May 18

Sometimes no news is bad news …

That certainly has been the case for why I haven’t posted anything on this blog in the last couple of weeks.

On Sunday, May 18, my wife and I had plans to remember our dog Turbo. Turbo was a chihuahua/terrier mix who had been with Monica for a number of years before I met her in 1998 and then became our “little guy” after we moved in together and, eventually, got married. He was a feisty dog who tried to bite people whom he did not know, but he was also a dog who could be very lovable and attention-seeking when he got to know you. He had had a rough life before Monica got him. Among other things, a previous owner would kick him down a hall when the owner was angry with him. Monica, though, with her passion and love for dogs, did nothing of the sort and, indeed, was responsible for bringing out more of the tender side of Turbo. For as much as I say Turbo was our dog, he really was Monica’s love.

Turbo was able to live what for a dog is a relatively full and long life. We don’t know exactly how old he was, but we estimated him to be around 15 years old when he passed away on May 18, 2007, of heart failure while undergoing emergency treatment to attempt to correct rapid kidney failure. While Monica and I had some time with Turbo at MedVet pet hospital in Columbus, Ohio, before he died, our last memory of Turbo as a “free” dog came at a rest area on US-23 between Findlay, Ohio, and Upper Sandusky, Ohio, on our way down to Columbus. We stopped to allow Turbo to go to the bathroom and, while he hobbled through the grass with our assistance, he took some time to sniff the air and look around at the green around him. Since French fries were Turbo’s favorite food, Monica and I had planned after Monica got off work on May 18, 2008, to drive down to the rest area and eat some French fries in Turbo’s memory. It seemed like a fitting tribute, but it was a tribute that didn’t happen that day.

About 3:30 in the afternoon, just a few hours before our planned trip to the rest area, I received a call from one of Monica’s aunts telling me that Monica’s mother, Debbie, had suffered a brain aneurysm while driving with her husband back home to the Phoenix area after a trip to Laughlin, Nevada. By the time Monica got home from work a little after 6:00, we were booking a one-way flight for her to Phoenix for that evening. She would get in around 1:15 a.m. that night and we kept clinging to the hope that everything would be okay. We’d even gladly take the option of Monica needing to spend the summer in Arizona to help her mom rehab from the incident.

Those hopes fell short, though, as Monica’s mom passed away the next day—Monday, May 19—at the age of 52—an age that, unlike Turbo’s, is not representative of a full and long life. I already had my flight to Arizona scheduled by the time Debbie passed away and I was in town late Tuesday afternoon. Monica and I got back to Bowling Green, Ohio, on Sunday, June 1, after two surreal weeks of preparing a memorial for her mom, going through her mother’s belongings, and driving home in a moving truck.

I was asked to do the eulogy for Deborah M. Weir at her memorial on Friday, May 23. In my speech, I recalled how at my wedding in 2005, in her toast Debbie spoke of how much togetherness she felt at the event and how good that made her feel. I argued that that sense of togetherness was central to Debbie’s life—that while Debbie was a person who spent much of her life searching for happiness, searching for answers, and searching for fulfillment, she understood at least one secret of life more than most of us: the importance of togetherness. I think that Debbie’s emphasis on togetherness was, as most things seem to be, both a strength and a weakness. It meant that Debbie was always trying to include others as much as she could and that she was very accepting of and giving toward others. It also, though, meant that she often didn’t do enough for herself and that some of the people who were the very closest to her felt cheated of time alone with her because they had to share that time with so many others. Still, I think that that sense of togetherness is something worth remembering, just as Debbie Weir is someone worth remembering and just as Turbo is someone worth remembering. I think of each of them every day and I know that every May 18, I will most certainly remember both Debbie and Turbo as best as I can.