Huey's Passing

Today's column is the story of an important event in my life. Eight years ago today, my dog, Huey, passed away on the bluff at Discovery Park, overlooking Puget Sound, surrounded by friends.

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I woke up late the morning of Thursday, July 25, 2002 around 10 a.m. Looking down near my feet I saw my little white fluff of a dog, Huey, lying with his head on his pillow and my black and white cat, Boombalati, curled in a ball next to him. My heart sank. I knew this was the last morning that Huey would be there to greet me.

The weather that week had been very hot for Seattle, up in the 90’s; it was difficult for his old body to take. But that morning, I rolled off the right side of the bed, pulled the blinds apart and peeked through to see overcast skies.

How perfect, I thought. Overcast skies for my overcast mood.

I leaned over the bed and wrapped my arms around Huey, who had been my friend and companion for the past 17 years.

“Good morning, Huey,” I greeted him, kissing his little brown nose and petting his feather-soft fur. He had been at the groomer only a week or so before and looked as clean and white as a cotton ball.

Oh God, I thought. I didn’t keep any of his hair, and now it’s so short. Why didn’t I think before! Why? Why? Why?!!! I know why, because I thought he’d be here longer. I always thought he’d be here. Why didn’t I think.

I gave Boombalati a little scratch behind the ears, then headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Adrian, my husband, greeted me in the hallway with a cup of tea. We just looked at each other and then both cried as we hugged.

“Oh, Adrian, I can’t believe it’s today. I can’t believe it,” I cried into his shoulder with my tears and nose running into his white undershirt. “I know, Annie.” he said. “I know.”

I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when the phone rang.“Hello,” Adrian answered it, then after a moment he continued, “Yes, hello Dr. Coffin.” It was the veterinarian.

I sat on the couch listening, almost in a daze, with my eyes full of tears and my breath short and jerky. I felt like I was in a heavy fog as I listened to Adrian explain that Huey still wasn’t eating and confirm that the doctor could put him down today. It was surreal. Just a few weeks ago he was fine. Well, maybe not fine, but getting by.

After all these years. He was so healthy. I can’t believe it! Nooooooo!!! I felt like screaming at someone. Somehow, if I felt enough pain, it would change. Huey would be okay again.

“He says for us to meet him at 5:30 at his office,” Adrian had finished the call and was giving me the details. “He’s pretty sure they can do the catheter right away, then follow us right to the park.”

“Okay,” I said blankly, thinking: Seven hours! That’s all the time I have left with my sweet little boy is seven hours. Then he’ll be gone. Oh, God!!! This can’t be true.

I needed to scream, scream at anything or anyone. Scream to somehow make the pain go away. I ran to my bed, buried my head under my pillow and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Noooo!!!! Nooooo!!!! Noooo!!!! Oh, Huey!!” I sobbed and sobbed, coming up for breaths between heart wrenching, agonizing wails. My stomach muscles contracted painfully as I curled in a tight sobbing ball. It was like my body was trying to wring out the pain, squeezing every cell and every feeling in me until there was nothing left, only exhaustion.

“No, no, no.” I quieted down after awhile, whimpering more than crying. I lay in the fetal position, one arm stretched out petting Huey, and looking at him. I looked and looked, trying to memorize his face. After awhile, I don’t know how long, I felt still, almost numb, and I stood up to go on with the day.

It’ll be as good as I can make it for him, I thought. I picked up his three pillows from the floor and shoved them under my arms, and then grabbed the corners of his two quilts in my fists and dragged the big bunch of bedding into the living room. Two things Huey loved were a really cushy bed and to be where I was; today he would have both!

I arranged his bed just so, then walked into the bedroom, slid my arms under his frail body and lifted him up. It was like lifting a sleeping child. He stayed relaxed as I walked to the living room and laid him down among his blankets with his head propped up on his pillow, just the way he liked.

The day progressed with many of the usual activities. Huey fell asleep, so I took a shower and ate breakfast and Adrian went out for a bike ride. My sister, Janie, who lived with Huey and me for many, many years, took the day off to come be with us. We watched the A&E version of Pride and Prejudice and lay with Huey, brushing and petting him and every so often breaking into tears over our beloved friend.

He had stopped eating over the past few days and I had been coaxing him with treats—like real chicken—but today he hadn’t eaten anything, although he did drink some water. But then Janie lay down on the floor to pet him and was eating some string cheese and that definitely interested him! She pulled off little pieces while he lay on his pillow like a spoiled centurion being fed grapes at a Roman feast.

“Look at that. Isn’t he sweet,” I said. “And I’m so glad he’s eating. I didn’t want him to be hungry.”
Janie just looked up and nodded. We both knew this would be his last food.

*****

Adrian came home, and Janie and I left to give him some alone time with Huey. It felt weird. Here, this most precious spirit who had been with me nearly every day of my life for the past 17 years was about to die, and I leave to buy toilet paper.

As I drove to the supermarket, I thought of all the rough patches, the hard times in my life that Huey had been there to see me through. So often, I had hugged him close and cried into his fur—when I had a fight with a boyfriend, when I got in trouble at work, when both of my grandmothers died in the same year—he was always there for me.

We were back within a half-hour and it was about four o’clock. We would need to leave shortly after five. I don't remember if that hour sped by in a flash or crawled slowly. I only remember looking at the clock.

5:15. Time to go.

“It’s time,” I said to Adrian and Janie. “I’ll get Huey.”

There was a little activity and discussion about who needed to grab what. We needed a blanket to wrap Huey's body. I wanted his pillow, the flowers that a friend had sent that day, and some lunch meat.

I picked him up, walked him to the door, and was standing partly in the hallway, when I realized I had forgotten something very important. I brought him back inside so that he could say goodbye.
I walked to the living room. “Huey, say goodbye to the living room.” I turned in a slow circle so he could see everything.

I walked to the bedroom. “Say goodbye to the bedroom.” Then Boombalati came out from behind the bed. “Boombalati, Huey’s leaving. You two need to say goodbye.” I got down low and the cat walked right over to Huey, sniffed him on the nose, and gave him a little nuzzle.

“Oh, look at that. I think Boombalati knows he’s saying goodbye,” I said to Adrian who was standing nearby as tears once again filled my eyes.

“Okay, Huey says goodbye Boombalati,” I said through the tears and stood.

I walked Huey through the rest of our small apartment and let him say goodbye to the rest of the space that had been his home for the last three years. I cried burying my face in his body.

I went outside and stood in the courtyard of our apartment building while I waited for Adrian and Janie to catch up.

“Okay Huey, now everything is going to be okay,” I said to him. “Don’t be scared, because nothing will hurt and I’ll be there with you. Just look for Otti. She’ll be holding her arms out just waiting to greet you. Okay? You just go to Otti. And don’t worry about me. I’m sad because I’ll miss you, but we’ll see each other again, so don’t give me a second thought. Just go to Otti and she’ll take care of you.” I hugged him to me, crying into his fur.

“And Otti,” I looked up at the overcast sky. “Be there waiting for Huey. Okay? Put out both your arms and he’ll know it’s you. Okay? Please, Otti, be there,” I emplored my grandmother. When Huey joined our family, the two of them had taken to each other instantly and had a very special bond. Otti passed away in 1994.

I’ll be there, child. Don’t worry. I heard her say in my thoughts.

Adrian and Janie came through the courtyard door and we headed out to our cars.

“We’ll meet you at the vet’s,” I said.

“Okay, see you there,” she replied.

*****

I was in a fog of disbelief. Huey wasn’t in any pain when he was lying down or when I held him like I was doing in the car. How can this be? How can it be that it’s his time? I had to remind myself of his arthritis. He had become increasing stiff over the past years, but, suddenly, in the last week, he could only walk in left-hand circles. The vet thought maybe a nerve had been damaged in his back left leg. And, then he had virtually stopped eating and was incontinent. A friend helped me understand that it was his time to go, and I knew she was right. But it still felt unbelievable. I had always thought he'd live to be at least 18 or 20 years old. I should have at least one more year with him.

As I held him in my arms on the drive to the vet’s office, he was relaxed and quiet.

*****

We arrived at the Interbay Animal Hospital shortly after 5:30 p.m. This small veterinary practice is located in a little, converted house with a big shade tree protecting the front door.

Adrian parked, walked to my side of the car, opened the door, and helped me and Huey out of the car. Janie arrived at the same time and we all went up the eight concrete stairs, then past the flower boxes and little wooden bench to the front door.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. I heard the familiar high-pitched, quick double doorbell that sounded every time I walked in.

“Oh, right this way.” The receptionist recognized us immediately and showed us into an exam room. Moments later, Veronica, the veterinary assistant walked in with paper work.

“I know this is hard, but. . .” and I cut her off.

“I know, Dr. Coffin explained that I’d need to sign,” I said, handing Huey over to Adrian.

I looked at the white sheet of paper and, through my tears, saw fuzzy black words. I couldn’t read it, but I knew what it was—“consent to euthanize.” I blinked my eyes to help the tears falls out. I could then make out the signature line and I took the pen and wrote my name. Above “date,” I wrote, July 25, 2002. Veronica, with a look of sympathy, took the paper and pen and said, “I’ll be right back to take Huey.”

She took him in back where they would put the catheter in his leg. I chose the back left leg, since we thought it might be numb anyway and would hurt less. The catheter is important to have inserted ahead of time, because at the park, the doctor didn’t want to risk difficulty with the injection and cause Huey any extra pain or distress.

Adrian, Janie and I waited in silence. After a few minutes the door opened and Dr. Coffin came into the room with Huey in his arms. He had a light blue bandage on his back left leg with a small, royal blue heart cut out and attached to it.

We had a brief conversation about keeping the catheter in place and then about logistics as to how to find the park. Dr. Coffin said Veronica would join us in case he needed help.

While Dr. Coffin and Veronica got their things together, Adrian, Janie, Huey and I waited on the wooden bench out front. Birds were singing and I noticed the mild temperature. It was a blessing, and I think a sign from God, that this day was the first in a week with comfortable temperatures. The overcast skies also meant the sun wouldn’t be beating down on Huey, or us. It was really a perfect day.

When the doctor and Veronica were ready, we all got in our cars and caravaned to the park. Our friends, Carol and Thor, met us there, and the seven of us and Huey walked a stretch that Huey and I had walked a hundred times before. I stopped at a favorite spot of his to let him sniff and I cried for my loss.

Discovery Park has a beautiful bluff overlooking Puget Sound. There is a tree at the edge with a patch of grass underneath it, just the right size for a picnic. It was there, under that tree, that Adrian proposed to me on a mild, winter morning a year-and-a-half earlier with Huey by my side.

Since “our” tree wasn't special only for us, we expected that someone else would have already claimed the space, and I planned to have us gather in a grassy area next to a little old church that overlooks the bluff.

To my surprise and delight, there turned out to be a fairly large group of people up by the church, which was a rarity, and no one down by the tree on the bluff. It was meant to be.

We still had quite a long walk across the bluff, but we were in no rush. We carried Huey part of the time, would set him down to take a sniff, then pick him up again. We told stories about when he got into trouble, like the time when he jumped into Drumheller Fountain at the University of Washington or when he caught a duck at Greenlake—which luckily I was able to pry, unharmed, from his mouth. He had been so full of life, so full of vigor. It was good to be reminded of how it used to be for him. Tonight was the right night for him to go.

We came upon a couple with an energetic dog at least three times as big as Huey. We talked with them briefly and Adrian picked up Huey to let him sniff the other dog, something Huey hadn’t had much chance to do in the last year, because the other dogs moved too quickly. But this one stood still and Huey got one last good sniff of a new canine acquaintance, another of his favorite things.

God was certainly directing that evening, because as we reached the area under the tree, there was virtually no one around, except a couple enjoying the evening sky from a bench 20 yards down the path.

I set Huey down and let him take a few last steps and sniffs, while we laid out the thick, wool blanket that Janie had thought to bring. Adrian fed him a piece of meat, tearing off little pieces, which he ate.

I sat on the blanket with my legs apart. We put his pillow against my right leg, placed another blanket between my legs and across the pillow, then laid him down. I think it couldn’t have been any better—at his very favorite place, the park, with people he loved and his head propped up.

We talked and told more Huey stories. I tore off another piece of meat and held it up to his mouth, but he didn’t want it. I knew the time was near.

“Okay Huey, I’m here with you. We’re all here with you,” I kissed his little brown nose. He’d stretch up and look around, then lay back down. “I love you Huey. Thank you for always being there for me.”

Adrian was behind me to my right, crying. I motioned Janie who was sitting on a log barrier to come and pet him and say goodbye. We cried and talked to him and I told him, again, to look for Otti.

“Annie, is it time?” Carol asked very softly.

“No, not yet.” I looked up not knowing how I’d even know, but it wasn’t that moment. I kept petting him and kissing him and talking to him.

Then, suddenly, I noticed the sun. The clouds parted just a crack and the sun shone down through the limbs and leaves of the tree illuminating only our little patch.

I knew. I knew it was time. God was calling him and those rays of sunshine were Otti’s arms reaching out to him.

“It’s time.” I said and looked at the doctor through my tears.

Thor and Carol, who had also been sitting on the log, came and sat close. Veronica kneeled nearby and Dr. Coffin nodded at me with a gentle look that asked, “Are you sure?”

I nodded.

“I’m first going to flush the catheter,” he said quietly. I nodded. I just kept stroking my little dog.

“Huey, you might feel a little something, but it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here,” I said to him.

The doctor then brought out the syringe with the sleeping drug in it. He said it was like an overdose of anesthetic and Huey might breathe fast, maybe even bark, but that would just be his body, he wouldn’t feel anything.

Dr. Coffin put the needle into the catheter.

“Goodbye Huey. I love you.” I bent and kissed him on the nose.

I saw the brownish-orange liquid go in and I kept stroking Huey. “It’s okay Huey, let go. Go to Otti. Go to Otti, Huey.”

He looked up once, then lay back down. I felt his spirit leave. His body relaxed completely. I knew he was gone. His going was so peaceful.

My hand was on his heart and it fluttered quickly, but that was just his body winding down after 17½ years of life.

The doctor reached down with his stethoscope. “He might still move,” he said gently and I nodded again, but I knew he wouldn’t. Huey was ready to go. He knew it was his time and he passed easily from his earthly body to go be with Otti.

I sat holding him. Sobbing. Wishing him well on his way and feeling his soft fur for the last time.

*****

I took the purple and white flowers that we had brought with us and arranged them next to him. They looked lovely against his beautiful white fur. Then I pulled the blanket from all sides covering him up, just like I had done so many times tucking him into bed. He loved to be snuggled and tucked in. I gave him one last kiss on the nose then drew the blanket over his head. I reached under him, stood and handed him gently to Dr. Coffin.

“Bye, Huey. I love you.” I said, putting my hand on the blanket and feeling his body for the last time.

Dr. Coffin and Veronica said good bye to everyone then turned and walked the path that Huey had run along and enjoyed so many times.

*********

Seventeen years earlier, just after graduating high school, I came home and gleefully announced, “Mom, I’m getting a dog and I’m going to name him, “Huey!”

He was my most special friend.


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Let It Go

Since March, I have been attending Bikram yoga classes, which are hot, humid, and downright hard. The room is 105 degrees with 40% humidity, and as a beginner, you’re goal is to simply stay in the room for the full 90 minutes, even if you do nothing but lie on your back and breathe.

Bikram yoga is like eating blood sausage—you either love it or hate it. And you may never find out which side you’re on, because just the description can keep you from ever trying it.

I was lucky enough to have a friend who loved blood sausa...er...Bikram yoga. He talked it up for a year before I finally found myself at the studio, actually looking forward to the experience, albeit with trepidation. I knew to expect the heat. But expecting heat versus actually pulling a door open and stepping out of Seattle and into the tropics are two different things.

WHAM! I walked into a wall of heat and water and every fiber of my being screamed, “Whoa!” I stopped in my tracks and my instinct said, “Turn around, walk out the door, and go grab a cold beer.” But my mind stayed rational and thought casually, “Wow, so this is what he meant by hot.” I kept walking into the room to stake out a spot.

I rolled out my purple yoga mat, spread out a beach towel on top of it, and joined a couple dozen other people who were lying on their backs adjusting to the heat. I could barely breathe. It felt as if I was sipping air through a straw and I thought that there was no way I could be in this heat for 90 minutes, let alone exercise in it.

When the teacher arrived, she told us to stand up in the middle of our mats and towels and face the front of the room. Then she took a moment to show me and two other Bikram rookies how to do the first breathing exercise, which turned out to be the only thing that she demonstrated. After the brief introduction, she said to simply follow along as best we could and watch other people for examples of how to do the poses. Ninety minutes later, hot and wet, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment, because I had stayed in the room. I was hooked!

The yoga studio is a large rectangular room with mirrors on the front and side walls and windows at the back. The carpet is all dark blue except for three 10-inch wide black stripes that reach from one side wall to the other. Ideally, students lay their mats down across one of the black lines. This creates three rows and makes it easier for students to find a position that is both a comfortable distance from their neighbors and allows a good view into the front mirror.

There are few objects in the room. Props, like yoga straps and small meditation benches, are available on the window sills at the back of the room for people who need them. On the back wall in the far corner, the only wall space without windows or mirrors, are three framed posters of famous yogis, all sitting cross-legged with arms outstretched and hands lying palms-up on their knees. I recognize one as Paramahansa Yogananda, and the other two have an air of calm greatness that clearly warrants a spot on the wall. Lastly, a pedestal is centered against the front mirrors that is one-foot high and just a big enough square for the teacher to sit or stand on as she verbally guides the class step-by-step through each posture.

About 15 minutes into class, we do our first forward bend. You start by standing with your feet together and both arms over your head with all fingers interlaced except your index fingers, which are pointing up. Then you stretch up, make yourself as tall as you can, and then reach out and forward and down until your hands touch the ground (bending your knees is allowed). After a few moments of stretching in this position, the teacher tells us to reach around and grab our heels from behind. Ideally, your forearms wrap around the back of your shins and you grab your heels such that your pinky fingers are touching each other side-by-side. Your belly is supposed to stay glued to the fronts of your thighs, and I assume a few advanced people can actually touch their head to their shins, as well, because the teacher tells us that this is the ultimate goal. Who knows, maybe doing this posture correctly is what earned the yogis their spots on the back wall.

As for me, it’s hard enough to touch the floor, let alone contort myself in the manner described, so I settle for putting my hands under by heels from the sides instead of the back. Once there, I pull, pull, pull to get a stretch, stretch, stretch. Eyes stay open. And what always strikes me is the sweat on my shins. We’re only 15 minutes into class and already each pore has it’s own small pool of water. I watch as some droplets let go and trickle down my leg, gaining speed and volume as they roll into others, like raindrops on a car windshield. Again, I can barely breathe, but this time it’s not the heat, and instead is caused by me trying to squish everything—breasts, fat, internal organs—onto the fronts of my thighs. It’s just not natural.

I used to think of yoga as an easy, calm, stretching kind of activity, but at Bikram it’s a struggle every time. Sometimes I get so hot, I feel like I have a raging fever. A flush comes over my face and head and I lay down and breathe and there’s a moment when I think I won’t be okay. But then after a minute or two I am okay again, and I stand up and rejoin the class.

The sweat takes on a life of its own. It first drips like a slow leaky faucet, just a drop here or there from the tip of whatever appendage is currently being held up or out or backwards. As time passes, the drip turns into a steady stream and I see people who look as if a glass of water is being slowly poured down their arm or leg. One guy who often takes the spot next to me gets so ultra drippy that when he does “rabbit pose,” which requires sitting on your shins and rolling forward into a ball, his body gurgles like a sopping wet towel being rung out.

I started going to Bikram yoga regularly back in March and for the first three months went as often as I could, usually four to six times per week. No matter how good or bad I feel on a particular day and no matter if I do every single posture or lay down through half of the class, afterwards I always feel great. It’s a real accomplishment each and every time. Nevertheless, during the past month I found myself skipping yoga to take a pilates class or ride my bike. I love both activities, but down deep, I was really just avoiding that intense Bikram heat. It’s hard to be in the room. It takes two hours when you factor in getting there early and recovering afterward. I have to do a load of laundry after every class so my yoga clothes and towel don’t mold. The bottom line is that I’m tired of the heat and the effort associated with Bikram; pilates and bicycling are just more fun.

Now, believe it or not, the point of today’s column is not about the heat and sweat in a Bikram yoga class, at least not directly. But you need to have a feel for the Bikram experience to understand the following story.

Yesterday’s instructor was BJ, one of about ten teachers that rotate through the schedule. Bikram yoga is very regimented—always the same 26 postures and 2 breathing exercises, and the teachers stick to the same script. However, yesterday BJ broke from the script during a rest period and told us this story.

She and her husband went fly fishing last weekend. She said, “I’m great at fishing.” And I believed her! She said it with the confidence of a woman who started fishing as a kid with her Dad, spends more time at bait & tackle shops than the grocery store, and wades into pristine mountain rivers every weekend to catch dinner.

But then she said, “I’m just not great at catching them.” So much for dinner.

She went on to tell us that after four days of seeing fish everywhere but on her hook, she was frustrated and complained about it to her husband. He responded, “BJ, you gotta think of it like the heat in the yoga room—you just have to let it go. Your challenge at yoga is to let go of the heat and your challenge here is to enjoy the river and sky and water, even if you never catch a single fish.”

Maybe a picture of BJ’s husband belongs beside those three yogi’s on the back wall, because that is wisdom to live by.

So as I was lying on my mat feeling like a french fry under one of those hot orange lights, I let go of the heat. Instead of counting in my head how many more postures until we would be done or strategizing in advance which ones to sit out, I just sank into the moment and felt a drip make its way from my right temple down the back of my neck. It itched, but I didn’t scratch it. I breathed the heat and moisture, and it was uncomfortable, and I let it go.

Whether baking in a hot yoga room, not catching fish in a river or experiencing whatever else is different than the way I want it to be, I’m going to try and remember the words, “Let it go.” Maybe it’s simply another way of saying “live in the moment” or “be happy with what the way things are,” but there’s something about the phrase being so short and to the point that works for me. When I think, “Let it go,” I feel as if I just took in a big breath of fresh air...even if that air is 105 degrees with 40% humidity. I’m calmer and happier. Try it yourself, and see if you agree.


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My Friends

I am lying in a very comfortable hammock in the shade of a large Japanese maple tree enjoying the first hot day of summer. I live with my friend, Johanna, and she has transformed her backyard from 300 square feet of unremarkable lawn into a charming getaway that Monet himself would feel inspired to paint.

There is an explosion of life and color—fuchsia, orange, rust, purple, red, and every shade of green. Paths of stone, pebble, and bark wind in a loose figure eight around mounds of flowers, bushes, grasses, and trees. Patches of lettuce, chives, thyme, and various other herbs and edibles are mixed throughout the garden and make their way into our nightly supper. The waning sunlight shimmers on an ornamental glass ball, and a blue and purple ceramic snail snuggles in for the evening over by the rock garden.

I am in the city, but the rustling leaves, wind chimes, and chirping birds make it feel like a fairy tale. I smell bacon, because Johanna is in the kitchen making BLT's for dinner. I think even vegetarians must love the smell of bacon! Talk about living the good life.

But is it really good? In general, I think of myself as a happy person with wonderful friends. But recently someone commented to me that I don't seem to have that many friends or spend time with them. This got me thinking: How many and what kinds of friends do I really have? How many are enough? Would I be happier with more? What kind of a friend am I?

Of course, calling someone a “friend” can mean as many different things as saying “I love you.” These expressions of endearment mean different things to different people at different times. I don't know if I have “enough” friends, but I know that there are at least 10 people who would take me in for an extended time if I needed a place to stay, and easily 20 more who would buy me lunch or dinner. From a survival standpoint alone, I think 30 is enough. If I expand the word “friend” to include “acquaintances,” my numbers skyrocket and include people on every continent except for the frozen one.

There is an old saying, “You can judge a man by his shoes.” I think a better barometer for me is the friends that I keep. So here's a little bit about some of my friends and how they fit into my life.

Surprise!

Since I'm lying in her hammock, I'll start with Johanna. I think of Johanna as a surprise friend. She and I had known each other and been casual friends 13 years ago, but had drifted off into our own lives. We might not have even seen each other again, except our mutual friend, Joe, stayed in touch with her and invited me to her and Steve's wedding. At that joyous occasion, I could never have imagined that Steve would die of cancer and that I would end up living with Johanna just a few years later.

Steve was one of the most upbeat and positive people I've ever met. Reading his blog while he went through chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant was more of an exercise in holding your sides in laughter than feeling sad for a sick friend. I wish I had known him better, but the silver lining for me is my rekindled friendship with Johanna.

People ask me how I like living with her. We're like two peas in a pod. Johanna and I like each other and are happy when the other one is home. We keep each other company. Sometimes we cry on each others' shoulders. We're friends.

Old Friends

Andy has been my best friend since junior high when she was the teacher's aid in my 7th grade P.E. class. I saw her as one of the “cool” kids and felt lucky that she even talked to me. For all of high school and part of college (until I moved away), we were inseparable. We studied together, slept over at each other's house, did chores, talked about boys, and played “Millipede” at the local pizza parlor for more hours that we can count.

Andy was the first person to get me to willingly wear makeup (although my sister had tried her best). We got drunk together, worked as lifeguards together, and got dogs together. We each lost a parent in the same year (her Mom and my Dad) and got through that together. We were the maids of honor at each other's wedding, and I had the honor of being in the room for the births of her two children. Andy is as much a part of me as my right arm and I couldn't imagine life without her.

The odd thing is that if we met today, we would like each other, but we probably would not become close friends. She has her family and a small business in Spokane while I am single in Seattle. Our lives and interests simply would not intersect. But that doesn't matter, because we did meet, and we have lived our lives together—even when apart—and we have forged a deep, life-long bond. I'm glad to say our friendship is steeped in history—30 years of history—and counting!

Kindred Spirits

Jenn and I met while working at a little company called Sāflink, which made software that allowed you to log on to your computer with a fingerprint instead of a password. She was the technical writer who wrote software documentation like the user's guides and I was the product manager. Both of us love writing and we bonded over words. One time we talked for two hours about a single sentence that the users would encounter when they installed the product.

As we got to know each other, we learned that we both felt inadequate when it came to creative writing, and we both liked nothing more than to dissect our fears and discuss personal development. A woman who loves writing and angst...what's not to love!

Jenn is 10 years younger than I, married with two adorable little girls, and lives out in the boonies. We don't see each other as often as we'd like, but we make dates to see each other...and keep them, because we always have fun and feel inspired after seeing each other.

Acquaintance or Friend?

A year-and-a-half ago, I took up pilates, but avoided a class taught by Natalie, because I heard she was really tough. When I finally got up the courage to take her class, I found out that “Nat” is one of those amazing people who really knows her craft. Yes, her class is tough, but effective...and also fun.

She was raised in Zimbabwe and later lived in England. She's wonderfully British and makes me laugh saying things like, “Tighten up ladies, we don't want any floppy bottoms!” It cracks me up just thinking about it.

While living abroad last year, I missed her, and I'm glad now to be back in her class twice a week. Even though our conversations are only a few minutes before or after class, she feels like a friend. Maybe it's because she's so real. There is no mask with her, no pretense. There's just Nat, and I like her.

Men!

I met Joe 13 years ago, during the time when Johanna and I first knew each other. He and I dated and traveled and had a great time and then went our separate ways. Then Adrian and I dated and got married and I had the good fortune to get Nick as my stepson. Adrian and I learned and grew and had fun, and when it was time, we also went our separate ways. Later, I reconnected with Joe, and once again, we dated and traveled and had a great time and then went our separate ways...sort of.

Saying that “we went our separate ways” sounds like we are no longer part of each others' lives, which isn't the case. Adrian and Nick live in Los Angeles and, while I rarely see them, we talk on the phone and send e-mail and I think of them often. Joe and I still see each other almost every day and in many ways are closer than ever. These relationships can't be defined by terms like “ex-husband” or “ex-boyfriend,” because that implies an ending. Is Nick my ex-stepson? Of course not. I will always be his “evil step mother,” just like I will always love Joe and Adrian, each in a different way, and my relationship with each will continue to move onward in new and wonderful ways.

So Many Friends, So Little Time

It's a lot of fun for me to write about all of you, my friends. I want to go on and on and tell stories about everyone, like:

• Kirsten whom I bonded with over the traumatic experience of selling Time-Life Books to unsuspecting people who dared to answer their telephones in the early 90's.

• Heidi whom I bonded with over boyfriend troubles, which is a never ending source of consternation, conversation, and connection for us.

• Mom, and Michael and Janie, my siblings, whom I bonded with growing up when it was a struggle to scrape up10 cents to buy school milk.

• Carole whom I bonded with over the brothers Hicks, who we find vexing, but irresistible.

• Barb and Elizabeth whom I bonded with over the 2006 Nobel Peace Price and survived to tell about it.

• And a different Elizabeth whom I bonded with in Paris over pastries and psychology.

I have hundreds of stories thanks to all of you. And how fun for me, because now I have a great excuse to relax with my laptop in a comfy hammock in a fairy-tale garden and smell the bacon.

Independence Day!

I am looking into Olivia's eyes. She spent the day outside in the cold and rain, and when I came home, she walked in the door with me as if she owned the place. After having a bite to eat, she jumped onto the chair next to me and curled up in her sheepskin-lined bed. She rolled up into a ball with her head cocked almost upside down and her eyes have now squinted closed. She's completely calm and cozy...as snug as a bug in a rug with nothing on her mind, but enjoying her cat nap.

I, on the other hand, am sitting at my computer (finally!) wondering what I should write. My self-imposed Thursday deadline is today and while I have a number of topic ideas, none are fully fleshed out. I also told myself I would go through boxes of paperwork, trim and wash some green beans, clean out my inbox, and reply to "friend" requests and messages on Facebook. At least a dozen other "to-do's" flashed in and out of my consciousness today and, of course, my official "to-do" list scrolls a couple of pages long—probably just like yours.

But by all accounts, my life right now is about as stress-free as it gets. I don't have a regular job (by choice), no kids to take care of, no money or health problems, plus I'm eating healthier than ever and getting plenty of exercise. Yet, I still feel stress. Why?

I set all kinds of goals for myself, then treat them like orders that need to be carried out at all costs. But these goals are not the result of careful planning. Nope, they are just random thoughts that cross my mind. It's as if when I think: "That's a good idea," it immediately turns from a good idea to an internal command.

Take this week's column for example. After three weeks of writing about self-hate, sadness, and guilt, I began to think this blog should be titled "Annie's Angst" instead of "Annie's Column" and I told myself I would make this week's post lighthearted, even funny if I could manage it. I fantasized it being as cleverly written as 30 Rock or The Daily Show. My friends (that's YOU!) would comment to me on how funny I am and say: "I laughed my ass off."

I found myself thinking about what I could write about while driving, showering, doing dishes, and twisting into the shape of a pretzel at yoga. I thought of a number of topics, but none of them remotely qualified as lighthearted. And no wonder, because I was mostly feeling sad.

To add to the pressure, word seems to be getting out about my blog and there are some people, now, that I don't even know who are reading it. It's no longer just my closest friends and family, but peripheral friends, and even STRANGERS, and we all know that strangers are a scary thing. You don't get in cars with them, and I certainly don't want to expose any less-than-stellar writing to them!

So, all week I have been on the lookout for something fun to write about and all week I have felt sad and not in the mood to write anything funny and my deadline approached and the tightness in my body and spirit got worse, and why? Because I told myself I had to be funny and post by Thursday.

The fact that I have self-imposed stress is not a new insight for me. When I become aware of it (like now), I tend to be gentler on myself and ease up on the expectations. Then as my mind focuses in a different direction, that awareness evaporates and I fall into my old patterns. Patterns such as waking up and thinking about my "to-do" list for the day, which inevitably is too much to get done in a week, let alone in one day.

The real question is...what do I enjoy about feeling pressured and stressed? For all I complain about it and even find myself writing an entire column about it, there must be something about it that I like. Perhaps it's the familiarity of the feeling. But why has the feeling become familiar? Almost every European I meet says Americans work too much. Maybe long to-do lists and self-imposed deadlines and pressures are simply part of being American. Maybe I should just think of it as being patriotic. Or maybe there's a deeper and more personal psychology behind my feelings that I don't yet understand.

Whatever the reason, I am once again aware of the self-imposed pressure and am giving myself a break. I began writing this column yesterday (the great Thursday deadline!), but last night, instead of pushing myself to finish when I was tired and didn't feel like writing, I opened up Netflix and enjoyed someone else's really funny and clever dialogue as I watched an old episode of 30 Rock.

This coming Sunday is The Fourth of July...Independence Day. I am going to celebrate by declaring independence from my self-imposed stress. I hope you will join me!