In Honor of Aunt Peg

I have spoken too soon. Last week, my godmother passed away after a three-year battle with cancer. For those of you who were lucky enough to know Sr. Peg Dolan, you can well attest to the brightness and goodness of her spirit. I knew her as Aunt Peg. She was my Irish godmother, the one who was always smiling and shining with cheeriness and love.

When I was younger, I had known that my godmother worked at LMU, but I didn't realize what a force she was on campus and beyond until I started my freshman year. I would offhandedly mention her in conversation, referring to her as "Sr. Peg?" as if it were a stretch that my acquaintance would know her. I soon learned, after repeated replies of "Oh, Sr. Peg! I love her!" that the wonder of my godmother was no secret.

I'm having difficulty wrapping my head around exactly what her loss means to me. I loved my godmother very much, but I took her for granted. I suppose many people feel that way after someone they love has died. I think the most difficult thing for me right now is to believe that she's actually dead.

I first learned on March 10, 2006 that Aunt Peg had cancer. That was also the day I totaled my car. It was not a good day. So began a three-year process. Every few weeks or so, my family would receive updates about Aunt Peg's condition, and we would visit her as often as we could. To be honest, her suffering wasn't really on my radar until everything else started falling apart. It pains me to admit that I couldn't think about Aunt Peg separately until I also had to think about my grandpa and my dog--and then they became a trinity of woes.

The thing that staggers me is the post facto realization that I didn't know she was really dying. Aunt Peg was always so upbeat, so present to everyone, that you would never know she was suffering. My friend Heather remembers a moment in the Lair when I was talking to Aunt Peg, before Heather knew who she was. She said that this beautiful woman seemed so alive, and when I told her Aunt Peg had cancer, she was astonished. I even forgot a few times. There were many points over the past three years when we all thought she had really beat it. I remember a day this past summer when my mom announced, against the backdrop of my grandpa's impending death, that Aunt Peg had just called to say she was cancer-free. I had breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Since that moment, I suppose I had been in a cloud of confusion about Aunt Peg's condition. I thought I knew that she was getting better, that there were some slippery moments, but basically she was on her way back to being healthy. I remember my parents coming home after their last visit with her, expounding on what a great visit it was and how Aunt Peg was in such great spirits. The day after she died, they revealed that during the visit, Aunt Peg had asked my dad to be a pall bearer.

I've been struggling with anger toward Aunt Peg since I found that out. It was so like her not to want to cause a fuss, but I needed to fuss over her. I feel like I looked away for one second, so focused on my previous sufferings that I didn't notice she was dying. She slipped away quietly, and I feel cheated. The last time I saw her was in May, and that was far too long ago. We had made plans long ago to have lunch, but for some reason neither of us could make it, so every time we saw each other afterwards we remembered we needed to have lunch. I feel half-crazy for admitting that I'm still looking forward to lunch.

Her death is not a reality for me. I seldom saw her on campus over the last three years because she was concentrating on getting better. She had become more of an idea than a reality for me. A few times, I would answer the phone and her mischevious, New York voice would sound. I always smiled to myself when I heard her voice. I guess, in a way, she had slowly become a voice and a memory to me. The few times I saw her helped to solidify her presence in my mind, but overall, she had been wasting away in my mind. That's why her death seems so unreal--I had been subconsciously waiting for the day when she would become more real. I had been waiting for the day when she would be able to be back on campus, deep in conversation with all her favorite people (which is to say, everyone). I can't believe how incredibly naive I was...I really thought she was going to live.

Aunt Peg's death has been a tough lesson in regret. I thoroughly regret not spending more time with her, not demonstrating more how much she meant to me. I know she wanted to save Jenny and me the worry, but if I had known just how sick she was, I would have visited her every day. Part of me is angry, the other part pacified that she wanted to treat us like the little girls we used to be.

Aunt Peg was larger than life. She lived with an admirable vitality and a spirit that lifted up everone around her. The entire campus knew her, respected her, loved her, and that is a testament to her greatness. Aunt Peg touched so many lives, at LMU and far beyond. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that Sr. Peg Dolan, Aunt Peg, is one of the greatest people who has ever lived.

Something is Finished

Some things are finally over. In my earlier post, Serendipity, I mentioned the emotional burdens I had been carrying at that point in my life: my grandfather's struggle with Alzheimer's, my dog's ever-weakening condition, and my godmother's showdown with cancer. I remember being tormented by things I had no control over. Now, two out of the three are over. I don't have to worry about them anymore.

My grandfather passed away on August 7, exactly one week after he was moved back home from his residence in assisted living. Exactly three weeks later, August 28, my family and I took our dog to the vet and had him put down. That was also the day I moved back to LMU for my senior year.

If you're reading this and getting the razor out already, I promise that my intention is not to depress. This is for me to organize my thoughts about the most radical few months of my life thus far. Conversations with good friends have proven extremely helpful, but I need something tangible to remind me why all this matters.

I've spent more time crying than I thought possible. I even developed a system to accommodate this new activity of mine. For a while, it became habit not to wear any eye makeup at all because I knew it would be smeared within a few hours, and then I'd have the added burden of looking like a cheap prostitute. I always wore contacts because my eyes were easier to rub. With glasses, I'd have to wipe off the fog. It used to concern me how easily I could switch between gleeful abandon with my friends one instant and utter despair in solitude the next. It soon became apparent that this was going to be normal for a while, so I let myself cry whenever I felt like it.

There is a strange peace that settles when a loved one who is suffering finally passes away--no, when they die. Euphemisms only dull the reality. My grandfather and my dog died. These have been my first real encounters with death. Of course I understood what death was before now, but I never really expected to be surprised by the inevitable.

I knew my grandpa was dying, and I prayed for him to die so that we could all be at peace. The last few years have been a constant parade of bad news and dwindling hopes. For the last few months of his life, my grandpa did not recognize anyone, except in one miraculous moment of lucidity when, on the morning of his death, he told my grandma he loved her. I had forgotten what my grandpa had been like before the Alzheimer's. I had been so focused on his worsening condition that it was not until he died that I could begin to appreciate again my happy experiences with him.

I've been to only a few funerals, but at each one I've somewhat envied the family of the deceased. Whatever disagreements existed before, they are a unit now, impenetrable. They are together because they all loved the same person. They hold the ultimate trump card, too: any unusual behavior can be excused because they are grieving. On August 12, I got my terrible taste of that freedom. If ever I was questioned upon entering the viewing room, I gave the standard answer, "I'm family," and the interloper would solemnly step aside. No one bothered me if I decided to disappear for twenty minutes at a time--my absence was something to be understood, not criticized. And when I shook with sobs as my sister, my cousins and I walked our grandfather's casket down the aisle, such display of emotion was to be expected. I did not feel embarrassed or concerned about any of the usual things that day; rather, I felt privileged. And that was intoxicating.

Three weeks later, minus a day, I was home alone with Teddy, my beagle. Old age had crept upon him with surprising stealth until it had obnoxiously announced itself. Teddy had always been getting grayer, but a year ago his hearing, sight, and muscular control all seemed to disappear overnight. He didn't wag his tail anymore or seem to recognize us. He could no longer go out into the backyard because he might fall in the pool, and then he'd have no way of getting out. He couldn't find food or water, and every day at noon, like clockwork, he began to pace restlessly. Since he couldn't see, he bumped into the walls and developed open sores that never disappeared. He was falling apart, and none of us wanted to see it. This particular day was not hugely different from the others. He had slept until noon, and I had happily watched him as I ate my breakfast. But he wouldn't drink water. I practically had to shove his face in his bowl, but he didn't seem to recognize the element. It was a hot day and I knew he was thirsty by the way he was panting. Still, nothing worked. Even a makeshift baby bottle did no good. After hours of failing to get him to drink, I started getting angry. I shouted at him, enraged that he could be so stupid. Why wouldn't he drink?

When my mom got home, I was evidently crabby. When she asked what was wrong, I started complaining about something I don't even remember. It was a big deal to me at the time, whatever it was. When she asked me about the rest of my day, I started talking about Teddy and how much I was worried about him. And then I started shaking. When my mom asked what exactly I was saying, I could barely say, "I think we should put him down."

There are moments over the past few months that are burned into my memory. One of them is that entire day, August 27. I had to cancel a date because I was talking with my mom about putting our dog down...about putting...our dog...down. I held my mother and cried that day. We had the same conversation ten different times to make sure that we were doing the right thing. And when my dad and sister got home, we had the same conversation ten more times. I've never been so tormented about anything in my life. Whenever college admissions reps asked the question, "What is the hardest thing you've ever had to do?" I never knew what to tell them. I easily have my answer now. Too bad I'm already in college.

My dog could have continued like this for God knows how long. That's why it felt so wrong to make the decision to end his life. My dad had kept praying that the choice would be taken from us. Honestly, I hadn't given it much thought at all. It had never occurred to me that there would be a time when Teddy wasn't there.

We decided to put him down the following morning. None of us could look at him for a week or more, knowing that he was on borrowed time. We were all together and we could all support each other. It had to be right then. That night, we had a hall pass again. My mom and I slept on the couches downstairs so we could be with Teddy through the night. Instead of sleeping in the garage, Teddy stayed on the cool tile in the kitchen. I remember not wanting to fall asleep because I wanted to hear him snoring. The sound of Teddy's snores had been a constant noise in the background of our lives. The house would be so quiet without it. Neither my mom nor I slept much. We cried and watched tv. The next morning, we took him to the vet.

I can't begin to share all the significant moments that constantly resound inside my brain when I have nothing else to think about. The image of him struggling to his feet when the sedative had begun to take hold still breaks me. It was like he was trying to prove to us that he could live.

Sometimes I wonder if I should feel guilty about caring more about my dog's death than my grandpa's. Of course I loved my grandpa, but my dog was part of my life every day. I didn't realize how much I loved him, how much I counted on his presence, until I had to let go of him. I nearly flipped out this past weekend when my sister tried to remove a dog hair from my sweater. I know it's silly, but it's evidence that part of Teddy was there. His crate and blanket, his leashes and dog bowls are all packed away. If you looked at our house now, you wouldn't be able to tell that a dog had lived there. We have pictures of him, but no physical evidence.

Sometimes I close my eyes and remember what it felt like to pet him. I particularly liked to cup his ears in my hands or play with his paws. One of my favorite things to do was gently stroke his pads while he was sleeping and watch him twitch in annoyance. I can still feel his weight in my arms and his head against my chest. He was the perfect size for a dog.

When I'm at home, I catch myself thinking that he's still alive. Sometimes I think I'll see him in the backyard or under a kitchen chair. Other times, I imagine the clack of his collar as he ambles around a corner. I still shut all the doors in the house out of habit because Teddy might get stuck in a room somewhere. I still shut my window so I don't hear mom or dad waking up at 6 a.m. to feed him. I know I will have to break these habits eventually, but they seem like the only thing keeping his memory alive. As with my grandpa, I couldn't remember the good times with Teddy until he was dead. But I often think I would prefer the decrepit reality to the vigorous memory.

The experiences of my grandpa's and my dog's death could not have been more different. Both were peaceful with family all around, but one feels like a finished story. The other does not. I have never had the power to decide life and death before. Though I knew that pets were euthanized every day, I had no idea it was such a difficult decision. I still question whether we did the right thing. I always come back to the same answer, that we did what was best for Teddy. This was the first instance when a decision I made had such resounding implications. The burden of it still terrifies me. Our family is one less because we all decided to put him down. But I still wonder what would have happened if I had not owned up to my feelings with my mother.

I've been constantly struggling with myself: do I want people to see me crying or not? When I'm really in it, I don't want to be interrupted. Passing tears sometimes need an audience, though. How else will others know how much pain I'm still in?

I found therapeutic ways to cope with the death of both grandpa and Teddy. For my grandpa's funeral, I made a video of pictures from his life. In the background were festive Italian songs that seemed to make sense of everything. When Teddy died, I made a collage of his pictures for my mom's birthday. Creating these homages helped, but they seem a feeble salute to such vivacious beings.

My brain is not my own anymore. When I least expect it, when I stop spending time with friends or thinking about homework, images flood my brain. Sometimes I'll think of how my grandpa was already in rigor mortis when the coroners came to take him away. I think about how the vet had not even finished administering the injection when Teddy died. How close must he have been to dying already? When this happens, I take my mom's advice and follow up these thoughts with happy memories. I balance the sad with the happy memory of sitting with my grandpa on the couch, just talking. I remember playing tug of war with Teddy as he desperately fought to maintain hold of his rag bone. I don't want to push away the unhappy thoughts because they'll only come back with greater force later. This is the strange part about healing--you have to face it head on. I still am a little wary of being by myself, but I feel oddly better after a good cry, like I've accomplished something.

It is a comfort to know that both my grandpa and my dog are in a better place. I know what the Church teaches about animals going to Heaven, but as a wise Jesuit told me, ALL of creation yearns to be with God, and that includes animals. These experiences have certainly given me perspective on how I'm living my life.

The main thing I've taken out of all of this is that I've got to have faith that God has a plan. In retrospect, the death of my grandpa prepared me for the death of my dog. Both deaths have freed my family from seemingly endless heartache. Now we can all move on. Now I can start the next phase of my life, trusting that God will lead me through it. I am still blind in this process of healing, but I trust that it will get better. Every day is another step forward. Uncertainty and confusion will be normal for a while. As I prepare to turn 21, I really feel that my childhood is over...and the rest of my life is about to begin.