Before
The flip-flap of ears in the morning, letting me know you're awake. The cuddles in your bed, where you had decided to stay all snug as a bug. Or you at my bedside urging me awake because it was breakfast, breakfast, breakfast time and how dare I still be in bed when you had gone a full night without eating!
Your little foot placed on mine, waiting as I made your always complicated meal. The good stuff takes time though right, munchkin? 15 minutes and then it was a feast.
The Office Song I'd sing after breakfast when it was time to get to work:
"Office time is the bestest time! Office...office!"
Your genuine excitement. Every. Single. Time. Running next to me, then passing me and waiting in the room so I could pick you up and put you on your chair where you'd either curl into a ball for your morning nap or grab your girlfriend and have a little make out session. Or in the winter, when it was cold, when I'd wrap you in blankets and you'd prop your little head up watching me work until you drifted off.
The middle of the day when it was not remotely time for dinner, while in your mind 2pm was a perfectly acceptable dinner hour.
The walks all around our neighborhood, around the lake when we went to visit gramma and great gramma.
The car rides. You, an immediate car ride lover from the moment we took our first drive home together.
The way you played with careless abandon, leaping into my lap. Certain I would catch you anytime, always. You were right.
You, wanting to go outside, then back inside - outside, inside, outside, inside, outside, inside. Bored that I was busy at work or just wanting a little sunshine or a mini adventure in the backyard. A woof at the backdoor when you were ready to do it all over again. Your little face peeking through the very bottom of the window of the door, just enough of a view to see me coming for you.
You wanting up in my arms. "Hop Up" you knew, with a little hop and a scoop and then snuggles as I held you.
And the kisses. The endless kisses from me to you. Millions, I'd imagine, over the years. You were something I could never get enough of.
Your wardrobe that reached far and wide, season to season, with special care given to Halloween and Christmas. The array of styles you could pull off were many, but sweater weather was my favorite. And your love of loose dryer sheets, rolling around in any that tumbled to the floor when I was pulling out the laundry, your little shirts and jackets and, one of my favorites, your Christmas pajamas.
Summertime. Swimming in the pool, lounging in the sun. You, having become such a good swimmer these last few years, but still primarily just wanting to swim into my arms so I could hold you. And your favorite: swimming after your brother who you finally (finally!) just accepted as family, trying to catch up to him in the pool as he splashed around after a toy, then circling back into my arms. Over and over and over again.
The night time activities. First, one more potty break. Then "toofbrush" time, the ultimate battle of me trying to cover each precious toothy while you tried to lick the toothpaste off my fingers. And finally, the tuck in. Holding up the blanket for you to crawl under, telling you I loved you. And the way you always, always, always ended up sleeping like a person, with your head sticking out of the covers and, often, one little arm tucked around your sheet.
And those little arms, oh...those little elbows. Those little big feet that smelled like buttered popcorn. But the elbows, baby cakes- I couldn't get enough of your teeny tiny elbows.
We really were two peas in a pod, weren't we, pumpkin? Short legs, food allergies, tummy aches. You, a smaller, furrier version of me in so many ways. I could swear you had my blood running through your veins.
Your personality, so big and bold and loud. Ever the conversationalist, my Samson. An answer for every question. A demand as to why something was something. A protest. Your little paw pressing on Ryan, halting him every time I held you and he got close.
"Just you and me, mom." That was the running joke. It was also the truth.
You and me, pumpkin. You and me.
18 Months
Mornings, as of late, where a mini-pharmacy had taken up permanent residence on our counter. Pills for every ailment that had finally started making a difference. And before that, puppy vitamins, true puppy vitamins, that I'd occasionally forget but that you never would.
The mornings when you didn't want breakfast. Where your little body was fighting what we later found out to be Cushing's disease. And you, so steadfast. Your bad days were minimal in comparison to all of the good ones, still so many good ones. One day to the next, you were still my happy little man. You never let the disease dampen your spirit.
The short walks that got shorter. Where I'd carry you half the way just so you'd get some exercise and fresh air. You, so happy to be out anywhere smelling all the smells. Deciding what you'd claim for your personal park that, in our minds, you were always building. Always choosing - this tree, that bush, those flowers. Oh, the flowers, Baby Bean, the flowers.
Never have I seen, and never do I expect to see again, a dog so interested in the smell of a flower. Gently sticking your little nose in each and every bloom, with your eyes shut and a smile on your face, breathing in the fragrances of what so many of us take for granted. Not you, though. Never you.
Street Gang Time: Our running joke when Ryan was trying to wear out Rocco with his never ending puppy energy, where he'd zig-zag the street, over and over again. And you always wanting to be a part of that fun with the boys.
"Gotta go, mom. Street Gang Time." And off you'd trot, leaving me on the sidewalk stretching out your leash as far as I could as you zig-zagged right along.
The end of every walk, your little legs picking up the pace, trying to beat us all home because you knew what came next; a puppy treat.
The planning of plans I never wanted to consider, like when your life jacket broke at the end of summer last year and instead of buying a new one for the following year like I first started to do, a pause. A terrible wondering of whether or not it would get used, be needed.
That thought that led to more thoughts. Thoughts of how I had to make every single moment the best one ever. Every holiday with every outfit, pictures for future memories, more kisses.
Your nicknames. The volume of names I had for you and your capacity to know all of them. My urge to write them down, carve them into memory so I would never forget a single one.
Samson. Bean. Sambean. Beans. Beanie. Beanie babe. Baby cakes. Teenie tiny beany babe. Beanie McWeenie. Weenifer. Beanifer. Weenston. Ween. My little man. Pumpkin. Munchkin. Munch-ka-doodle. Samsabeans. Teenie Beanie McWeenie. Pumpkin doodle. Babe. Mommy's little man. Muffin. Kiddo.
And the names other people had for you: Sammy. Samsonite. Sam.
The soft pitter patter of your little feet, your little toenails clinking on the tile in the middle of the night when you wanted water, when you wanted out, when you were not tired at all because you'd slept too much during the day.
The sleepless nights. Where your little body ached and you would find me, late in the night, with a
little scratch at the bed. "Up," you said. And up you went. Into bed with me, me who would lie in any uncomfortable position as long as you were comfortable and comforted. And when there was no comfort, out to the living room, you and I, where I'd wrap you in a blanket and hold you upright in the only position where you found some semblance of peace, your little head tilting to one side finally in sleep, only for you to wake up later and for us to restart the process over again.
The nights where holding you didn't help and we'd pace the house together, go outside, inside, outside inside.
Back to bed, finally.
Me, learning to listen ever so closely on high alert. Never fully asleep. If you so much as breathed too hard I was ready, leaping out of bed for whatever you might need. Peering at you in your bed wondering if you were awake, if you needed me.
This whole time, every vet, every appointment, every person we met remarking in amazement, "
He's how old?!" In shock, because never have you ever looked your age, sweet Bean. You stunned people with your eternal youthfulness, your eternal young man-ness. The vet specialists telling us you had the organs of a puppy, so shocked, not expecting such a sight.
I lived off of that comment for months, so full on hope and assurance.
3 Months
The energy you had. The attitude that was full force. You were better. Really and truly better and we all reveled in it. Except for the time the doctor put you on those steroids that made you want to drink 10,000 gallons of water and go outside every three seconds. But we kicked those to the curb pretty quick didn't we, babe?
And the kisses, not just from me this time, but from you. Kisses every time I picked you up. Then more kisses. You were bursting with happiness. With bliss. With joy from relief of all your varied symptoms. You were happy, kiddo. Full to the brim.
I made plans; a family vacation to the puppy beach in California sometime before summer.
The hope I carried every day. The way the past year and a half felt like some long, exhausting delusion. Something that couldn't possibly have been real. Just a bad dream. Nothing serious because you, my brave and tough and strong little man, you could beat anything.
The deal I'd made with God. "
18, that's all I ask. Give me until 18."
The deal He broke, or never committed to, maybe. Asking doesn't mean receiving, after all.
After
The quiet. The endless, aching quiet. Your personality was bigger than our house, bursting at the seems, and now - nothing. There is no flip-flap of little ears, no pitter patter of little feet, no scratch at my bedside. There is no bark in and out...in and out and in and out.
I don't even know what time it is.
Dinner was announced by you every day at almost the exact same hour and now I have to remember on my own. Something I should be able to do but somehow can't. You were the music in my daydreams, the soundtrack of my life. Your silence is deafening.
The memories that wash over me day and night:
The way you'd eat from a spoon "like a people" we'd say. A big chomp and then you remembering it never worked quite like you'd hoped, so you'd lick at it instead. Still, the attempt was made each and every time a spoon was presented.
The little sound game we used to play. A little grunt from you, a kiss or a grunt back from me. Then you, then me, then you, then me - over and over.
Your little cheeks, puffing in and out. The ladies at the vet office who absolutely loved it, who reminded me of it when I'd forgotten, having grown so accustomed to your little habit.
The up and down on the sofa, your chair, anywhere you wanted to be because you had finally (finally!!) learned that jumping from high places terrified your mommy, and that jumping, in general, was strictly forbidden because of your long little back. At least that was a path we never had to walk down, right kiddo?
Your excitement when gramma was coming or when we were going to visit. The way your whole little body squirmed with joy.
You, my mini-me, following me everywhere I went. Always keeping an eye on me to make sure I hadn't left the room. Your little head peeking over sofa cushions while I made dinner in the kitchen. Those little eyebrows of yours. That little face.
The naps and the sofa snuggles, where you'd crawl right up next to me and I'd put my arm over you, pulling you in. Or when you'd curl into my legs, curl into a little ball. When you'd rest your head on me and doze off.
And now, the Before and After. Everything I do punctuated with the thought:
Before Sunday.
After Sunday.
The grocery list I'd written that had your items on it, no longer necessary.
The notes in my work calendar, my planner: Walk the boys.
The term: The Boys. No longer valid. Causing me to crumble the second I see it, think it, attempt to write it out of habit.
Your sweater, the one you were wearing the day my heart shattered. The one sitting on top of the washing machine right now, most likely never to be washed. It still smells like you, my sweet baby.
The beds and the blankets, your bowl, your girlfriend. The medications and dog food and even your toothpaste. Tiny pieces of you all over the house. The worst of them being your spot on the sofa marked by a pillow and blanket. I've fallen asleep there almost every night, except for when Ryan forced me into bed because it was good for me, or some nonsense like that. I've laid my head there and cried every day. You used to snuggle your head next to mine right there, Beans, right there.
The awful memory that I desperately want to forget. The arch of your neck from what, a stroke? A blood clot? And you, still so excited to see me and gramma and still trying so hard to fight.
The images on the screen of cancer spread through your little body. Cancer that I'd been so happy had never been an issue, suddenly appearing everywhere out of nowhere, seemingly haven taken over in just a span of what, days? Minutes? Seconds? The span of before and after.
The questions. The endless questions that I still face. Me, thinking over and over again, regardless of what they kept saying: He'll shake this off. He always does. This will be fine, this will be fine, this has to be fine.
And the question that will most likely always plague me: Why? The never ending why of it all.
The fear of forgetting. Anything. Everything. I'm trying here, now, to capture every moment of almost 16 years, impossibly.
You have been the keeper of my heart, the owner of my joy. The very best thing to have ever happened to me. I knew you before you were mine. I named you in my heart, so certain of someone I hadn't even met yet. I found you on Mother's Day. Such a small thing, you were. A little bean. Your belly the main component of your teeny tiny body, with the littlest legs I'd ever seen trying to hold you up as you wobbled about. That day you made me a mom and every single day since then you have given me purpose. And love. So much love, my little Bean.
We'll end just like we started,
Just you and me and no one else.
I will hold you where my heart is,
One life for the two of us.
To all of our friends and family, thank you. The outpouring of your love and support has touched us dearly. The messages and the calls, the beautiful flowers, and the daily check in's to see how we've been doing have been so kind, so loving, so warming in this dark and cold time. We're beyond blessed to have such supportive people in our lives. Samson loved you...his aunts and uncles, his buddy's, his BFFs. You all had a special place in his heart, too.
