June, July, September.

August kicked me in the butt. Hard. August was not fun. Before this year, I had no beef with August. Four of my favorite people in the world have birthdays in August. But this year, August has forever changed. In 25 minutes it will be September. And all I can do is hope that the bad stays in August.

My mom was admitted to the hospital yesterday. She's back home today, so don't worry. She'll be okay. She's been sick for about a week and she was dehydrated. But today, before I knew that she was going to be discharged, I was sitting at my desk at work and was faced with thoughts that I tried to run away from. I was telling myself that she was going to be okay because I had no indication of anything otherwise. But each time I would say it, I would remember walking in after visiting Lucky the first time and saying that he looked good. Not as bad as I thought. And that he'd be okay and he'd be coming home soon. So, as I got scared while sitting at my desk, I tried to push those thoughts away and put on a tough front. Thoughts of fear were replaced with cynical thoughts. Thoughts so morbid I won't even put them here. Not now. Not so close to all of this.

So, I wish you adieu August. I don't mean to be rude, but I hope you don't mind my saying that I hope we never meet again. Not like this. Just tip your hat and walk away next time.

The hardest thing....

"Call me before you go to visit him because he may be coming home today."


That was the last conversation that seemed normal. The one after that shattered my world.

This afternoon I wrote a really long essay, explaining what has been going on. It was long and...long. It was the only way I thought I could get the emotion of what I was feeling across. I soon realized that, besides me, no one would really care enough to read through the entire history of the last 15 years of my life...so this is it, condensed.

In my last entry I ended be saying that nothing else matters because my baby was going to be okay. I really believed that. The weekend was like a rollercoaster. I was living it based on the observations of others. And it seemed bleak. I went in to visit him and I was scared of what I would see. Then they brought him out and he looked good. A few more visits and I was convinced that it was just a matter of time before he would be home.

My dog, Lucky, died on Wednesday. The dog that, as a child, I waited so long ot get. The dog that has been a part of my life, a part of my family for almost 15 years. Without that long essay that I wrote, it's hard to understand exactly what he meant to me. When it felt like the world hated me, he never did. Tonight, as I sat on the floor of my dining room in the depths of my depression, I waited for the next part of this routine. On most nights, this is when I look up and look into those eyes that don't judge. That don't care if I'm right or wrong, but are just there. But tonight that wouldn't come. That will never come again. And I don't know how I'll survive nights like that. Alone.

I thought he was going to come home. But the last time I saw him, I told him that if it were up to me, he'd be around forever. But I didn't want him to hurt. So, if he had to go, I'd be okay. The next day he was gone, as if he was waiting for that. I went to the vet and made them take him out. I needed to see him one last time. They brought me into a room where they had really nicely laid him on a pillow and wrapped him in a blanket. He looked like he was sleeping. And now every memory that I have of him ends with that picture. And it makes me sad.

People keep telling me that it will be okay. That it will get better. And I know that's true. Because the movies say so. But right now, it doesn't feel like it. Everyone I've talked to has a Lucky story. And it makes me happy to think that he was in a lot of people's lives. Hearing the stories make me feel better, so feel free to share one if you have one. I want to thank all my friends that have been there for me through this. The ones that have talked me through this. The ones that let me sleep on their couch when the hurt exhausted me. The ones that gave me the reassuring hugs and pats on the back. And the ones who have just been there to take care of the trainwreck that is me. They've been great.

The world feels a little more empty. And I don't know that it could ever feel complete again. But Lucky was a good boy that had 15 great years. And it comforts me to think that he stayed as long as he did not only because we loved him well, but also because he loved us.

Good night, Luck.