My husband's heart

Anyone who knows Brian already knows what I'm going to write. He is an incredible person. His heart is of gold. He cares greatly, loves deeply, laughs heartily. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his family. He is an amazing father. He rubs my feet and makes ice cream runs anytime without batting an eye. He is my best friend, the first person outside of my family to whom I shared my soul, my safe place, my home.

The problem is that his heart is faulty. Literally. It has been so since he was born. And two days ago, we learned that it is time for him to have open-heart surgery to correct the problem. Replacing an aortic valve is an incredibly well practiced and safe surgery. But when we read that his heart would be stopped during the procedure, while he his hooked up to a heart-lung machine... well, that took my breath away.

My life partner is facing a huge challenge. In the end, it will be good. In the end, he may feel stronger than he has in years. But the process... it is huge.

I was talking to a dear friend yesterday, and told her I feel so sad about this news. In  her wise way, she asked if I am grieving. And I think that fits. Here we are, just settled into this new life in the mountains. We are comfortable, happy in our new home. Our girls are absolutely thriving. We are financially okay for the first time in our marriage. And for a while, all of this is going to be different. We will have to be away from home for weeks, possibly, while Brian has his surgery. His recovery will be long, and he will have to be out of work for 6 weeks. There are so many logistical questions.

The good, the blessing in all this, is our village. Already, our parents, family members, and friends are offering to do whatever they can to help. I am not surprised, but always reminded of how lucky I am. And, when it is all said and done, we will have many years before we have to worry about Brian's heart again.

And, there is nothing like facing a huge new adventure to remind me how thankful I am for my husband. Together we can get through anything.

Charlie

The fact that Charlie came into our lives was some kind of fate. After we lost our little Fifi in 2010, we decided it was time to expand our crazy lives with another pup. I headed to the Dumb Friends' League, just down the street from our house. As with most shelters, there were so many dogs, and I wanted to rescue them all. I made a list of those that called to me the most, and approached the main desk to find out who I could visit. As the volunteer made her way down my list, slowly but surely every dog that I had eyed was out of the running. This one did not get along with other dogs. That one didn't like kids. This one did not like kids or other dogs.

When every dog on my list had been eliminated as an adoption possibility for us, I asked a question: were there any dogs in the shelter that would both get along with other dogs AND be good with kids? The database was searched, and the result was just one dog. Charlie.

I decided to meet him. He was obese, and though they had bathed him he stunk. He was happy and eager to get close. I indicated my interest and went home to get Koda, Brian and Kinnie for a family meeting. It was a snowy day in February, and rather than have us gather in an outdoor run, the shelter allowed us to use their conference room for introductions. As the volunteer left Charlie there with us, she asked that we please just watch him, in case he seemed to need to go outside for a potty break. As soon as she left, Charlie promptly pooped on the floor.

Koda and Charlie were easy friends. They played from the moment they met, despite Koda's typical reaction to other dogs that indicated that she was way too good for them. We knew this meant good things. To us, Charlie seemed happy-go-lucky. We brought him home. As we got settled in, and all played on the floor, Charlie mounted Brian. Several times.

Charlie was an easy fit into our family. He didn't ask for much. He loved us, and he LOVED Koda. We came to realize that whatever happened in his life before us had scarred him. As much as he played, he was also insecure. It was as though he was never sure where he belonged. He was often under foot, despite being scolded to go lie down. When not playing, he could usually be found lying under a table or in a corner. Someone had not treated him well.

We first learned of Charlie's heart failure about a year after adopting him. We started medications- first one, then three, and finally four. We were told his time would be limited, but we didn't really know how. He continued to chase a ball like a maniac. And swim until he was shivering. And lick and lick and lick our faces, or our pants, until we had to turn away. He sprinted through the snow. There were some signs of decline along the way. His once voracious appetite slowed. But he was pretty much himself. Until 10 days ago.

Charlie's final illness was dramatic. His light step turned heavy. The ball and the river no longer called to him. We had to beg him to eat people food- or anything else. It was so sad to see life slipping from him. He deserved more time. But today, we realized no amount of hope or medication could provide that, and we let him go.

Tonight, the house feels lonely. I keep expecting him to be under foot. I wish he was.

Charlie was our boy. He loved us so. And I loved him. As he left our world, I told him I hoped he'd be playing like a pup soon. That he wouldn't feel so tired, or in so much pain. That he would romp through the snow. That he could eat again.


I told him how grateful I was that he was a part of our family. I thanked him for looking out for all of us in his own way. I told him I'd miss him. And I do.

Rest in peace Charlie Boy. You will always be a part of my heart.