Please Forgive Me.

I remember where I was when the phone rang. Depression had rendered me useless and I sat plopped in the center of the couch, wrapped in my favorite blanket, staring idly at the TV. I can't remember what was on, but I'm sure it was nothing good. I had been waiting for this phone call... Dreading it is probably more accurate of a word, but I knew it was coming. I had been warned for months now to expect it, so when it rang and my mothers name popped up on the screen, I knew. Before answering my heart had already sank, the tears eagerly got in line behind my eyes waiting for their cue to fall, and with one breath, one syllable from my mothers lips, no other words were necessary. I knew what had happened. I knew she was gone. A feeling that I had never quite felt before filled my entire body. An overwhelming mixture of sadness and helplessness. "One more day..." kept repeating over and over in my mind which only added to the the helplessness, the uselessness. There were no more days, not now. I tried to recall what the last things I had said to her were. I wondered if she had even known I was there during my last visit. I silently spoke to her through the atmosphere whispering over and over again that I loved her and missed her already, but I was happy she was no longer in pain. After taking a second to cry uncontrollably, I gathered myself and called my then boyfriend. He too knew this was coming and only needed a, "You need to come home now," in order to know what had happened. He came home right away and I collapsed into his arms and cried. I felt like the tears would never stop. I suddenly understood that it was actually possible to cry for days because I had no intention of stopping. This was the day I lost my grandmother. The day that we had escaped a few times before and I had childishly hoped would never come.

My maternal grandmother, my Nana, was someone I was very close to, much like the rest of my mom's side of the family. We spent every holiday with her and would frequently visit. She was a huge part of my childhood and played babysitter (with the help of my aunt of course) every time my parents would go away. She was diagnosed with emphysema when she was in her 60's so I was accustomed to seeing her with inhalers, and later on in life with oxygen, but it was normal. Since she had a lung disease, when she got sick, she really got sick. I remember a few times when I was younger that my mom and aunt had to go down to Connecticut, where she was living at the time, to take care of her. I don't think they ever tried to insinuate the severity of those times, but I always picked up on it... Though she always ended up pulling through. She ended up moving closer to my mom and aunt which was nice for my sister and I because that meant we were able to see her more often. She attended every one of my functions she could and we would go to visit her on a regular basis. I think my favorite thing to do with her was to go to plays. I was lucky enough to see a few of them with her, JUST her. Those were my favorite times. I loved having all her attention. I loved her, and still do, with just about every fiber of my being.

But there is one thing that still plagues my brain, still haunts me to this day, and still pains me to think about or say. I've thought about this entry for years now and every time I go to write it I would delete everything because it's painful for me to admit... but here it is:

My Nana died on December 17, 2006. I was 20 and still very much in my own selfish world. I think I was about 19 when my mother sat me down to tell me that I was upsetting her. I was a little taken back by it. How could I be hurting her? I guess my cousin would call her on a pretty regular basis, something my sister and I did not do. My cousin lived in New Jersey and went to school in Pennsylvania so she did not get to see her as often as Ali and I did, so to make up for it she would call. I guess my grandmother started wondering why my sister and I didn't do the same thing. I started getting defensive. I used the excuse of "Well (my cousin) doesn't see her as often as we do, that's why she calls!" and "I'm really busy and have to work all the time!" My mother agreed, but suggested that we maybe start emailing her. I ended up talking to my sister about it and we decided that we would go and have lunch with her on a regular basis. We knew she would like that and we thought it was a great plan. But for some reason or another, we never got around to it. And when my grandmother got sick in October of 2006 THAT was the first thing to cross my mind. Why didn't we go? We should have gone.  Maybe it was the child in me, I foolishly thought that I would have more time, but this was it. She would not pull through this time.

I tried to visit as often as I could during her final months. That was quite possibly the hardest thing I have EVER had to do in my entire life. Watching someone dying is the most overwhelming thing to be a part of. I would hold her hand, tell her I loved her, but would have to frequently leave the room when it was too much to take. I would get out of earshot and cry. I still don't know if she knew I was there. I'm not sure she knew who I was if she did know someone was there, but I would do it all again if I had to.

My biggest fear is that she didn't know how much she meant to me. Just because I didn't call as often as I should did not EVER mean that I didn't love her. I don't think I showed her how much she meant to me. I can't believe how selfish I was, how completely wrapped up in myself I was, that I couldn't just take a few fucking weekends to go have lunch with her. I feel like the biggest, most worthless piece of shit for not doing it. I regret it as much as someone could ever regret something, and the fact that I can never take it back eats away at my brain.

I still talk to her as though somehow she can hear me, and I've told her through that way that I am sorry. I still tell her I love her when I feel the need. When I do something that I think she would be proud of I tell her that I wish she was there to see. I have no idea what the hell happens when you die, but I hope that if she can hear me, she's listening... Nana, I love you, I miss you and I'm so, so sorry for being selfish. Please forgive me.

Thankful #2

Last year I posted a blog in which I listed the things I was thankful for. I reread it and nothing much has changed. I'm still equally as thankful for all the same things, but I guess I've come to appreciate some of them a little more. One in particular being...

My family.

I think every year I am even more thankful to have the family that I do. My immediate family is extremely close. There's really not much they don't know about me, whether they wanted to know about it in the first place or not. They are basically my support group and the people I turn to when I need help.

My aunt, who just so happens to be my second mother, has been my therapist since I was a little girl. She is probably the reason I am so open about everything. She's been teaching me how to speak my mind since... well, basically since I can remember. I always know I can turn to her for unbiased, solid advice. She was my savior through my teenage years when I felt as though my parents hated me. And while she may not have been very happy with what I was doing, she still helped. She still wanted me around, and at that time that was exactly what I needed. Now, she's still my therapist, still my shopping buddy, and completely supportive of my life choices. I love her like a daughter loves her mother, she's more than just an aunt to me.

My mom is someone I have ALWAYS been close to (with maybe the exception of my teenage years). I feel like we are slowly shedding that "mother-daughter" wall and becoming more like friends. I can talk to her about anything, and I think she is starting to feel more comfortable with sharing things her life with me. It's nice getting older and realizing that your parents aren't actually these god-like figures. They are human, they are just like you... and they are FAR from perfect. I like getting to know my mom. I like knowing about the stupid little mistakes she may have made before my time. My mom... she's kind of a bad ass. And as time goes on I learn more and more about how bad ass she actually is.

My dad and I have come a very long way. We didn't always get along the way we do, and it was a tough road getting there. But every day I am more and more happy that we fixed everything that needed to be fixed. We let the past be the past and now we have a very close bond. I can't tell you how happy it makes me when I see how proud of me he is. This past Saturday I played a show in Manchester that my family attended. My aunt later sent me an email telling me how my dad would turn to them and say, "That's my daughter up there!" I am so unbelievably lucky to have such supportive parents. My dad has always been supportive of just about everything I have ever done (even during the tougher times)... especially my music career. He shows my band to everyone he knows and has sold a TON of cds for us. The daughter in me always wants to make my parents happy, so when I do, it's like I'm a kid all over again. A little girl filled with excitement for doing a good job and making them proud.

My sister I could go on for days about. I've already stated in my previous entry that she is my best friend. She and I have been close for most of our lives, but it wasn't until I moved out of the house that we became such good friends. During the beginning of her teen years our relationship took a turn, but it was very short lived. It seems like every year we become closer. These past few years I have really come to appreciate our closeness, especially going through the rearranging of friends. While we don't always agree on everything, and we are still sisters so obviously there have been times where we have been annoyed with each other, we are still supportive. She always goes out of her way to be there for me, and she knows I do the same. She really is the best friend I will ever have, and I know how lucky I am for that.

There are not many families with a bond like mine. I'm reminded of this by a handful of different people in my life. As a teenager, I took it for granted, but now I appreciate every single moment of it. I am thankful for my family... for being there... for loving me... for supporting me... and for being the strange individuals that I love so very, very much.

To my Abbie

It was like she chose us, and as cliche as that sounds, it was almost serendipitus the way she entered our lives. Tired and disappointed from a day of puppy searching at the local shelters, my family and I had accepted defeat and given up, but then out of nowhere there she was. A happy, bounding, white ball of energy on her way back into the shelter. Jenny, her name at the time, was about to re-enter the Salem Animal Shelter because her owner realized she didn't have the time to care for her, but lucky for her she was quickly scooped up and accepted into the Angelo family. Now, when you're an Angelo dog you are no longer just a dog, you are a new and welcomed member of the family. You are spoiled and loved like any other human child. We are no "speciests" in my household, if you are alive you are loved.


Jenny became Abbie, and even on the car ride home, we realized that we were in for one hell of a puppy stage. She had endless amounts of energy and always seemed to be chewing on something, especially my hand. She had many accidents in the house, but lucky for us she was smart, most likely due to her Border Collie genes. Soon enough she was trained, and joined by two other massive, fluffy white dogs. We were a family, dogs and all.


Two days before Thanksgiving I received a call from my mother informing me of her deteriorating state. Coombs disease, she said. While I was concerned, I was very optimistic. She was only nine years old, all the Angelo dogs have lasted until they were at least fifteen. Abbie was sick, not dying, and this "wonder pill," as it was so called, would fix her. With no real doubts in my mind, I hung up the phone and kept my dog-sister in my thoughts.


Thanksgiving came and only then did the doubts start to come. Our once very energetic, alpha dog lay motionless and tired on her bed. I sat with her for a while, gently petting the graying fur on her face, hoping to somehow psychically take away her pain and make her better. The bones on her head, which I had never felt before, were very apparent, and obviously due to very rapid weight loss from the disease. My own dog, Valo, must have sensed something was wrong because even in her excited, puppy romp, she avoided touching Abbie when she was usually the first dog to get a big dose of Valo in the face. But still, even with the minor doubts I was feeling after seeing her, I still kept an optimistic view on the whole situation. The "wonder pill" will work, no worries. So as Corey and I left for his parents, I realized I had forgotten to say goodbye to the dogs, which is my normal routine. I thought of Abbie, and for a brief second hoped it wasn't the last chance I had. No, everything will be fine and I will visit on the weekend just to be sure she's feeling better.


But only a mear 24 hours later, that wasn't the case. She had died the day after Thanksgiving surrounded by my family. I know most people think, "Oh it's just a dog," but not to me. No dog I've ever owned was just a dog, they were my family, someone I loved with the same intensity I have for any other human being. Her death leaves an empty hole in my heart just as it would if I had lost anyone else. I feel guilty for not saying goodbye, something I do every time I go to my parents. What possessed me to break routine then? Still, I am happy she is no longer in pain. The disease crippled her, made her into a dog I could not bare to see suffer. Though in my selfish heart, I wish she had more time. Nine is much too young for a dog to die.


So this is my memorial to my dog, my sister, who, though she is no longer living, will always be in my thoughts. I will still love her everyday my soul is alive, with the same intensity I had while she was alive. I love you, Abbie, and I'll see you again someday.