A dime a dozen

Recently, Matt and I passed a greyhound racetrack. He said he wished we had time to go inside and see the dogs race, so that he could picture Aberdeen running super fast. I said, “Nope, no way. I’m afraid I’d get upset.”

When people meet our Aberdeen (and she’s quite a looker, so folks often stop to talk on our rambles), they ask if she’s a rescue. I say yes. And then they say something like, “Oh, that’s really great. She’s had an awfully rough life, you know. I can tell she’s well cared for now.”

I sort of mumble, “She’s a sweetheart, and we love her. Haveaniceday. ‘Bye.”

I’m not the least bit curious about this “rough life” people hint at. I don’t want to know. Because once I know, I can’t un-know. So I keep my head pleasantly buried in the sand. (Nothing new here.)

I explained this to Matt as we passed the greyhound track, about why I don’t want to see a race. He said he also hears mentions of ill treatment, but doesn’t understand it. He said. “I’m sure it all comes down to money, so if the dogs earn the track a lot of money, why wouldn’t they treat them like thoroughbreds?”

“Because, sweet man, these beautiful dogs are a dime a dozen,” I said. “They can be replaced at little to no cost. Their value is terribly low.”

And then I got quiet.

Because I wondered if we all feel this way sometimes.

A few days ago, I had an appointment for my six-month mammogram checkup. Just before I stepped out my front door, the deluge hit. I mean to tell you, a bathtub of water was pouring onto the driveway. I knew my cloth backpack, which holds my journal, two books, and my cell phone, would never survive, so I ran around the house looking for my raincoat and an umbrella and turning on lights for my worried-looking dog.

All that is to say, I was late to my appointment. By two minutes. I apologized profusely to the receptionist. She smiled that smile that says, “I’m only smiling at you because I have manners,” and then, using a bright green Sharpie, wrote LATE and 8:32 (underlined twice) on the cover sheet of my chart.

I sat down.

Now, let me just admit this right out: I am ultra crabby on my mammogram days. A flood of emotions and memories flatten me. Taking Matt along helps, but someone’s got to earn a living around here, so I sent him off to work and assured him I’d be fine.

And I was fine until someone changed my name from Melissa to LATE.

I took lots of deep breaths. I said things in my inside voice, like, “Hey there, lady. You doing okay? I’m listening. You are loved, and you are okay.”

Things improved. The billing clerk and I talked about her unusual name, and the mammogram tech gave me the low-down on her morning workout routine. Lots of smiles were exchanged—the real kinds.

Best of all, I don’t have breast cancer. So there’s that.

But all day, tiredness dogged me. By noon, I gave in and crawled under the covers, the dog nearby as rain blew sideways into the windows.

I thought about a job I once quit. I was treated badly, so I left. But I left wounded, wondering if I would ever teach again.

I thought about dates in college, boys who moved too fast. I remember wondering if there was a man who I could talk to and laugh with, a man who liked to hold hands.

I watched the rain until I fell asleep. I woke up feeling not the least bit better.

I’ve heard it said that the opposite of love is not hate. The opposite of love is indifference. I wonder, is this one of our greatest fears? That no one is coming to rescue us, to cherish us, to hold our hand and say, “You are precious. You are beautiful. You are not the means to an end.”

To say, “Come home.”

Aberdeen stuck close by me all day, even more so than usual. I think my big gassy girl, who loves to put her whole head in my hands, felt my blahs. I like to think that, behind her cinnamon eyes, she was thinking, “Let’s just nap this one out.”

I look around this life of mine, and I see evidence of rescue in every nook and cranny. There is life and hope and wholeness and laughter. At times, I feel so utterly cherished, I am sure that diamond dust has been sprinkled onto my eyelashes. And there are other days, days when I fear the worst, that like the lean, hungry greyhounds, I matter very little.

Writing about the movie Inside Out for The Daily Beast, Nick Schager says, “Happy memories are often the ones that make us saddest, and that misery (both past and present) is frequently what inspires in us the greatest feelings of elation, and what binds us to one another.”

In other words, it’s okay to be sad. Necessary, even. Life-giving.

I was sad that day, almost all day. I didn’t welcome melancholy. In fact, I forgot to ask her what she was there to teach me. Instead, as I buried under the covers, I worried I was unimportant and forgotten, and frankly, that was terribly scary.

Eventually, I remembered something Anne Lamott, one of my favorite teachers, says: “Practice radical self care.” So I made a cup of herbal chai. I walked Aberdeen in the rain. I sat in my favorite chair with a juicy novel. I broiled yellow and red bell peppers and stirred them into hot pasta. I smiled when Matt grabbed my hands and started to pray, his voice radiating joy, “Father God, we are so grateful for the news that we are clear of breast cancer.”

I’ll be sad again. What I hope to remember next time is that sad does not equal worthless, that sad is as lovely and profound a teacher as joy. That the closer I get to God’s heart, the more pain I will feel, right alongside love so pure, it makes my eyes burn and my chest ache.

When sadness reappears with her gifts, I want to remember this: she’s not fear. I can look her in the eye and say, “Oh, hello. I know you.”

She will say, “It’s raining. Let’s take the dog for a walk.”

I will get out my raincoat, and I will put on my shoes. 

I will take her hand. 

And I will do my very best to listen.