A Mothering Heart

I've always known that I wanted to be a mother. I remember being 4 years old and thinking that I would name my first born daughter Lisa Tiffany (after my mother and sister). I remember when I was seven and that one child turned into twelve possibilities. I remember wanting to be a mother before I ever even thought about being a wife.

So when Matt and I got married and year after year we never got pregnant, those empty possibilities began to eat a hole inside my heart. I've gone through denial, blaming doctors for not trying hard enough, or eagerly pushing pills. I've blamed family members who put me in situations that later affected my biological system. I've of course blamed myself, for whatever actions I might have caused to leave my home childless. And of course, I've blamed God.

In the past I've spoken ill words against friend and family in celebration of their own blessed events. I've cursed the names of others who cry over one false pregnancy test before revealing baby announcements days later. I've mentally spat at those who "weren't even trying". And I've damned friends who've been blessed with a child . . . only to cry tears of regret, and choose to abort.

And I've sought forgiveness for all those thoughts.

But my heart still hurts sometimes.

I don't know if I'll ever have a child of my very own. With my red hair and Matt's brown eyes. What I do know is that my heart is that of a mother.

Because I also remember being four years old and walking onto a bus with an imaginary Welsh Corgi at my side. I remember dreaming of Collies, German Shepherds and Dalmations. I remember how my heart broke when my first dog Teddy was put to sleep after being alive for less than a year. Crying tears as my sweet little Ozzy was pulled out of my arms when he grew too big for our home and was no longer allowed and losing Colossus the same way a year later. I remember needing to make the decision to find a new home for River, who had grown feral toward other dogs and started to attack. For them I cried.

But not nearly as many tears as I shed this weekend.

Friday afternoon after coming in from a walk, our five year old Pug, Willow, began acting strangely. Within a half hour she lost all strength in her legs, and soon also refused to eat or drink. Eventually she became completely unresponsive, heart beating, still breathing, but no longer there.

Vets were called of course, though none would treat her without payment up front - something we certainly did not have. I was blessed to have a cousin who works as a Veterinary Assistant - though four hours away - who remained on the phone as I fed Willow pedialyte through a syringe.

I couldn't handle losing this dog. This was Matt's dog. I bought her for him for our 3 month wedding anniversary so long ago. She and I have never been close. She's pushy, has way too much attitude and basically acts like a cat most of the time, thinking she's better than everyone else. But she was Matt's dog. I couldn't handle him losing her. Not after we lost Chewie last year.

I've dealt with death my whole life. I almost thought I was numb to it. When our sweet Boxer passed last July, I went into caretaker mode. Matt's dog was dead and a button turned on in my head telling me what to do to make this easier for him. I even broke my big toe rushing across the living room floor when I heard Matt call for me. I was in control. I knew I would have to be again.

Late into the night just as we felt her strength coming back, Willow went into a grand mal seizure - in my arms. She went blind as she continued to seize in my arms and suddenly I realised that I wasn't in control - and I couldn't be. Matt tried to help, but my arms wouldn't allow her to be pulled from them. She was going to die, and I was going to be there when it happened.

This sweet dog that stole my raspberry teabag out of my coffee mug (getting her head stuck in the process). This sweet dog that broke apart and ate every last piece of two full sized wicker laundry hampers. This sweet dog that ate plates full of brownies off the counter when I wasn't looking, three pounds of jelly beans when she broke into a closet, and over one hundred cocktail shrimp when she tipped over a trashcan. This sweet dog that let me deliver two litters of puppies. This sweet dog that almost lost an eye last November only to regain sight a few months later. This sweet dog that hates the water, screams instead of barks, and pulled me down a flight of stairs by her leash. This sweet dog who can make me laugh for hours just by chasing her tail.

This sweet dog - my dog - was going to die in my arms.

But she didn't. Not then.

Through the night I watched with tired eyes as she seized every fifteen minutes, knowing there was nothing I could do to help her. She couldn't see me. Couldn't hear me. But she would feel me near. Praying for her. Praying to God to just let her stop hurting. And it hurt. I know cause I forced myself to watch. She couldn't tell me what was happening. I figured I owed it to her to suffer alongside.

When morning came, I put my nearly lifeless dog back into her crate and prepared to take her to the vet - not to be cured - but to be put to sleep.

Matt pulled her from her crate so we could say goodbye there in our home instead of in some cold exam room. And then she lifted her head and looked at us. Her eyes blinked and moved around the room. We called her name and she turned. We set her down, and paw by paw, like some newborn baby deer, she stood and began walking.

An hour later she was eating.

Moments later I was rejoicing.

Just a few days now and she's almost back to normal - though she's developed a bit of a spoiled attitude now that she thinks I'm going to hand feed her for the rest of her life.

Some years ago I received a blessing that stated something I didn't understand at the time. It was very out of place. It said that I would be blessed to care for domestic pets that would be close to my heart, and they would teach me principles of life and livelihood. I never understood that until now. I've cried tears of pain for the unfulfilled calling as a mother - and while it still hurts, it's a little less painful knowing that I may not have children, but I am, in some way a mother.

My five year old will tell you that.

Daily Gratitudes:

1. God. Always God. Forever God.
2. My sweet little furry children, who have somehow helped to fill the hole in my heart.
3. Friends and family who rushed to our aid with immediate prayers.
4. Tears of joy.
5. Puppy breath.