We All Excel In Our Own Way

I've been a firm believer for a long time now that our individual talents and unique characteristics are to be celebrated. We should never be envious of the talents of others because if we let them, they can enrich and edify all of us. Much more difficult said than done for some people, that not envying part. Too many of us are taught to be competitive. Too many of us get the message early on that if someone else excels, it translates to our lack. And since it's not acceptable to be found "less than," then we must find a chink in the armor of the one who excels and "knock him (or her) down to our size" to make ourselves look better.

What a waste of energy in our brain cells to follow this line of thinking.

I sing. At least I used to. Like an athlete out of training, though, my voice isn't what it used to be just a couple of years ago. I'd like to think that if I again put in the appropriate training and practice, it'd be good once more. But I digress.

Seven years ago I performed in a talent show for the company I worked for at the time. In the audience were over 1200 people. Yikes! I'd never sung in front of that many live human bodies at once. But I had trained well, with a professional voice coach, for several months. She had assured me I was more than capable of this performance.

It wasn't the singing, per se, that had me nervous. It was the notes in the stratosphere I had to hit during the course of the song. The F above high C, in particular. Those operatic soprano notes done well yield goose bumps and tears of joy. And if you fall short? We've all cringed when those screeches hit our ears. I did not want to be witness to 1200 people cringing on my account. During preparatory voice lessons my coach had given me many secrets to loosen up to hit those notes.

And that was the key. Stay loose. Keep my throat open and jaw loose enough to let my diaphragm effortlessly push those notes up and out. Technical. That's all it was.

I have to admit I was nervous as a turkey just before Thanksgiving when I walked out on that stage. When I held the mike up to start singing, I had to grip it with both hands because they were each shaking so badly that I didn't trust one hand to keep it steady. The last thing I wanted to see was my spastic fingers flinging the microphone into the audience and knocking out some poor innocent. So I gripped with everything I had in me.

Then I started to sing.

The first few notes were a tad wobbly, but it was too late to back out. I knew this song, by golly! I'd practiced it hundreds of times and felt its message and power. I had the technique down, so I went on autopilot, loosened up, and just sang the emotion and heartbreaking story of the song.

And something magical happened. I opened my mouth but it was an angel's voice that came through the sound system. She took over my body and sang in my stead. Every single high note lilted from my lips with no effort. The music took the audience on a roller coaster of emotion and they gladly stayed until the end of the ride. A fraction of a second passed at the song's end, then they were on their feet---shouting, whistling, and applauding as if they couldn't smack their palms together hard enough.

The judges' panel consisted of four people from "home office," and a couple of well-respected doctors who also worked for our company. When the talent show was over, I tied for second place. Heck, I was happy with that--I was thrilled that I hadn't fainted! Honestly! But it turned out there were a number of people in the audience who were not happy and only too eager to share their opinions with me.

I didn't know most of these people, but they came up to me in droves not only at the "after party" that evening but also at breakfast the next morning. Many told me the performance was so beautiful that it brought them to tears. One large group even stopped me as I passed by their table with my plate from the breakfast buffet. They introduced themselves, told me how much they had enjoyed my performance, then proceeded to say that I had been robbed of my rightful First Place. I appreciated their comments but wanted to secretly chuckle at how indignant they were!

Another lady struck up a conversation with me while we were waiting in a restroom line, saw my special tag I'd been given for participating in the show, and asked me what it was. I explained to her I'd performed the night before. She hadn't attended, but asked me if I was the one who sang "the heart-wrenching song in opera." I laughed and responded that I was the guilty one. "Then you're the one they were talking about in the elevator." She went on to say that a group of folks in the elevator that morning was discussing the show from the night before and they were incensed that the "opera lady" hadn't won. "You must have been really good," she said, "because they were very angry the judges didn't award you first place."

All these many people (at least 150 to 200, maybe more) didn't have to share their feelings and opinions with me. But they were outraged enough they felt it important to let me know. Maybe there were more who felt the same but were uncomfortable voicing it. I'm sure there were many who felt the judging went as it should.

Like I said, I was happy that I hadn't fainted and was able to hit the high notes. I was beyond thrilled to hear so many people enjoyed the performance so much that they thought I was worthy of first place.

Which brings me back to my original sentiment of knocking others down when they "excel." I could have been angry and felt cheated that I didn't win. But I never felt that way for reasons already stated. Evidently, the two groups who tied for first place must have done something special in their performances that the judges felt warranted to give them the top honor. So who, in this case, really "excelled?" Who might have been "lacking?" Looking back on it all, it was okay for me to have been second banana in the eyes of six judges when the opinions of so many placed me in the top spot. I think I would have felt much worse if six judges had given me that honor when so many others viewed another as more deserving.

Interesting footnote to this little story....Although there had been others, that was the last talent show the company ever held.

In Remembrance Of Lucy...

It was June 2, 2000, and our fourteen-year-old Yorkie, Cami, had just passed away days earlier. She'd been my little buddy and constant companion since her tender age of twelve weeks. She'd seen me (and our family) through my last two years of dental school, the birth of a "miracle" child, numerous road trips between Indiana and Florida, and our subsequent move to Florida. Both my girls jokingly but seriously commented on numerous occasions, "You treat that dog better than you do me." My standard reply--"She behaves and minds me better than you do."

And on May 27, 2000, in a matter of a few short hours, she was gone from our lives. Seemingly healthy in the morning, she passed away from what turned out to be congestive heart failure even as I held her late that evening. I was bereft. Crushed. For the next several days I did not know what to do with the grief. We hadn't planned on getting another dog soon, even if at all. I felt it a betrayal to Cami, like I was saying she wasn't anything special and could easily be replaced.

I don't remember exactly who in our family suggested it, just "looking" at other puppies. Not buying, mind you. "Looking." Maybe if I could just go get my fill of petting some puppies, it would help ease the pain. So that's how we found ourselves at a south Tampa pet store, exactly one week after Cami's death, just looking at the Yorkie puppies. I also looked at a couple of Chihuahuas, but my husband put the kabosh on that right away.

"No Chihuahuas," he declared.

"Fine," I said, "we'll stick to the Yorkies then."

There were three of them in a little pen--two males and a female, all from the same litter. It has been nearly twelve years ago, so I don't recall every detail, but I do remember thinking if we would happen to get another dog, maybe we should get a little boy this time, so I focused my attention on the two little guys. Carly, in the meantime, had struck up some playtime with the little girl. In the midst of all this puppy fun, something in my heart said that perhaps the sting of Cami's death would be eased by caring for and loving another dog. I scrutinized the two little guys more closely then and wondered which one would be the best for us.

Now, here's where my memory gets particularly blurry. I think I had decided on one little boy over the other, but Carly also decided she'd bonded to the sweet little girl, and we had to get her, too. Then our two daughters presented their arguments for getting not just one but two Yorkies.

"Oh, Mom! Look at how lonely Cami must have been when she had to stay alone at home. If we get two, they can keep each other company!" was their basic pivotal point.

Jim and I tried reasoning, "But two dogs means twice the food, and double vet bills, etc., etc.," which in hindsight is a stupid argument to have with two girls who aren't paying the bills. We left that day with two puppies--one male, one female.

Lucy's name was easy enough to choose; Ernie's was more difficult. Their official names--for which we never sent in the AKC paperwork--were Lucena Isabella and Ernst Gustav. It helps to have official names to open up a plethora of nicknames when you're bored with calling them the same old thing every day. Lucy was invariably Lu, or Lulu, or LucyBell. Poor Ernie; the only nickname we came up with for him was ErnieGus. But over the years, they also learned to come to "Puppies" or "Babies."

Within a week after bringing them home, we noticed that Lucy didn't walk right. It wasn't evident from the front, but when you followed her (especially with Ernie walking beside her), you could tell something was off. We took her to the vet, who informed us that she had "lateral patellar displacement," meaning her kneecap was shoved off to the outer part of her kneejoint instead of directly over it where it should have been. You know the next question--what'll it take to fix it? Translating to, How much is this going to cost? An orthopedic doggie specialist informed us it would be $1000, but she couldn't guarantee the surgery would be a success. She said that Lucy didn't seem to have any pain and was getting around alright on her three good legs, but over time, she'd develop problems. The pet store had a guarantee on their animals and they told us we could bring her back. Of course, that meant they'd put her down since she was damaged goods.

Lucy had only spent a week in our home but already won over our hearts. Her tail wagged more than any dog I'd ever seen. She just seemed so happy all the time. Ernie was the rambunctious one, all boy, but Lucy was the sweet one with joy oozing out of every doggie pore. There really was no decision. We would keep her, bum knee and all.

So now, three months and five days short of twelve years, she has left us. Just like Cami, things seemed absolutely fine in the morning, but by that afternoon and evening, we knew that something was wrong, and at 8 o'clock, she had her first seizure. I was holding her in my arms and knew immediately what was happening. Every two hours after that, another seizure would grip her little body. By the next morning, Sunday, we decided we had to get her to the emergency vet. Surely the doctor could do something for her. Since we didn't have the funds to run any of the tests, the doctor told us that, based on the sudden onset and recurrence of the seizures, her educated guess was that Lucy had a brain tumor and the seizures would only get worse. She kindly but strongly suggested that we go ahead and put her to sleep. I couldn't accept the diagnosis. Lucy was laying in my arms and looking up at me with her sweet brown Eeyore eyes. How could I look into those same eyes and watch as life left her little body? We decided to take her home.

Five hours passed with no seizures, and we even got her to drink some water. During that five hours I started to hope that maybe the vet had been wrong and Lucy would snap out of it, while another part of my mind knew we had little time left with her. Jim and I decided that if she seized again, we would hold her through the night, and on Monday morning, take her to her regular vet to have her put to sleep. I refused to lay her down, constantly holding her in my arms as I stroked her little head and body, kissing her over and over, telling her how much I loved her and how much she had meant to me over the years. Jim held her, too, telling her the same things. We thanked her for her bravery in protecting us and for her unconditional love of us and all our imperfections.

Exactly five hours after we brought her home from the vet, she seized again, only this one was way worse than any of the others. When she came out of it, she mustered enough strength to nestle into my neck, where she stayed for an hour until the next horrible seizure hit her, lasting a whopping thirty minutes. After it was over, she looked at me again, too weak now to even raise her head when I shifted her in my arms. We had her wrapped in beach towels because with every seizure, she lost bladder control. Without a word to my husband, I laid Lucy on the bed, changed out her soiled beach towels to fresh ones, then got up to get dressed.

"I can't do this any longer," I sobbed. "It's not fair to her. As much as I don't want to lose her, we're losing her anyway. She's been by my side every time I was so sick; I have to do this for her. We're taking her back and ending her suffering."

The entire time I'd been holding Lucy in my arms, I'd been praying that Heavenly Father would just take her. As I sat in the car on the way back to the vet's, I told Jim I had a strong conviction that this was the right thing to do. He agreed. Just before pulling the car into the parking lot, Lucy began her final seizure. Upon entering the office they ushered us back quickly to a room and took her from us to insert a cannula for the medications, then brought her back. I held her in my lap. The doctor was so kind as she explained what each medication did when she injected it into the little port. Lucy was still in the middle of that last seizure. I felt relief that those sweet little eyes would not be staring at me in condemnation. She was not aware of anything going on around her. After a minute, the vet listened for a heartbeat but there was none. She left us alone with Lucy's little body for a long while so we could take turns holding her and say our final good-byes. One of the techs returned and took her again to place the body in a little sturdy cardboard "casket," which we took Lucy home in.

The next morning, Monday, we buried her in the flower bed.

Two days have now passed since her death and the void in my life is almost unbearable. I think I'm fine and I've accepted it, then the pain hits so deeply that it's overwhelming. Ernie continues to search for his sister in each room, and smells her scent not only all over the house but also whenever we take him outside to potty. He didn't nap at all yesterday. Last night, he slept beside me all night, mostly under the covers. He still hops down off the bed and runs to the bedroom door, sniffing at it as if she's waiting for him on the other side. Today he napped, but I think it's more out of depression than anything. His little sister is not here to bark alongside him when he hears a strange noise, nor is she there as he wanders out in the yard. Whenever they laid down on a blanket together, they were always touching, many times with his head laid across her back. He doesn't understand where she's gone and why she's not here. Jim and I do our best to give him more loving and tell him over and over that she's not coming back. I can tell, though, he doesn't especially want our loving; he wants her here.

Lucy was never as independent as Cami or Ernie. There was always such a joy and sweetness that exuded from her. She never tired of me picking her up and loving on her. If she was laying on a large pillow beside me and I gathered her up and cuddled her to me, she would fall asleep in my arms or on my chest and lay there for hours. For the past year or so, she'd lost the strength in her back legs to jump up on the furniture, and her one good back leg seemed to have given out on her so she no longer walked on three legs, but waddled on the back two. It broke my heart to watch her waddle, so I started carrying her outside to go potty, then would pick her up and carry her back in when she was done. She would whine for me to pick her up so she could be on the sofa or the bed beside me. In the middle of the night, if she had to get down off the bed to use the papers or get a drink of water or a midnight snack, her whine to get back up on the bed would wake me up.

Over the past two to three years, we had wondered which dog might go first, and secretly hoped that it would be Ernie because we knew he would be a basket case if she passed before him. As much as Ernie loves all of us, he really loved her. But Lucy was more of a people dog, and I was her person. She was by my side constantly, either laying on a blanket we'd place on the floor by my office chair, or on a soft pillow beside me on the sofa or in bed, or if there was any way possible, she was on my lap. Since going on medical retirement last May, I've been home almost all the time, and Lucy has always, always, been by my side. This makes her loss just that much more difficult for me.

I hope she's incredibly happy right now. I wonder if animals are confused as to what's happened when they pass, and if they look for their masters. Or do they possess that sure knowledge that lets them know they're in a much better place and will see us again? One thing I know for sure--she's whole and healthy and able to run and jump. The relief she felt at being released from that severely weakened body must have caused her to run with even more joy. I hope she knows the grief I felt at having to make that decision, but that I loved her enough to let her go. And when I meet her again on the other side, I expect her to jump into my arms. Right alongside Cami and all the other beautiful, loving pets I've had over the years.