Pulling Back the Veil.
Last week the hubby and I watched the movie, The Girl on the Train. I had not read the book prior to watching it. After watching it, I planned to discuss an aspect of it. I just didn’t know aptly it might apply on the day that I would sit down to write.
I have pretty good detective skills and was the winner when the hubby and I once went on a Murder Mystery Dinner Train ride. The movie did a good job at keeping me guessing. The thing that struck me, however, can even be seen on the trailer. So…no spoilers here.
The main character thought she was watching a person’s happiness. Her perception was limited by these fragments of what was presented to her. Much like the world of social media or the Jones’s that you see across the street.
I was struck by that parallel since I find myself struggling with not falling prey to the comparison game. Why don’t my photos garner more likes? Why aren’t my followers growing by leaps and bounds like so-and-so?
And then sometimes I have moments where I realize that I’d probably be overwhelmed if those things did have explosive growth.
You might be wondering why I would be overwhelmed?
That is because everything I post doesn’t reflect every single thing going on in my life. It is just a snippet, a glimpse, into the mundane, into the exciting, into the every day.
I will share my children’s victories, but I will not be sharing my experiences when they make poor choices. Those moments are a sacred part of their story and while they intertwine with mine, it is my job to cover them in grace not hang them out to dry.
I will share with you that the oldest and I picked out the corsage for his date to Prom.
I will share with you that the hubby and I spent hours purging unnecessary clutter from our lives over the weekend. I was almost embarrassed at the amount we took to the local charity because we shouldn’t have purchased most of it to begin with.
We are working toward a life more in line with simplicity and contentment.
I felt a wave of relief as I saw spaces open.
And sometimes, I will pull back the veil and allow you to see a little deeper.
You may recall from this post that I spoke about how our Yorkie-Poo, Kiwi, had Lyme disease.
Or may have seen this video on my Instagram story about three months ago.
At the time, the doctor was really surprised that the kidneys had held up as long as they had.
This past Friday, she seemed to be a little off. Over the course of the weekend, she seemed to become less interested in eating and then less interested in drinking. By this morning, her breathing had become much more labored.
I took her to the vet first thing this morning.
They ran her bloodwork and it was as I expected. All of her kidney and liver values were highly elevated.
Any choice that was even a remote possibility would not have changed anything.
So I stood there and had to make another hard decision about a dog.
We had to make the same hard decisions with our Golden Retriever, who died of cancer, two years ago.
This time there would be no coming home and telling everyone goodbye.
This situation was much more critical.
God in his infinite wisdom had brought some words to me before I stood alone in this sterile room, deciding fate.
You see, this is my daughter’s dog.
She begged for a little dog for years until the pull at her daddy’s heartstrings made him concede and get this dog when the girlie was 6.
She carried this dog around over the weekend, tried everything to cajole her into eating, bathed her, swaddled her, and poured copious amounts of love onto her.
She knew what was happening.
What the future may hold.
She asked me if I would need to make that hard decision.
Given her health problems, I told the girlie that it was a strong possibility that I would.
She told me that she would rather that than to have her slowly starve since she wouldn’t eat.
And then this morning, on the drive to school, she told me that she had said goodbye.
It was because of those words that I chose not to extend her suffering.
Had I not known if she had been able to say goodbye, I would not have known what to do at that moment.
So with tears, I signed the consent and stayed with her, comforting her, until the end.
I returned home to an empty house, lay down on my bed, and let the tears just fall.
I grieved this little dog that drove me crazy with her passive-aggressive antics.
I grieved this little dog that lay her head under my chin when I said: “who’s mama’s baby”.
I grieved that I will not hear her pattering footsteps or the clanging of her dog tags.
I grieved the emptiness when I return home and start toward the back door to let her in and realize she is not there.
I grieved this little dog who brought sunshine into my daughter’s soul.
Soon, the girlie will walk through the doors and I will have to tell her.
The boys will be sad as well, but she was the girlie’s friend.
Tail-wagging at the door when the girlie arrived home friend.
Lay with you in the bed while you read a book friend.
Share your goldfish crackers friend.
And my heart begins to break again.
She had dreamed of taking her little furry friend off to college.
She thought they would be pals for many years to come.
She did not know that disease would come and take those dreams away.
Some days I will pull back the veil.
And some days I will allow you to see deeper into my pains and my joys.
I am reminded that just as a dog’s lifespan isn’t promised in terms of years, neither are ours.
Don’t think that what you want to do “some day” is promised.
Truly live in the moments.
Chase your dreams.
Let your light shine!