At 4:37 P.M.

Five funerals and a wedding; that about sums up 2019. If it weren’t for the single greatest day of my life, I would say this year has been tragic at the least. Today we lost another friend.

When heard a knock at my door about fifteen years ago, I had no idea who could be there as I had few friends in the area I had just moved to. I descended the steps and opened the door to a coworker holding a little puppy. He was adorable. He had a pink little nose, bright-white fur that was sparsely blotched with grey and black, especially on his head which was highlighted by a white stripe that split his face in two. He couldn’t have weighed five pounds and he was full of energy.

Now, I had no intention of being a dog owner at that point, but my coworker insisted that I at least try, so I did. And I decided to name him Willie. I bought food, dishes, toys, treats, leashes, made vet appointments, and even had his testicles removed by “laser” beam when the time came. He was a little fucker of a dog that shit everywhere, chewed my furniture, ate part of a wall, and whined incessantly. But nevertheless, I grew fond of that little guy. He was my boy.

Through the years Willie saw me evolve from sober, to drunk, to meth-head, to drunk, to sober again. He has been by my side through everything but my stint in prison, and he survived a car accident with me that even I shouldn’t have. He was a real trooper.

Three days ago I noticed some redness in one of his eyes, and I thought I should keep my eyes on it. I also noticed that he was having more trouble walking lately, and that he seemed to be lethargic more often than usual. Two days ago, I had to pick him up from his bed, and help him outside to go potty. His eye was swollen, and he didn’t look good generally. Yesterday, he wouldn’t move at all without assistance. I had to carry him outside, and when he was done peeing, he simply fell over. He wouldn’t eat, and his head was wobbly. His eye was the least of my concerns at this point, but it still looked pretty bad. I decided to take him to see the vet.

After a thorough exam, the veterinarian told me that the eye was the least concerning. What was terminal were the two large tumors growing on his upper hind legs that had cut off blood supply, and likely caused irreversible nerve damage. She said that if he lived a month, it would be a blessing, and he would be in pain, and completely out of it.

Today I made the toughest decision I’ve ever had to make. I called and made an appointment to end his suffering. I left work early to spend some time with him, and Amanda went in late so we could both bring him in together. I’ve never had to do anything so incredibly sad. I sat on the floor next to him on a little doggie blanket for twenty minutes before the vet walked into the room, shook our hands, and went to it. I lost it. Over and over I lost it. I cried and cried, and then the vet said he couldn’t find a vein so he went to get a general anesthetic, which he administered.

Slowly, he lost his movements. I realized then that I had witnessed his last meal, his last step, and he had felt his last scratch behind the ears. He had seen his last sight, heard his last sound. I held my hand on his body, waiting for the vet to come back to give him the final shot. I tried to breathe with him. I told him I loved him so many times. I cried. I said I was sorry. I kissed him on his head.

The vet came back in and found his vein and slowly injected the pink death. He took a stethoscope out of a drawer, and listened for a heartbeat. There was none. He was gone forever. It was 4:37pm.

We stayed next to him for several minutes and I said I loved him and I would miss him forever. We wrapped him up in his little doggie blanket—only his cute little face poked out, and we left him for the last time.

I’ve never been hit so hard. I just can’t stop. I want to pet him again. I want him to go get the ball. I want to hear his whine and smell his stinky breath. But it’s over now. He’s gone but certainly not forgotten.

Many of you, who are my friends, have known Willie for years. He was loved by so many, and I know he is better off now. He was my buddy. He was my friend. For over fifteen years, he was a good boy. I will never forget him and the love he showed us all.

Willie in his late teens.

Willie at the wedding.

 

Willie soaking up the summer sun on our honeymoon.

His last picture, and the last time he stood up. I had to prop him up. He isn't happy.



I know I made the right decision, but it still hurt. 

Goats. It's Always Goats.

It’s been tough finding time to write. My days off seem to be filled with responsible-parent stuff, and both of the girls are in full-swing in their respective grades in school. Ella has dance and Girl Scouts, and Emme is into mischief and shenanigans. Our home is rarely quiet, and I’ve grown to love the moments when the noise is almost overbearing. Currently they are both laughing and screaming and splashing around in the tub, which leaves me little peace to write in silence. But no matter, I love the noise because it was gone for a few days.

Ella was sick last week. And I mean an entire week. She had a headache, some nausea, and she wouldn’t eat. Most concerning to me was that she didn’t laugh at my hilarious jokes. On Tuesday I made the call to keep her at home and bring her into urgent care whey punched holes in her veins and took all of the other samples you might want a doctor to look through if you wanted to find bacteria or poison or whatever makes a child sick. We waited and waited, and each test proved nothing to me. The nurses and doctors told me of elevated something levels and high something counts but it was all gibberish to me. It took a few days to find E. coli in her urine which still—as far as we know—might not be the end of it, but it’s all we have for now.

Today is day nine of her sickness but she is all but back to normal. She’s laughing, yelling, fighting with her sister, and eating. I think we’re in the clear, but I’d rather hear it from a doctor tomorrow morning which we likely will.

Last Saturday we took a trip to a cool apple orchard in the middle of nowhere where they had chickens, kittens, geese, goats, cows, and apples. All of these things must be touched by children, and there’s a possibility something transferred from butt to stomach even with hand sanitizer available to use everywhere.

I recall ten years ago, helping a friend move hay bales, I saw a goat standing alone in a field. Naturally, I went over to pet it, and I recoiled when I realized it was covered in its own feces. Truly, I never thought of washing my hands after that and simply wiped my hands off on my tattered jeans. The next two weeks I was as close to death as I had ever been until that point. I never threw up after the first day, but for seven straight days, I couldn’t fart, and I could only poop in tablespoon-amount increments, sometimes thirty times a day. I had severe cramping, and couldn’t sleep. I ate one pack of Ramen every day, and I spaced it out throughout the day. I rapidly lost weight, and I couldn’t drink my usual 24-pack of beer. It was a mess, but by the time I went to the hospital and was diagnosed, it had run its course and I was on the mend, and right back to drinking canned beer and whisky from a bottle.

Being sick isn’t fun, and getting poked with needles doesn’t make anything more fun. I remember being upset that they took my blood and didn’t find anything out from it. That’s my blood. They took four tubes of Ella’s blood and I don’t know if it helped anything, and I had to hold her while the needle was in. It seemed like an eternity to me, I can’t imagine how she felt. But she’s a trooper, she survived. She’s alive. Back to school tomorrow. Back to being a kid.

And Just Like That

Everything is back to square one. After three months of planning, spending, spending, and spending, the wedding of our dreams came true, and I am now a married man. Me: a married man. Just four years ago, almost to the day, I left prison with little hope of becoming anything. With a lot of hard work, some serious dedication, and a lot of help from a lot of people, I somehow landed in a normal life.

I talk a lot in meetings about what comes to people in recovery when they manage to stay sober and work the steps. I realize every time I speak, that all of these things are common for most people, and sometimes I wonder if I have the right to be proud of my accomplishments so late in life. If I had stayed the traditional course in life, my house could have been paid off by now. I would have a significant chunk in savings and retirement. And my children could be nearing college age. But I diverted from the norm and experimented—for 15 years—with a bad habit or twelve, and here I am. Do I regret my past? No, nor do I want to forget it, for it is my history that makes me valuable to others. I have had a unique learning experience, and I can use my story to divert others from my path, and I use my work in sobriety to better function around those in my life who have not had similar experiences.

Working the steps doesn’t just create value for the sober community; it guides me through life with everybody. Love and tolerance of others is my code, it says so on page 84 of the Big Book, in-between the promises of steps nine and ten. It means I have to be kind, loving, patient—in any combination—to all those I encounter no matter where I am. It doesn’t mean I am, it just means I try to be. It also means I can’t be upset when other people aren’t kind and tolerant of me. That part kind of sucks sometimes, but nevertheless I keep at it. I see value—or die trying—in everybody. I apologize when I’m wrong. And I try really hard not to complain when things don’t go my way.

There are a lot of things to do to make marriage official. Amanda has to change her name. She decided on Periwinkle Poops Tutu-Maertz. She has to get a new driver’s license, but to do that, she has to get a new Social Security card. To do that, we had to mail a copy of our marriage license to the Social Security office in Minneapolis, and then wait. It still hasn’t come. We are having her name added to the deed to the house. I am insuring all of us medically, and I’ve changed my beneficiaries (thanks Word for correcting my butchery of that word) to my ladies, so that if I die soon, they stand to make several thousand dollars. Maybe like two. Amanda is officially giving me parental authority over the girls, which is surprisingly easy when one parent has no parenting time. I did ask him for his consent, but we actually don’t need it. And there is a litany of other forms, documents, and delegations that we are figuring out after our wedding. It’s a lot, but I’m good with this stuff so we will be okay.

Life keeps moving at an incredible speed. I can’t imagine having to figure out how to include alcohol or drugs in my day, so I won’t. I keep going to meetings to keep my head straight. I’ll miss one or two once in a while, but I can always tell when it’s been too long, and I’m sure my family can tell, too. 

Here is just one of so many beautiful shots taken on our wedding day. If you were there, I hope you had a memorable day. And if you weren’t, I love and tolerate you anyhow.