexistent excuses to keep me out of a potentially uncomfortable situation. But to my surprise, I told him I'd like that.

We didn't say anything as we walked the half a block to his house, and up the wheelchair ramp that led to the door.

I'm sure some of you are thinking, this wasn't a safe thing to do. Maybe you're right. It didn't enter my thoughts. Sure, in retrospect, I suppose he could be a serial killer who fakes needing a wheelchair, but he'd been doing a good job because I've seen him in it the whole 3 years I've lived in the neighborhood. And Oklahoma may have plenty of tornadoes, but not so many mass murderers.

I sat at his kitchen table petting his dog that sat at my feet. The man heated the tea and set the cup in front of me. You might think the silence was awkard; I know in different circumstances I would have. But in this little kitchen I seemed to find some peace.

He didn't ask me how Bella had died. Instead, he said, "Would you like to tell me about Bella?"

I smiled as my lip quivered, and even more tears cascaded down my face. "We got her from the pound eight months ago."

He didn't respond, "Well, since it's only been a few months, it will be easier to get over." Others had said this. In fact, he didn't respond at all, just waited for me to continue.

"She slept with me every night, curled under the blanket by my knees."

I waited for 'Now you'll sleep better, studies show you get better sleep without pets in bed with you'. He simply handed me a tissue.

"When we got her, for some reason she liked to sit on my neck while I was at the computer. She wanted to be with me all the time."

He didn't say unfortunately death is a cycle of life. Well-meaning words with empty meaning when you are mourning.

He poured me more tea.

I told him how the condolence card and bill from the vet had arrived the same day.

He didn't brush it away, claiming coincidence; or say that it was callous.

Nodding his head, he reached for my hand. I was concious of the wet tissue in it, but knew he didn't mind.

I told him how I had to be strong, because I didn't want my son to hurt.

He didn't say, "It's just a dog, not a human."

I explained that I was scared to hurt ths much.

He didn't say, "Just get up and get on with life."

I told him of the guilt I had over spending money we didn't have to spend on an animal. How I knew I didn't have any other choice, but at the same time, my family has to be taken care of too.

He fed his dog a biscuit. My heart melted. This man understood. A couple of days after Bella's death, I had been at a close relatives house who treats and loves their dog better than any human. They kept their dog outside the whole time I was there, and never spoke of Bella. At first I found it odd, but then I realized they couldn't face the potential pain that they may at some point have to experience. And seeing mine was even too much.

This neighbor I had never said more than 'hello' to, listened to me talk, sob, snot, and sit in silence.

He didn't say, "At least you know you gave her a great life." Whether he knew those words would be empty to me, sometimes too casually said, or because he knew I felt guilt over not being able to save Bella and feeling like I hadn't give her a full life; I don't know.

As I was finishing what had to be my third cup of tea, his wife came in from the back yard. Strangely, she didn't seem shocked to see an unfamiliar person sitting at the table with her husband.

"Did you at least offer her some cookies with her tea, Dear?" She kiddingly scolded him.

We laughed; I assured her the tea was more than enough.

As I begin to push the chair away, the man kindly grasped both my hands. "May I just say one thing?"

I figured it would be, "I'm sorry for your loss." Words I'd heard and never quite felt.

I nodded.

"Sometimes it is more difficult to be weak than strong, Dear. And sometimes that is what our heart needs."

I didn't respond. I didn't know how to. I stood and knelt to him and hugged him, thanking him and saying my goodbyes.

As I walked down the ramp, I realized I didn't even know his name. For some reason, I needed to. Walking by his mailbox, I glanced at the side. My heart swelled when I read: Daryll and Bella "Smith".
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