If Only He Could Talk
February 22, 2008 by kfabrizio
Yesterday I wrote about my top three fears in life. Today I’m continuing the theme, focusing on my top three wishes. Unlike my fears, which haven’t really changed over the years, my wishes frequently fluctuate. Of course I wish for a life free of M.S., I wish for a cure – not only for my disease, but for anything with an incurable prognosis. I wish for long and happy lives for my step children, for my parents and in-laws, for my husband. And, naturally, I wish for me to still be in that lovely picture with them. There are times I wish for tangible items or things, trips or vacations, or a really cool new pair of black, leather boots.
My Number Three and Number Two wishes fluctuate so frequently, it is tough for me to pin them down for you today. Recently, numbers two and three included wishes for an end to the Iraq War; a beginning to a new era in Washington – filled with hope and change; and as our nation looks at the fact that one in every four hundred Americans lives on the street, or in shelters, or in boxes, I wished for an end to homelessness. I’ve wished for an end to poverty and despair.
Some of my wishes are more personal and hit closer to home – wishing that my poor dad’s feet would stop hurting him so badly, so he could enjoy walking my puppy brother around a block a little more; wishing that my mom would remain as healthy and vital as she has been for almost (Ssshhh) 70 years; wishing that my husband could find that part-time helper he has been looking for so he doesn’t break his back on the job at work; wishing that my oldest friend in the world could conceive the baby that she and her husband have been praying for – for years; and wishing that my dear friend Cathy would feel some relief from her battle with cancer. While these two categories of wishes have fluctuated, my number one wish in this world has been steadfast for the last ten years.
For only one hour, on only one day, I wish that my Oboe could talk to me. I wish that instead of just panting and drooling, that my black Lab had a sound to go with his beautiful smile. I wish I could hear his voice; I’ve dreamt about what it would sound like for the last ten years. I want him to speak so I can hear him put words to his hugs and kisses that represent “I love you, Mama” to me. I want mostly to hear him speak, though, so he can tell me how to know when it’s time to let him go. I picture a heaven where someday he’ll greet me and I will be able to hear his growly, very intelligent-sounding, big-bear voice. Likely he’ll start by chewing me out for all the times I stepped on him in the middle of the night, forgot to buy his dog treats, ignored his upset stomach and continued to feed him anyway, or rubbed his fur in the wrong direction.
Hopefully he’ll end though by calling me “Mama” and then roll his beautiful brown eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.
Ok, it’s your turn. Whatcha wishing for these days?
For years I have always wished and prayed for the health and welfare of my family as I believe we all do. After many years of life (not quite 70) I have watched our representatives in government promise us a better life and yet we see the homeless, jobs leave our communities and so many of the promises go astray. The day I you told me you had MS, I wished that God had given it to me and for may days after, through tears, I continued that wish. Then I realized that God has a different plan and by giving you, in your youth, this illness you will be a voice for MS patients. Your ability to write in a very clear, concise and interesting manner is that voice. May you have a long life and continue your journey with the hope of a cure or with a different method of treatment then the shots you take as your daily routine. It may seem that your health is my only wish, but believe me my wishes have never changed over these many years. Remember even when you have a moonlight period, think of the sunshine. Thank God for Tom’s nickname.
This is my wish. I wish you hadn’t made me cry just now.
I wish you hadn’t reminded me that I miss my Kirby Coyote, my precious kitty that was born on my birthday five years ago. I love him like no other pet I have ever had–yes, even including Penny, who has been with me 17 years. I haven’t cried for Kirby (until now) because even though he disappeared in October, I still hope against hope that he was only stolen, not killed, and that he is safe and will return someday. Kirby was my angel–he kept me feeling safe and loved for three years before I met Gary, during which time I was resigned to spending the rest of my life alone. Kirby was my constant companion. He slept on my neck every night , flexing his paws in my hair (only a cat lover can truly appreciate this, I know.) When he disappeared, Gary and I looked for days, calling him and listening for some cry for help. I still feel him here with me, still see him sitting on the windowsill outside wanting in. When the fax machine runs I still see him looking inside inquisitively, fishing a paw inside to pull the paper out. I saw footprints in the snow one night, so I started putting cat food outside, thinking that he might come home in the middle of the night hungry. The food was disappearing every night. I kept looking for him, thinking maybe he was hurt and disoriented. One night I saw him and ran out to greet him, but it was only a possum. I was shattered. Still I didn’t cry.
Tonight I cried. I can honestly say that I understand how much you must love Oboe. He is your baby. But I wish you hadn’t made me cry.
Sis,
I truly believe that those who love animals, as deeply as you do, are special people, with special love.
K.
hey, we all know I’m nutz about my pets. Does this post mean that I’m not really nutz?
I haven’t written in a while. Nothing worthwhile to share.
Today, though … here’s my thought:
Oboe does talk to you silly sis. He may not speak with a voice as in your dreams, but he must communicate in many special ways. I’m sure of it. My two boys are special communicators. Nobody loves me as deeply or as openly as my two boys. And I know this without a single word being shared. They never judge, they never ask for anything in return and they are always, always nearby for that special lovin’ that only comes from soft, fuzzy kids with big, brown, adoring eyes.
Love ya !