For Reese

A year ago today, we said goodbye to Reese. I miss her presence.

Reese knew the difference between a weekday morning and a weekend. She knew when we could stay in bed a little longer. Weekends meant more time together and going out, and she knew they belonged to her, too.

For fifteen years, she sat beside my daughter and me, just sitting, letting us know she was there. Reese was with me while I rebuilt my life, learned to set boundaries, and began to love myself. She helped me find me, grow, and flourish. Her love was simply unconditional. Through the years, she caught a million tears from both my daughter and me.

She also had expectations.

Campfire treats were her obsession. She knew the word “treat,” and she knew it even if you spelled it T-R-E-A-T. If you were falling behind on your responsibilities at treat time, she let you know. One commanding bark, repeated as necessary. She was unrelenting in the best kind of way.

I knew she belonged in our family with her need to have things just so, straightening the lines on the corduroy couch and the food in the food dishes with that nose she used so effectively.

She loved our fall traditions, pacing in front of the oven while her pumpkin custard baked and leading us through the corn maze. Sassan used to tease me that I was more excited to take Reese to the pumpkin patch than anyone else. He had a point. Especially after the girls became teenagers, I still had Reese, every bit as enthusiastic about going as I was. Her joy was such a big part of mine.

And then there were our everyday routines. Morning cuddles, a kiss on her forehead, “see you later” before I left. Coming home to her enthusiasm, as though my return deserved a celebration. We did that over and over, and I would happily do it forever. Now I realize how much there was to celebrate in every one of those moments.

I thought we had more time. Her cardiology appointment just weeks earlier had gone so well that I believed we might have another couple of years. Maybe three, if we were really lucky.

Her last day started like any other. I had gone to a tea house about an hour away when my daughter began texting. She thought Reese wasn’t hearing well. Then she thought Reese wasn’t seeing well. I said she was fifteen, and I was sure those things were changing. I didn’t understand that the changes were happening rapidly, right in front of her.

When I got home, Reese still seemed like Reese. Then she fell into the pool, something that had never happened. We knew instantly something was wrong and at the same time hoped nothing was. A seizure followed, then another. My daughter rushed her to the emergency vet. I felt paralyzed. I called my sister. I knew Reese wasn’t coming home, and I didn’t know how to face it.

But I knew I wanted to be there for her and for my daughter.

After tests and a conversation with the vet, we were told Reese had a brain tumor. There was no more time to be had. She would continue to seize. We wanted to bring her home for her final moments, but we didn’t want her to suffer. We decided to let her go at the hospital. It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made, and there was no other decision I could make for her.

They gave us a room where we could spend time together. Reese came in scared. My daughter held her, then I did. I kissed her forehead, just as I did every morning, and held her tight. She calmed down. When we let her go, she was at peace in my daughter’s arms.

If she could have stayed, I would have never left that room. Part of me is still there.

I sometimes think about going back and asking for a few minutes to sit there. I don’t know what it would do or what I would find, but I feel a pull to return.

Reese’s Life Rule Number 24 is “Leave this world surrounded by those you love.” She was surrounded. The vet nurse said she had come with an entourage. The people who loved Reese filled the waiting room that night. I will forever be grateful that so many showed up for her, because she showed up for each of us daily.

Afterward, I spent about a month and three days writing her twenty-five Life Rules. While I wrote, I felt she was with me. I could spend time remembering her, thinking about who she was and everything our years together had meant.

Finishing felt like losing her again. I didn’t know what to do. I sobbed for hours.

I think The Steward Edit began, in part, because I missed her and needed somewhere to put that love and grief. Writing about Reese brought me back to something I had wanted to do since childhood. I wanted something good to come from how much I loved her.

I thank God for bringing her into my life. I have a broken heart and fifteen years of wonderful memories.

Reese, I miss staying in bed a little longer with you and being reminded that a treat was overdue. I miss your comic relief, raising your eyebrows when the little lady we were both raising was making her point with me.

I loved that our little lady and I were yours. Your love filled the hole in me, and I hope you knew that. I wouldn’t trade any of it to avoid the heartbreak.