Skid in Broadside, Balls to the Wall

I am watching my 16 year old dog sleeping soundly – eyes pressed closed, her head encircled by a soft cone to keep her from gnawing on wounds. She has days, maybe weeks to live. I wish she would just go to sleep one day, outside in the sun, and never wake up, instead of slowly losing function. She’s not in a huge amount of pain yet, but there are moments like when she can’t stand in the morning and I help her up and hold her belly until I feel her legs able to carry her weight. She is still eating although she’s picky. I’ve never known Keesha to turn down anything!

Today I lay on the back porch with her and sobbed. Her imminent death brings up the people and pets I’ve lost, as well as those I will lose; my own mortality… failed relationships and missed opportunities. I let the grief grab hold and swallow me until it spits me out. It’s the only way to clear it.

Today at a HospiceCare training we talked about regret. I am fortunate that I feel very little regret other than I wish I could have learned how to FEEL earlier. I was so shut down. It’s not that I didn’t show emotion (my poor mother will vouch for that – I cried throughout all of middle school), but it was all or nothing. I was either clammed up or a bursting damn and that lasted until my early 40’s.  Being in touch with feelings requires me to: 1. check in, and then 2. be willing to sit with the feelings, immersed and vulnerable. Knowing what I am feeling – the full spectrum – from one moment to the next, a certain congruence, took practice and awareness. Understanding feelings was the root of my healing and lasting happiness.

I am also mourning the fact that two of my favorite weeks of dance are over. CU guest artist Daniel Charon teaches a workshop every June. His class challenges me fully and his movement is reminiscent of the way I originally trained – Limon based. It’s not that dancing his movement is easy but when I do it, I am totally at home and the bliss I feel is indescribable – it’s like my heart would fly from my chest if it could.  Another older dancer came up to me at the end and said she was impressed with the way some of us older dancers were dancing full out.

 

“Balls to the wall,” I replied. I looked the other way and scratched my head. Did I just say that? I thought, wondering what it meant anyway. Next thing you know I'll be slamming back shots and chasers. I assured my friend that I would pay a price for dancing like that later… but nothing some Advil and a hot Epsom salt bath couldn’t cure. According to the urban dictionary, “balls to the wall,” is a fighter pilot term. The "balls" are knobs atop the plane's throttle control. Pushing the throttle all the way forward, to the wall of the cockpit, is to apply full throttle. Okay, good. I can throw that term around. Pedal to the metal!

My supervisor at HospiceCare, a strong and fierce beauty, ended our meeting today with this Hunter S. Thompson quote: “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, and totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming: “Holy shit! What a ride!”

When I lose my dog I will know I’ve done everything to give her the best possible life. When I skid in broadside to the grave in a cloud of smoke, you can bet I will be dancing.