Obligatory:

Thank you for the kind words and thoughtful messages. I wish I had ready a cathartic post which wrapped any piece of my life up in a neat or profound way. But all I have is puppies.

Don’t be fooled by cuteness. My whole world smells like dog.

Puppy breath, yes. But also maternity-ward uterine shedding dog farts, as well as what turned out to be four days of round-the-clock explosive dog diarrhea. There’s the dog food smell, and dog hair smell, and always that unfortunate moment when the dog somehow manages to lick you in the face right after she’s been licking her own crotch. Anyway, I knew whatever maniacal vacuuming-laundering-mopping-Cloroxing battle I’d gotten into was lost when, on the fourth day, I pooped in the pet free sanctuary of the upstairs bathroom, and even that smelled like dog.

Dad Update. Is it even that, anymore? Beyond the grave-date? Grief-date? I am at a loss, pun intended.

I keep waiting for something profound to happen. So far, nothing. He didn’t stop by for any kind of ghostly goodbye, although I think doing so would’ve gone against his nature. Likewise, I haven’t cried since it happened. Maybe I’m just an overachiever who got all the immediate-death crying done beforehand. For the record, I am very cranky at small things, and am having all sorts of physical ailments. I feel like I should have a frank discussion with my body about how I am fully capable of mourning in the proper fashion, no need to go overboard with electrical zings and bouts of swollen palms and uncontrollable itching (although as I write it out, I see some of that’s maybe a dog related allergy. Grief mystery solved).

The one piece of about Dad’s death I keep rolling around in my mind is when Middle called to tell me her version of events. Dad died very early in the morning, around 4 am, and everyone except the nurse was asleep.

According to Middle, the nurse knew to wake Mom up because Dad had stereotypical imminent death signs, which were that his mouth opened, his eyes opened, and his pupils constricted to pinpoints. Nothing I’ve googled so far backs up the pupils constricting just prior to death. Mouth open fits, but the internet says typically eyes go filmy and quarter mast. And I’d often heard blown pupils (dilated, fixed) was a sign of brain death. So maybe Middle was mistaken, or I misheard.

Prior to this, and having heard the blown pupils info, it always made sense to me that people saw a tunnel of light near death. The pupil muscle relaxes, lets an unexpectedly high amount of light in. No big mystery, and if there was otherworldly content to the tunnel of light stories, it nicely dovetailed with physical reaction.

Now I can’t let go the idea his pupils were constricted. I guess because if that really happens just prior to death A) constriction would make it darker inside your head, which is less of straight line of logic to why people would see light near death B) constricting is what eyes would actually do in response to seeing a really bright, say tunnel, of light. Quite a puzzler.

Not that I have any reason to believe my dad saw a light. And as the grim joke goes, he’s not around for me to ask.

My mother seems to be doing really well, energized, and such. She’s down at Little’s house. As I’m writing this, Little is getting induced, so there are plenty of good and nervous events to keep us all distracted. Sunrise! Sunset! Etcetera!